Otis

I want to introduce you to Otis.
A few weeks ago I responded to an online ad written by a desperate student. She had found a young cat outside the student apartments and after two weeks, decided to find a permanent home for him. Students aren't supposed to have animals in college housing. When we saw this little guy, we had to have him. The girl who had him burst into tears when we started to walk out of her little apartment with him. I can understand why now.

Otis has been a wonderful addition to our family. He is sweet, well-behaved, playful, and very affectionate. It is not uncommon for him to reach out and swat my ankle when I run up the stairs past him.
He also helps me when I'm writing on my blog, as you can see. He's a great cat--a dear little fluffy baby.
I just wanted to show him off--a wonderful part of my life right now.

An Expected End

This is my mother standing in the middle of the garden at home. I love this picture, not only because it is so green, as is Upstate New York, but because my mother is dwarfed by her squash plants. When she planted the squash seeds in the ground, there had been a lot of rain. She wasn't even sure they'd grow--they'd probably rot in the soupy garden. But then it dried out and the little shoots started coming up. After a month or so there hadn't been any rain at all. Mother started worrying about whether or not they'd die in the middle of all the dry clods that were now the garden. Some weeks later, she sent this picture. Laughing, she told me that the squash had taken over everything. Here's proof.

It strikes me that my life feels somewhat like these squash plants: more challenges than I feel I can manage followed by a drought of good things. Fortunately, I know the end of the story:

I will open rivers in high places and fountains in the midst of the valleys: I will make the wilderness a pool of water, and the dry land springs of water. I will plant in the wilderness the cedar, the shittah tree, and the myrtle, and the oil tree; I will set in the desert the fir tree, and the pine, and the box tree together; That they may see, and know, and consider, and understand together, that the hand of the Lord hath done this, and the Holy One of Israel hath created it. (Isaiah 41:18-20).

For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, saith the Lord, thoughts of peace and not of evil, to give you an expected end. (Jeremiah 19:11).

And Lord, help me...

We are moving to California in about nine weeks--at least, I am. Sam will probably move down there in May to get an early start on his new job. There is so much to be done beforehand: packing up the house, visiting places we want to see before we leave the Pacific Northwest, spending time with friends, going through stuff. Oh, and last but not least, finding a house to move to. We don't know where we're going yet--that Abrahamic feel is a bit uncomfortable!

I've been doing lots of "coulda, shoulda, woulda" lately. If only someone had told me in my 20s that I should buy a home, I would have. If only someone had helped me get through school, I could have a more cash flow available to buy a house. If I'd just not had to use my retirement to pay for my degree! If only I'd married that guy with loads of money... and on and on. But I didn't know to invest, had no help, and did the best I could think of without having any business sense or intelligent advice. None of our circumstances have surprised God. I believe that He has 1000 ways to provide for us of which we know nothing (go here for more), in spite of whatever poor judgment calls were made when I didn't know better. It remains for me to be prudent while making up for previous errors in judgment.

We believe that God would like us at this particular place in California for a number of reasons, one of which is that they invited me. I didn't seek out their institution. In fact, I never wanted to live down there again But here we are, getting ready to go. Knowing that God wants us someplace makes me think that He will go before us and help us find an acceptable home for an affordable price. A miracle? In California, yes.

So I find myself praying in my sleep--something I haven't done before. I remember reading in the Psalms about how David would pray in his bed at night and had a mental image of David lying in bed before he went to sleep, talking to God. But here I wake up in the morning and realize that I was talking with God on several occasions during the night while I was asleep. I have distinct memories or rolling over in the middle of a conversation with God about what we need for our move. And I woke up this morning mid-sentence as I discussed a home with Him. I never knew this was possible.

It is somewhat like the experience I once had after an excruciating loss. I woke up every morning with a different hymn in my mind--one that I hadn't sung for some time. Either God gave me those songs in the night, or my subconscious was reaching out to Him in some way. Either idea is lovely, because I wake up with God first and foremost in my thoughts. It is not all bad to be waiting on God.

Because He Lives

I once had the privilege of studying voice with renown tenor, Alexander Stevenson at the ripe age of 15. Alex was a wonderful teacher, and he had me making round tones, lifting my ribcage as I sang, and making wonderful "ho-ho-ho-ha-ha-ha" sounds on pitch. I became involved in every type of singing I could.
Six years later, after performing La Boheme at an opera workshop with Richard Barrett, I felt that irresistable pull toward being a professional singer. I had just received three curtain calls for the role of Musetta and knew I was moving more and more toward opera. I objected to the idea of having to live out of a suitcase, being exposed to corrupt managers, and the whole la-de-dah attitude that goes with performing: sweeping into a hall and pitching a fit as a diva often does. I had just started to become familiarized with that particular activity, when I began to rethink the whole idea of being a professional singer.

You see, singing is in my gene pool, so there is something from far away that comes alive in me when I sing. My nanna and both grandparents on my mother's side sang. My best memories of my grandfather are of him singing Italian street songs at the top of his voice over a pot of red sauce.
My three siblings and I used to sing in a quartet, and spent many happy hours singing through Handel's Messiah, Mendelsohn's Elijah, and whatever other four-part oratorio/classical music we could get our hands on. Then when I started singing seriously in my teens, I knew no sweeter experience and was almost intoxicated with the joy of it. But something wasn't quite right about the whole business of serious classical singing. I did it extremely well, and have many times been filled with regret that I gave it up (which I did for reasons that would only intrigue Freud...)

One day in church, we sang the gospel song, Because He Lives to open the service. For whatever reason, I remember that we remained seated during this song. I didn't feel like singing--probably because it was so gospelly--and occupied myself with listening to the voices around me. When we got to the chorus, I started to pick out some scratchy, slightly off-key notes behind me.
I instantly recognized the voice as belonging to Mrs. R. She had been abandoned by her husband while she had five or six small children. Somehow, they had all gotten through, but then she developed a severe case of rheumatoid arthritis and became frail and sickly. She was practically penniless--I had no idea of how she was surviving except that her children helped her out. She always had a smile, always kind words and an invitation to eat something whenever I visited her. She was one of the kindest and most gracious women I'd ever met. She came to church alone and went home alone almost every week. And there she was behind me singing with all her heart, in her loud, raspy voice, meaning every word:

Because He lives, I can face tomorrow;

Because He lives all fear is gone

Because I know He holds the future,

And life is worth the living just because He lives.

(found here)

Each line was sung fervently, as though it were a lifeline for a drowning, sick woman, whom the world had treated very cruelly. She sang out the last line triumphantly and smiling--I could hear her smiling, and I knew she was sitting back against the pew, eyes closed, in a little world with just God and her, her crippled hands folded delicately one on the other. Tears quickly flooded my eyes as I recognized in her singing the very thing that mine lacked: spirit, fervor, conviction, hope, life, joy, peace, determination, faith. I wanted it all, and my sterile, correct, ho-ho-ha-ha singing would have to go.

I don't really have a moral to throw out here--if you close your eyes, you can probably imagine what Mrs. R sounded like. I think of her almost every time I sing in front of other people now. One day, I will stand with her on the Sea of Glass in heaven and we shall sing together the same, but very different song, Because He Lives. Thank you, Mrs. R., for teaching me more than I can put in words. Your voice still rings in my heart.

Empty Spots

One summer in 1982 I was thrown together with four guys from Germany, when I went to visit my friend in Northern California. One of the boys had gone to school with my friend in England. Most unexpectedly, here they were visiting on the very weekend I had chosen to visit her.
I didn't like the idea of being upstaged by four good-looking European men, even though they were pleasant. They had run out of money and wanted to visit Southern California, where I just happened to live. Nevertheless, in spite of my initial discomfort and shyness, I invited them to come down to visit for a couple weeks and offered to loan my car if they would just come. My friend's house was vacant across the street, so these new friends had a place to stay for free for two weeks.

It was such a magical time. There were a number of days that we just went off to the beach and spent the day lying in the sun, talking, or window shopping. The youngest brother, standing to the left of me in this picture, had the most difficult time with English so he was very quiet and shy. One day, the three of us rolled up into a quilt on the beach and fell asleep--it was very windy and we were cold. The youngest asked in German if this was immoral, as he fell asleep. I remember laughing to myself because he didn't know that I could understand what he had said. Bless him, he didn't want anyone to be able to say he had slept with me!

By the end of the two weeks bonds formed that have endured to the present time. I consider them my brothers who just happen to live in Germany.

It's been about six years since I've seen them. We are middle aged adults now. We are all happily married. I wonder sometimes if I would be in their circle of friends given the lives they now lead. Our sense of humor is different; one of us has beliefs quite different from the others; our lives have taken us in very different directions. Yet when we meet together, it is as though we never were apart--and we continue to reach toward one another from time to time. We all seem to know that we always have a place in each other's hearts, no matter what.

It's one of the pains of living on this imperfect earth: not everyone we love can be nearby. And so we go on through life with the sweetness of knowing that there are people far away who we hold dear, but whose absence gives us empty spots in our souls.

Before "I" was there

This picture was taken in 1961, when I was two years old. The school where my father taught had a home economics department where my mother helped the girls learn how to sew. One evening they had a show to model all the outfits they made. We got conscripted to be part of this, much to my cranky dismay. Mother made our clothes and the darling little drawstring bags my sister and I carried. Wasn't she something? Apparently, the crinoline was scratching my legs, and it was past my bedtime. It was all my mother could do to get me to hold it together long enough to go out on the stage.

I always laugh when I see this picture because of how we look. To most people we are just cute little kids. But I know that my sister was being the good older sibling by trying to model good decorum and encourage us to behave ourselves. My brother was nervous, as seen by the way he's standing on the sides of his shoes. He could have cared less about the crowd of people there. He had to hold his two sister's hands--which was challenge enough. Then there I was, tired, hating every minute of having to stand there in front of people I didn't know. There probably didn't seem to be a point to it.

I don't remember one moment of this event. It is just a memory because I have a picture of it. Yet it was a prophecy of how all three of us kids would be today: Sissie, still the older sister who instructs, encourages, and tries to model good things for us; my older brother who remains anxious about a number of things, yet is so good natured; and me, who would just as soon be off in a corner with one or two people I know--still cranky sometimes, and crying because some things just don't fit well.
It was all true then, before I, as I know myself now, was even there.

I'll have those...

My friend, Betty, has recently moved into a retirement complex. The residents are a mix of independent seniors and those who require assisted living. Betty takes her meals in the dining room every day, and has had a bit of a difficult time trying to scope out who would be good dinner companions. So she's eaten most of her meals alone.
Last evening, she called me laughing so hard she was wheezing. "Lovie," she gasped, "What do you know! I've made a new friend!"
I was immediately intrigued, since Betty confessed a few weeks before that she has a difficult time initiating friendships due to her reserved nature.
The laughing continued, and between chuckles, Betty told me that there had been country line dancers to watch during dinner. So she took a seat in the dining room right next to the dancing. She ordered a sandwich with two dill pickles, and started in on the sandwich as soon as her meal came to the table.
A trim, well-dressed female resident approached Betty and asked her if she would mind having company at her table since the view was so good from there. Betty was thrilled. She put down her knife and fork and immediately pulled out a chair for her. The woman sat down, looked at Betty's plate, and without reticence, reached for the pickles on her plate.
"I'll have those" she said in a matter-of-fact way. And she commenced to watch the dancers, munching away on Betty's dill pickles, while Betty's mouth hung open in shock.
"Lovie," she said in a shocked whisper, "She's lost her marbles!" After a long howl of a laugh, she added, "I've never had such a thing happen before!"

With a pang, an awful recollection came to my mind:
I was in Dublin on a speaking trip. My host and I were on the road between two cities. He suggested that we stop for some tea and sandwiches to refresh ourselves. We did stop then, at a little roadhouse, filled with politely talking people. The waitress brought us our tea and a plate of diagonally-cut bread with some sort of spread on it. She put the plate directly between Michael and me. I fell to in a sort of intrigued silence, not knowing what the rather bland spread was on the bread. As I reached for the second quarter of the top sandwich, I caught a glance of Michael's face. It was a mixture of chagrin and disapproval. I drew back my hand.
"Maybe I'll not have another."
"Oh no, be sure you've had what you'd like before I finish them."
I turned "as red as a beet root," he later told me, for suddenly I realized I'd been eating off his plate. Just then, the waitress brought me my own plate of this pallid unpleasantness, and I truly wanted to vanish through the floor at that moment.
We all do awful things at times, for many different reasons. It is all part of the human condition, I think. The key is to move ahead through these things with grace and humor. When I'm not mortified, that's what I hope I'm doing.

April Fool's Day!

Fifty-five years ago a young couple in New York City woke up in bed next to each other for the first time. My parents rolled over and looked at one another. My father looked lovingly into his new wife's face, raised his eyebrows impishly and cheerily said, "April Fool's Day!" Mother rolled her eyes and knew she would be in for an interesting life with this man, my father. They are still holding hands, snuggling, and enjoying April Fool's Day today.

Yesterday was my parents' fifty-fifth anniversary. When I called Cosentino's Florist shop, Barbara, the clerk, laughed and told me that my father had just called to see if my mother's corsage was ready to be picked up. He buys her a corsage every year that she happily wears to church. Then after church, they'll go home and have some of my mother's tomato bread and lentil stew, then fall asleep in the living room.
They are happiest together. My father bought two recliner chairs, took off the arms on one side, and bolted them together. That way, my mother can sit very close to him and fall asleep on his shoulder while they watch television at night. Love has kept them together all these years, and love will continue to hold them close.
My parents have defied national divorce statistics. They are still happy. They still sleep in one bed together, back-to-back, with the window open in the dead of a New York winter. They still eat all their meals together. They still hold hands out when they go buy groceries. And when they hear Begin the Beguine, they have more than once danced off down the aisle of the store, much to the chagrin of us kids, who scattered like baby quails under the pine trees.
Lest you think that my parents are perfect, think again. They snipe at one another sometimes. My father drinks too much chocolate milk and eats too many cookies according to my mother. But she won't let things go, my father will be quick to tell you. And so they move on into their old age, happily, and together.
Happy Anniversary, Mother and Daddy. And April Fool's Day, world. You didn't win.

Time out

I will be taking off a couple months in order to get caught up with myself. I'm tired and demoralized in my work--too many irons in the fire, too many battles that cannot be won, and priorities beginning to drift. At this moment I have two articles waiting to be revised for publication, two books in the works, three ongoing research projects--two awaiting analysis--and my regular teaching. In addition, I have four workshops and one peer-reviewed presentation proposal to get turned in. Tired just hearing it? Me, too.
What I really need to do for awhile is to preserve my health and enrich my mental health by taking some time for me. Walking, cooking, sleeping, kayaking--anything that is good for the soul.

So I will be stepping away from any regular contributions to this site for awhile.
Many blessings, and I will be back in April sometime.

Temptation #10

Have you ever thought it is a bizarre thing to take a shower before you get into a pool? Are people really all that dirty that they need to wash before they climb into a pool? Perhaps some people have poor hygiene, but do dirty people with body odor, dirty skin, or greasy hair really climb into a public pool?
While in Europe once, I was asked to bathe before I went into a sauna. Apparently, the owners wanted only clean, soapy perspiration in their sauna. It struck me as so strange that I was there to perspire out whatever toxins were in my body, which would turn me into a greasy, piggy-feeling person. But I was to be sure to wash first.

The last temptation in this series is the one we hear the least about in the gospels: the desire to get clean before we come to Jesus. Paul speaks about this in Romans, where he tells us that righteousness is a gift from God--it does not come from anything we can produce ourselves. He later wrote of all the indicators of righteousness that he had: circumcision, appropriate genealogical lines, education, and flawless observance of Levitical law. But, he wrote, Even more, I consider everything to be nothing compared to knowing Christ Jesus my Lord. To know him is the best thing of all. Because of him I have lost everything. But I consider all of it [man-made righteousness] to be garbage so I can get to know Christ. (Philipians 3:8).

Isaiah probably said it best: All of us have become like one who is unclean, and all our righteous acts are like filthy rags; we all shrivel up like a leaf, and like the wind our sins sweep us away (64:6).

So many of us hate to be caught looking bad. One of my friends always tidies up the house before the house cleaning service arrives. "I don't want them to think I live in squalor." So I chuckle and watch her scurrying around, emptying trash and making stacks of papers out of the litter everywhere.

It seems like we do this when we present ourselves to God. We'd like to be clean first so we have some shred of human dignity. Even though we're not all-knowing, perfect, clumsy, and short-sighted, we'd like to be the best we can be so we don't offend God. This could be a noble motive. But who can get clean enough first? Who can be spiritually scrubbed up enough so as to impress a perfect, righteous God? Not one.

Righteousness is a gift from God. Forgiveness and repentance are gifts. Justification and sanctification are gifts. The ability to turn toward God is a gift. We can do none of these things, but we waste time, trying to tidy ourselves up before we ask for Him to forgive, change, and empower us. We cannot afford to be separated from Jesus for even a moment. I think that God expects us to be much more human than we expect ourselves to be--and I don't think He is scandalized by our condition or our foibles nearly as much as we are.

God calls us to come to Him as quickly as we can, in whatever state we find ourselves. Then and only then, He will then will and do within us His good pleasure.