My life for a song

My neice, Angie, is flying in tomorrow. She graciously agreed to do a vespers program with me and sing for church this weekend. I am thrilled. She is a busy voice teacher and opera singer. I'm amazed that she would want to sing with me, but she is very excited to sing together. I'm so grateful!

It has been many, many long years from when I used to hold her on my lap and play the piano for her. Angie was the daughter that I never had. I took her to concerts and sang with her for years. When I was in my 20s, I gave a local concert and asked her if she wanted to sing a solo as part of the program. She was very excited to get dressed up and sing at my concert. At the right time I announced her and she stepped up to the microphone and sang,

Don't let your heart be hardened - don't let your love grow cold

May it always stay so childlike - may it never grow too old

Don't let your heart be hardened - may you always know the cure

Keep it broken before Jesus; keep it thankful, meek, and pure.

May it always feel compassion - may it beat as one with God's

May it never be contrary - may it never be at odds

May it always be forgiving - may it never know conceit

May it always be encouraged - may it never know defeat

May your heart be always open - never satisfied with right

May your filled with courage and be strengthened with all might

Let His love rain down upon youBreaking up your fallow ground

Let it loosen all the bindingTill only tenderness is found

(Petra, 1987).

Angie wasn't nervous or shy. She just stood up at the mic and sang her little six-year-old heart out. In doing so, she blessed many hearts and also brought down the house.

Now Angie is a mother and has a very gifted little guy--Kaiden--who is almost 2 years old. He can sing on pitch and is fascinated with everything musical. We will be enjoying his company this weekend, too.


Linny, my nephew, is also intent on raising a child to be musical. You can see Bee (Beatrice) here, holding forth at the piano. Neither my sister nor her husband spent much time singing or playing the piano with the kids. But I sure did. I'd like to think that maybe this is why keeping music in the family is a pattern for my neice and nephew.

For the last several years I have struggled with my voice. Now that I have conquered the emotional web that prevented me from singing with real freedom most of my life, my vocal cords gave out. For a long time, I had reflux that excoriated my cords. Then I ended up with ruptured blood vessel on my left cord. So after years of praying that God would just take this unwanted, intrusive voice from me, now I want it more than almost anything else in life. It has been a slow journey back but from time to time there are glimmers of hope that one day I will be able to sing well again. I am more grateful than I can say, because there is no love in my life, nor has there ever been, that has equalled my love of singing.
Our concert is at 5:00 this Saturday. You can share this pleasure with us if you'd like, by tuning in to Loma Linda Broadcasting at http://www.llbn.tv/English_TV.html or Loma Linda University Church at http://www.lluc.org/

And so the legacy goes on.

Another graduation

Stepdaughter #3 graduated on Sunday. It was a great day and we are all very tired from the entertaining and rushing around that took place over the weekend. But it is done and we are happy. Stepdaughter now holds a bachelor's degree in nursing and is working in pediatrics. From all reports, she is doing very well at her new job.
We are proud.

All Hands on Deck

I have been taking pictures of hands lately. We have a huge empty wall in our livingroom that needs some kind of decoration. Originally, I thought a king-sized quilt would make a good wall hanging. But I don't have time (or interest) in making a quilt. It's doubtful that I can do much of that this summer, at least. So I decided to photograph the hands of people who are near and dear to me and create a grouping of photographs on the wall. These are uncropped, unretouched photos, but you may enjoy seeing the variety of hands in my life.

These are the hands of my dear friend, Betty.
She is 86 years old on the outside and 18 on the inside.

These hands belong to one of my students from Africa.

She is a rising star in our field.

I can't wait to see where her future will take her.

These are the hands of the woman whose healthy meal

encouraged Sam and me

to change our dietary habits and eat better.

These are my Sam's hands.



These are the hands that raised four children,
kept a huge vegetable garden, sewed all their clothes,
and kept a clean home.
These are my mother's soon-to-be 80 year-old hands.

You may find it interesting to start taking notice of the hands of people around you. Hands say a lot about who, and what a person is.

Focal Point

Focal Point found here

I just got back from a long walk across the neighborhood. It seemed the thing to do, after I was terribly offended by behavior that I do not deserve. The acts committed may have been offered unwittingly by underdeveloped individuals who are not known for their insight. All of these things can be said for the offenders. Maybe they didn't mean it--but the turn of the lip, the disdainful glance--these things tell me there has been intention behind the offenses. Nothing felt good about it whatever. Because I had nothing to say about it (nor was I given the opportunity to respond), the best choice was to clear my head with a long walk.

God got an earful.

"After all I've done for them, they go and do this. And they really need what I provide for them, too. Don't they have any idea? How can they be so ungrateful?"

"Lord, am I just to take it?" Would Christ have just taken it?

Most likely. After making a point during a teachable moment.

"But Lord, there was no teachable moment. The offense is one in a series of bad behaviors that have been supported by others who should set a better example, but seem to be oblivious of my feelings and needs." In fact, those who should be responsible seem to enjoy seeing me squirm and faced with difficulties. Even though I have done nothing to hurt them and have only ever been positive, helpful, and respectful in their presence. This, I know better than I know anything else.

The sky was silent as I walked down the street under swooshing trees. The wind has been gusting and it looked dark and ominous over the mountains.

"Lord, do I try to address this, or let it go?" These are people who have not been given very good education in the manners department. They are rude, inconsiderate, self-centered, and passive aggressive. I know this, too, from years of informed observation.

"Do I smile and pretend that I'm not affected by this? Will they one day look back and realize what their behavior has done? Would that even be helpful to them?"

"Should I just go my own way and ignore them and their self-centered, irresponsible behavior?"

My guts churned and I slowed down my walk so I could take more time outside. "Help me, Lord." I was so full of resentment and hurt. In my heart of hearts, I would be glad never to see any of these people again.

The thought suddenly occurred to me that this is really an issue of focus. If I arrange my behavior, mood, and response around the inappropriate acts of other people, then I will be saturated with their negativity and "badness." They will loom large on the horizon of my soul as I am consumed with the overt bad behavior and inuendo that constantly vies for my attention. But as a Christian, my focus should be on Christ and the life that I hope to live forever with Him. What happens here on earth is really not worth diverting my attention from the end goal. Other people's bad behavior is not my reference point, even though it is vexing and hurtful.

Very, very hurtful.

"Is this how the apostles and martyrs did it, Lord? Not that I'm a martyr (but I feel like one today). Was Stephen so focused on the Blessed Hope that even though he was killed, his focus remained on You instead of those who stoned him? Did Paul and Barnabas maintain their focus on you, even though they were beaten and put in stocks? I'm sure they were abused and verbally disparaged. But there they were, singing in prison, thinking only of You. Because in the long run, a few snarls, being hit with clubs, having bruises and even losing one's mortal life here, is really a drop in the bucket compared to the ocean of possibility and power that there is in the life in which God is an active participant.

This makes sense to me.

When I lived in St. Paul, I had the fortune of renting an apartment adjacent to the largest preserved Victorian neighborhood in the country. The homes were gorgeous and immense. I used to walk down the street, gazing up at them, admiring the lines of the architecture and landscaping, and dreaming of what I'd do with the house if it were mine. My little apartment was a hovel compared to what I was able to look at down the street. More than once, I tripped over the sidewalk or walked into bushes because I was looking up. I didn't mind these little glitches in my walk--they were almost humorous unless I fell (which I did when it was icy outside). But I always went back home with visions of another time, and dreams in my head of what it must be to have mansions with gables, dumbwaiters, and ballrooms inside.

Perhaps this is somewhat similar to how a changed focal point will help me in the present situation. The bad behavior will be dealt with by God because I am not in a position to do it. I will watch for teachable moments, but ultimately, these folks must answer to God for what they are doing. In the meantime, I want to keep looking up--not in an avoidant way, as one would who simply refuses to deal with present issues--but as one whose eyes and energy are drawn elsewhere, and whose path and purpose cannot be thwarted by whatever the world serves up.

For I reckon that the sufferings of this present time

are not worthy to be compared with the glory

which shall be revealed in us.

Romans 8:18

Update

FYI: I've now lost 10 lbs and feel so much better than I did when I started this lifestyle plan. Lots of brown rice, beans, fruit, and veggies. Tonight I splurged and had a slice of wheat bread with peanut butter and the neighbor's freshly made boysenberry preserves on it. I'd like to keep on with my program, which will be a struggle since the girls are coming to spend a week with us. They are soda pop, cookie, and potato chip kids. So I'm hoping to stick to my guns. But for now, I celebrate the progress.

Love

Do you ever wonder if you really love God? Or like me, think that it is probably your need that plays tricks with you, making you have an affective response to God in hope that He will somehow do for you what you cannot do yourself?

For years, I have hesitated to tell God that I love Him. Because I'm not sure that I do and it's futile to fake it with a God who can read my thoughts. At least, the feelings that I have toward Him might be fondness, but is it possible to feel fondness for someone you've never seen face to face? I know that I am desperate for Divine intervention at times, and at other times am filled with admiration of God and all that He has done both in scripture and in my life. But I'm not sure that this is love.

There is no question that I experience something when I think of God. I have been talking to Him now for as long as I have been able to speak. My mother can still recall prayers I said as young as three years of age. God has been part of my daily life for as far back as my memory exists. I was a particularly devout child, reading the Bible, underlining the passages that comforted my yearning spirit. Prayers were almost wrung from my lips in my fervor and eagerness to make a connection with God and be dear to Him. There was the time when I was praying at the side of my bed, pouring out my heart to God. I was suddenly filled with a sense of God so strong that I was afraid to open my eyes for fear He would be sitting right there on my bed. But in my spiritual life there was more a sense of urgency and desperation to be close to God, without the adoring feeling that I associate with love.

There is also the issue of God's love for me. People write stories of amazing deliverances from peril, times when God prompted complete strangers to attend to unspoken but very real needs, or the impressions of God that have come through reflection, silence, or dreams. People respond with gratitude and (they say) gushes of loving feelings for God. But this is gratitude and I'm not sure it's not the same thing as love.

I used to go round and round in my head on this point until self-doubt nearly drove me crazy. Perhaps I am just incapable of feeling or understanding the love of God--either from me toward God, or God's love toward me. Don't misunderstand me here: I do not ever want to be away from God and I find tremendous comfort knowing that He is Omniscient and Omnipresent. And that He is both loving and just. But for a long time, the monotony of familiarity numbed me up, so to speak, so that I have not been able to identify a burst of love for God.

I started in on this train of thought this week again, after I spent some time in thought and prayer. I had such a hunger for God after several days during which I did not make, nor had the time to spend in prayer and Bible study. There was a desperation and anxiety about getting into God's presence and soaking up what was to be had: peace, assurance, trust, the knowledge that God is on my side and yes, that He loves me. On came the doubt and the questions about whether it is possible for me to truly love God, or merely be drawn--by instinct--to His side. I must be blind, I thought. I can't see, feel, or grasp God's love for me and therefore I can't love Him back.

Surely I must have seen and felt God's love somewhere. Maybe in the behavior of someone else. As soon as this thought entered my head many images passed through my mind:

My father holding me in his hands, lowering me into the bathtub for the first time after I was burned. It is the first real memory I have of life. I was burned in that bathtub and he knew I would be frightened and traumatized to get back in it. So he held me up against his chest, my little bottom in his hands, as he wiggled my feet back and forth in the water. I could hear his deep voice rumbling in his chest, saying such nice, soothing things. There was absolutely no fear on my part because I was transfixed on his voice and the warmth of his body against my back. Nothing could happen to me with him holding me.

My therapist: the warmth of his eyes, the way his posture was always inclined toward me, even when I told him things about myself that anyone else would have fled from; and my words made no difference in how he treated me. In fact, he seemed to have even a softer spot in his heart for me. He always lit up when he saw me and I had an almost visceral response in the form of my heart feeling lighter, my eyes locked with his, and a trusting, knowing smile on both of our faces. Even though he held me accountable for things, it was always within the context of absolute acceptance of who I was.

My friend, Betty, has shown me what the love of God is. After I moved to Minnesota she called me nearly every day for 4 years. She knew that I didn't know anyone in that state and she was very concerned that I would be lonely. So she'd call and chat up a storm with me. I could tell her anything and everything. Although she is 35 years older than I am, she has been one of my closest friends in the world and I became the daughter she never had. There was the wisdom that comes from seeing more of life than I had, of being more traveled and exposed to many more things than I ever have been. She'd tell me, "Lovie, I know God is guiding you. I can see it." And I'd be sure of it, even in the darkness and uncertainty of my path.

One friend, whom I've known for 30 years now, has been generous beyond measure toward me. She thinks I'm "great" --terrific, that is. Shelly is always eager to be with me: shopping, making music together, talking on the phone--it doesn't matter. She just wants to be nearby and I love that. She has flown me places, sent me letters and cards, given me the perfect gifts over and over. We have laughed together, cried together, roomed together. The eagerness with which she seeks me out--this is what God has for me. I like that a lot.

Another friend is one whom I almost never tire of talking to. She often calls at odd hours when ideas hit her and she wants to share them with me. Before I know it, we're off into the world of ideas and abstract notions and I can escape from the concrete thinking and mental miasma that is so common elsewhere. My friend Paul is like this, too. Time disappears when I am talking with these friends. It is typical to talk more than two hours every time we talk--even though she lives only 10 minutes away.

These people who are all dear to me, have elements of God in them. He has given each of them some characteristic that mirrors His qualities. The eagerness to be with me, the inexhaustible range of things to share together, the support, love, comfort, reassurance, trust--all of these things are God qualities that I get to love and enjoy in the form of my friends. I am convinced that I love my friends and family members. There is no doubt in my mind.

So comes the question: If God is like these people are to me, do I not love God dearly?
I'm realizing that perhaps I do. Much more than I realized.

Oh Happy Day!

Stepdaughter #3 graduated this weekend. She is very happy that she is ready to move on to college. We are glad all the hooplah is over. Here we are celebrating her big event.

Driving (me nuts)

We are off on a road trip today, up to Monterey to witness Stepdaughter #1's high school graduation. Stepdaughter #2, who has been a student missionary in Pohnpei, has just arrived home and we are also looking forward to seeing her.

So as I think about sitting in the passenger side of the car for the next 7 hours, one of the first images that comes to mind is that of Sam humming his little motivational tune while he scurries in and out of traffic.

It has taken time, but I think I'm finally resigned to the fact that although I have driven safely and without a ticket my entire life, my driving will never be good enough for Sam. When I pick him up from work and drive us home he moves between offering panicky advice, sighing in disgust, and making disapproving grunting sounds. It used to make me furious: my options are to either have a running commentary on my driving, or start the day in knots because of Sam's driving. We tear down the hill from our house like we're revving up for the Indy500, flying down the freeway at 80 mph, darting between cars, Sam accusing drivers who are more tentative of being "idiots" and impugning their motives. For a peace loving introvert like me, this is shocking and difficult. Unless I intentionally toughen up and remind myself that this is probably a manifestation of gender differences more than a statement about Sam's character or my supposed inferiority as a driver.

According to Bill Doherty at the University of Minnesota, men are socialized to fulfill three things: Protecting, Propagating, and Providing. I have added to this list, Problem solving, much to the glee and approval of my female students. Perhaps Sam feels that he is playing the role of protector, provider, and problem-solver when he takes over the wheel, although my received benefits do not correlate with his motives. Women are more nurturing and relational, which is why fewer incidents of road rage involve women. Men tend to be more competitive and take insults less personally--all as part of the game. Perhaps that's why some of the loveliest men I know turn into bad tempered race car drivers when they slip into the driver's seat.

The role of the radio for male drivers is also significant: it has to be on, and loud. After Sam and I got married, we took a 13-hour road trip up to New York to visit my parents. He had the radio on the whole way, but it was on the Scan function and for over 7 hours it scanned up and down the dial, lingering for a few moments on a few words here and a snatch of music there. I was a newlywed and didn't want to be intolerant so I didn't say anything, content to observe how it all played out. The effect of that radio on my mental state was not positive, however, and I finally asked Sam if we could turn it off. "Oh, yeah." Almost as if he didn't realize it was on. My father used to play classical music in the car, loud enough to make us feel as though we were driving along in a moving orchestra pit. Some of my earliest memories are of us kids falling asleep in the back of the car, my father at the wheel, peering into the darkness while a lone violin battled with static over the airwaves.

There is something else that I've noticed about male drivers. I don't know why this is, but both Sam and my father have added snippets of music to the travel mix whenever they try to do something a bit daring while driving. Daddy always had this thready, nasal whistle that he did through his teeth whenever he got lost. I always knew we were in for a meander through the country when he started to whistle softly, almost under his breath. Sam hums a gleeful five note motif whenever he is ready to dart between cars or maneuver us toward an exit from the fast lane. I don't think I could reproduce what he hums, but as soon as I hear it I know to close my eyes. That way, I become less upset with the possible calamities that could befall us as the car hurtles through traffic. I'd rather not know what hits me than to see the whole thing unfold into my lap. This little trick was learned from my friend who had tremendous conflict with her speed demon of a husband during their first years of married life. They finally worked it out that he would say, "Close your eyes, Shelly" and she would, taking a deep, bracing breath. It would be over and she would be spared the terror of wondering how her life might end. It also saved them from many a blow up about his driving.

So we are off today--in a cloud of dust, I might add. My offers to drive on these trips are met with an eye-rolling sigh and Sam taking a tighter hold on the keys. Maybe I will start singing "Libera me, Domine de morte in dia illa tremenda!" from Verdi's Requiem at full throttle or pull a paper sack over my head when things get a bit dicey. Two can play this game...

Mother's Day

I went over to the Villa on Mother's Day for their annual Mother's Day Brunch. We were seated with the former chaplain and his wife, and we had a wonderful time. It was great to be over there with Mother. She is finally doing well, happy, and looking chipper most of the time. I think this is my favorite picture of her, of all time (above). I can only hope I am as beautiful as she is when I am 80.

When Mother was a child she was told that you're to look dignified when taking pictures. In particular, "...don't show your teeth like a gopher." So over the years, she's sent me these awful pictures of herself looking miserable--her mouth clamped shut into a straight line, a severe expression on her face. Without knowing the injunctions she had as a child, I just figured that she enjoyed looking haggard or like a martyr. I tucked many of them away and tried not to look at them because I always felt bad assuming that she was as miserable as she looked. In this picture, I had just told her that I was tired of having these mental images of her and that now I'd like to have a big grin from her. You can see that she is trying it out here, standing in front of her painting. Her eyes got the idea but her mouth didn't.

We tried again down by the flower garden. Mother was getting slap-happy from all the posing and instructions. I said, "Just look natural." She ended up looking good and sauced. "I look like three sheets to the wind!" she laughed. So we stopped trying. It would only be spontaneous shots from here on out. We cracked up and went back inside.

This is one of Mother's friends, good old Charles. She knew his wife and he knew my father over 50 years ago. When they discovered this a year ago, they became fast friends. They are the same age and both have jolly dispositions. He tells me wryly, "My job is to keep your mother humble." He teases her unmercifully and she gives it right back. When he saw that Mother had changed out of her brunch clothes he commented on it, then added piously, "I decided to sacrifice and stay dressed up in honor of all the mothers around here."
Without up a pause Mother shot back, "How big of you!" and they both laughed uproariously. She plunked down on his walker and they kept up a banter as I barked at them to "give it a little dignity." Charles whispered to Mother, "I think that woman is trying to tell us what to do." She rolled her eyes. That brought forth gales of laughter again. Seeing Mother so happy was truly the best thing on Mother's Day.

Hypertensive Waterfowl

Found here

Some people hold their health uppermost in their minds. It has become a way of life for them. They eschew sugar and salt naturally and find it easy to bypass wonderful dishes like cream sauce, Godiva chocolate, and brisket. As you well know, I am not one of these individuals. (But fill me with enough brown rice, oatmeal and beans, and I can hardly stomach the thought of any of this).
Mother is. She always has been. Yes, there have been times when my sister sent her a 5 lb. box of See's Chocolates that she hid under the bed so she could eat them all, and a few episodes of ice cream bingeing with my father while watching television in the evening. But for the most part, she sets her face like a flint, as it were, and marches (self-righteously) straight past the desserts. Hers is a world of flaxseed, whole wheat, and vegetables without any sauce, salt, lemon juice, or dressing on them. Let's not forget her "Health Cookies" --even the name makes me shudder. They were awful brown things full of seeds, nuts, raisins, carob, and no sugar. The sheer weight of them was noteworthy. Mother's middle name should have been "Healthy."

Some weeks ago I asked Mother if she would take my old bread and crackers so she could feed them to the ducks, coots, and heron that are in the ponds at the VA. That is where she and her friend walk every morning.
"I have some stale crackers here, some old bread, and these old goldfish crackers that have to go. Oh, and if you can take these stale muffins, that would be great, too."
Mother eyed them skeptically.
"Honey, these are full of sugar and salt. People shouldn't eat them and I'd hate to think what they will do to those birds."
I was surprised. "But they eat slugs and frogs. Surely this is a step above that for them, don't you think?"
She shook her head. "Those ducks are getting fat. It's all that white bread that people have been feeding them. Their arteries must be a sight."
Mother shot a baleful glance at the crackers. "That will give them high blood pressure."
Indeed.
I have had hypertension in the past and it felt awful: throbbing temples, blurred vision, palpitations. I thought I was dying. Would this happen to waterfowl as well? I would not want to see heron falling out of trees, or ducks lying on the grass with their necks straight out, trying to cope with hypertensive headaches--bless their hearts. But then, I'm not sure that they would be bothered. Does anyone out there know? I'd never thought of this before.

So the crackers went into the trash. They shall feed mice at the city dump and so they can deal with the hypertension and obesity epidemic that has hit this country. Bon Appetit!