I have the privilege of working with some of the most courageous people in the world--people who weekly take on their inner demons in therapy. There is an unearthly but predictable internal dance that can be tracked by intently watching their faces. It is my job to get the demon out in the open--theirs to take it on.
Today, I watched as an exhausted but determined woman chased terror across the landscape of her heart. Her life has been one that, God forbid, anyone should have the misfortune of living. But she still gets up in the morning, washes her face, makes breakfast for her children, and goes off to work. All this, while she fights an internal war with hideous memories that nearly cost her life. Today, after a particularly difficult face-off, she was able to leave worn out, but tearfully victorious.
The sad thing is that I can't tell anyone about all her victories and strengths. But I do think about it sometimes when I lie in bed and think about all the brave people in this world that no one will ever know about.
May 11, 2006
May 2, 2006
The Isle of Inorgasmia
When I found out that I had been assigned to teach an undergraduate course called "Marriage and the Family" this quarter, I just about died. So many college kids hate the thought of being told anything about relationships, but there were other problems with my teaching assignment.
For starters, I never was your typical teenager and I have a hard time relating to them--even some young adults. I'm hypersensitive to any signs of rejection from them because I felt rather rejected by my peers when I was younger. The second problem with teaching undergrads is that I'm not used to teaching kids who aren't serious about learning the material in the same way that graduates in clinical programs are. And I've never had teenagers of my own. Add the Generation Y entitlement and cockiness in the classroom, and you can see why I dreaded this class. It didn't help that this course is also seen as a general education "filler" class. Take it if you need to get a few more easy credits to graduate.
The first class period was painful for me and they seemed unimpressed. Four girls giggled and whispered together the entire time. When I asked them to "Keep it down" one looked deeply offended and two rolled their eyes at me. It was as if I had done something wrong by setting limits on their behavior. I went home steamed.
We are now six weeks into the course. I've learned that if I become more conversational and ask them what they think as a way to stimulate discussion, they are more attentive and seem to not mind being in class. Of course, no one looks interested per se, but at least now they are quiet and look like they're at least listening to me.
Tonight our topic was about sexual aspects of marriage. Half way through my PowerPoint presentation, I suddenly noticed that hands were flying up all over the room and kids could hardly wait to weigh in with their opinions. As we discussed various terms related to sexual dysfunction, I asked the class if they knew what the word inorgasmia means.
One guy in the middle of the classroom, Mr. Popularity, volunteered, "It sounds exotic, like some kind of Paradise vacation island." Laughter erupted all around him. Pleased with himself, he looked around the room at all the impressed, nervously chuckling students. When I heard his comment, I had laughed out loud.
"So what is it?" The whole class went quiet and looked at me.
"It's an island that I don't think you'd like very much." Inorgasmia is the inability to experience orgasm. After explaining this and gently teasing Mr. Popularity, the whole class was one happy good-spirited uproar.
After class, two girls--one of the eye-rollers, and one who is consistently loud in class--stayed by to ask me all sorts of questions about sex. I'd answer a few questions, we'd walk a few steps and they'd ask me something else. "Oh...oh yeah! I wanted to ask you one more short question..."
As I turned to leave half an hour later, we had managed to get out of the classroom and but only to the end of the hall. The girls didn't thank me for my time, but both smiled broadly at me when I said goodnight. Walking down the stairs I overheard one girl say, "Geez! I just love this class!" They went one direction and I turned a corner of my own.
I can't wait until next week.
For starters, I never was your typical teenager and I have a hard time relating to them--even some young adults. I'm hypersensitive to any signs of rejection from them because I felt rather rejected by my peers when I was younger. The second problem with teaching undergrads is that I'm not used to teaching kids who aren't serious about learning the material in the same way that graduates in clinical programs are. And I've never had teenagers of my own. Add the Generation Y entitlement and cockiness in the classroom, and you can see why I dreaded this class. It didn't help that this course is also seen as a general education "filler" class. Take it if you need to get a few more easy credits to graduate.
The first class period was painful for me and they seemed unimpressed. Four girls giggled and whispered together the entire time. When I asked them to "Keep it down" one looked deeply offended and two rolled their eyes at me. It was as if I had done something wrong by setting limits on their behavior. I went home steamed.
We are now six weeks into the course. I've learned that if I become more conversational and ask them what they think as a way to stimulate discussion, they are more attentive and seem to not mind being in class. Of course, no one looks interested per se, but at least now they are quiet and look like they're at least listening to me.
Tonight our topic was about sexual aspects of marriage. Half way through my PowerPoint presentation, I suddenly noticed that hands were flying up all over the room and kids could hardly wait to weigh in with their opinions. As we discussed various terms related to sexual dysfunction, I asked the class if they knew what the word inorgasmia means.
One guy in the middle of the classroom, Mr. Popularity, volunteered, "It sounds exotic, like some kind of Paradise vacation island." Laughter erupted all around him. Pleased with himself, he looked around the room at all the impressed, nervously chuckling students. When I heard his comment, I had laughed out loud.
"So what is it?" The whole class went quiet and looked at me.
"It's an island that I don't think you'd like very much." Inorgasmia is the inability to experience orgasm. After explaining this and gently teasing Mr. Popularity, the whole class was one happy good-spirited uproar.
After class, two girls--one of the eye-rollers, and one who is consistently loud in class--stayed by to ask me all sorts of questions about sex. I'd answer a few questions, we'd walk a few steps and they'd ask me something else. "Oh...oh yeah! I wanted to ask you one more short question..."
As I turned to leave half an hour later, we had managed to get out of the classroom and but only to the end of the hall. The girls didn't thank me for my time, but both smiled broadly at me when I said goodnight. Walking down the stairs I overheard one girl say, "Geez! I just love this class!" They went one direction and I turned a corner of my own.
I can't wait until next week.
April 29, 2006
Lean in a little closer
Yesterday I flew in to town on what people may call a "puddle jumper:" a small comercial airplane. Maybe 25 people were on the plane, all told. As I got to the very back of the plane I noticed that there was a man in my seat--my window seat--the very back corner seat. He was disheveled and was intent on looking out the window. He also already had his seatbelt fastened. In my seat.
Excuse me sir, you're in my seat.
He jerked his head around. Oh, are you supposed to sit here, ma'am?
I nodded and he slid out of the seat so I could climb in next to the window. As he slid in beside me, my nose told me that he was well acquainted with alcohol.
His red nose and the sores and blackheads all over his face and neck filled in some of the details.
Where are you headed today? I asked.
Penneldon, he slurred back, a little too loudly. The woman ahead of us winced.
He smiled broadly at me. I could see the remains of his last meal caked on his front tooth. How 'bout you, ma'am?
Oh, just to--
--Yeah--I grew up there and lived there all my life. Before I could reply, he continued, I'm just coming back from Alaska. I've been up there for four months. Just got out today before the ice came. I could uv been snowed in then I never would have been able to get out.
Wow!
He leaned into me, pressing me even further into the corner. So I am very glad to be sitting beside you on this plane today!
I smiled back. I hope he'd noticed my wedding ring. His breath was nauseating.
Just then, the woman across at the end of the next row leaned over and started to engage me in conversation. She was an acquaintance, and we had mutual interests. As I responded to her questions, looking past my seatmate, he grunted in approval, and a couple times chuckled at my comments. Then, realizing that he was obstructing my view of the woman, he leaned back in the seat and averted his eyes.
A few minutes later, he lurched around in his seat to face a teenager next to him.
How old are you? His voice was entirely too loud for polite conversation.
Thirteen.
Thirteen! he bellowed. I remember being that age when I used to live here. The kid cringed and focused on the man's mouth as he spoke.
Maybe my seatmate realized something about him was inappropriate, because he suddenly fell silent. A few minutes later, his head was back on the headrest and he was asleep, mouth wide open.
I busied myself with grading papers. As I wrote, the man leaned into me as he slept. His arm and left leg were pressed against me, and his head began to lag toward me. Oh please! I silently thought.
But just then the flight attendent came through offering beverages. He lit up and ordered wine. I should have known. He looked delighted as he slugged it down.
I decided to engage him about some topic--the town in which he grew up. Every response he made was shallow, agreeable, and extremely loud. So I returned to grading papers and he drifted off again, leaning into me once more.
What would Jesus have done with someone like this? Engage him in conversation about his eternal soul? Touch on the very pains that made him turn to drinking? Reassure him somehow? Would Jesus have talked to him about other aspects of his life to point out that his value and experience is about much more than what he ingests? Would he have offered some suggestions about how to stop drinking? Should I talk with him as a therapist, a representative of Christ, a nurse, or a friend? Which language would be appropriate? Should I ask him about his family--children, wife, mother, father? Would it be appropriate to ask him about his line of work? Would that just be mockery, since I couldn't see how he might even hold a job, as saturated with alcohol as he was. I sat, studying the tip of my pen, as I tried to think how to interact with this man that would make some sort of difference in his life--or in mine.
All I could come up with was that I didn't want to treat him in a less than respectful, honoring way--even if he is a drunk, or whatever else he might be. I'd been pleasant to many irresponsible, womanizing, drinking, controlling men on airplanes before. They just hadn't been as drunk as he was.
As I pondered what to do, it dawned on me that I might be like this man in many ways. I eat too much--gluttony, it's called--and it doesn't seem to go away, but get worse and worse with time. What makes me so different than him? Clean teeth, minty breath, clear skin, ability to think clearly, a bank account, and probably much less pain in my life. But if the flight attendant had offered us chocolates, I'd have gobbled one down and wished for a second. So what should I do about this guy? Who was I to do anything? What made me better?
Maybe the only thing I could do would be to stay with him--sit with him shoulder to shoulder, and feel the commonality of being just one more member of the human family for whom Christ died. And so the drunkard and the glutton rode quietly together for the duration of the flight.
As we lurched and soared into our final destination, two people, greatly in need of God's grace, sat shoulder to shoulder, waiting to see what God would do in their lives. Wherever he is now--waking up from a bender, or on his way to church, God is as merciful to him as He is to me--loves him no less and no more than me. He is no better and no worse than me. We all need what Jesus came here to give us. Every one of us.
Excuse me sir, you're in my seat.
He jerked his head around. Oh, are you supposed to sit here, ma'am?
I nodded and he slid out of the seat so I could climb in next to the window. As he slid in beside me, my nose told me that he was well acquainted with alcohol.
His red nose and the sores and blackheads all over his face and neck filled in some of the details.
Where are you headed today? I asked.
Penneldon, he slurred back, a little too loudly. The woman ahead of us winced.
He smiled broadly at me. I could see the remains of his last meal caked on his front tooth. How 'bout you, ma'am?
Oh, just to--
--Yeah--I grew up there and lived there all my life. Before I could reply, he continued, I'm just coming back from Alaska. I've been up there for four months. Just got out today before the ice came. I could uv been snowed in then I never would have been able to get out.
Wow!
He leaned into me, pressing me even further into the corner. So I am very glad to be sitting beside you on this plane today!
I smiled back. I hope he'd noticed my wedding ring. His breath was nauseating.
Just then, the woman across at the end of the next row leaned over and started to engage me in conversation. She was an acquaintance, and we had mutual interests. As I responded to her questions, looking past my seatmate, he grunted in approval, and a couple times chuckled at my comments. Then, realizing that he was obstructing my view of the woman, he leaned back in the seat and averted his eyes.
A few minutes later, he lurched around in his seat to face a teenager next to him.
How old are you? His voice was entirely too loud for polite conversation.
Thirteen.
Thirteen! he bellowed. I remember being that age when I used to live here. The kid cringed and focused on the man's mouth as he spoke.
Maybe my seatmate realized something about him was inappropriate, because he suddenly fell silent. A few minutes later, his head was back on the headrest and he was asleep, mouth wide open.
I busied myself with grading papers. As I wrote, the man leaned into me as he slept. His arm and left leg were pressed against me, and his head began to lag toward me. Oh please! I silently thought.
But just then the flight attendent came through offering beverages. He lit up and ordered wine. I should have known. He looked delighted as he slugged it down.
I decided to engage him about some topic--the town in which he grew up. Every response he made was shallow, agreeable, and extremely loud. So I returned to grading papers and he drifted off again, leaning into me once more.
What would Jesus have done with someone like this? Engage him in conversation about his eternal soul? Touch on the very pains that made him turn to drinking? Reassure him somehow? Would Jesus have talked to him about other aspects of his life to point out that his value and experience is about much more than what he ingests? Would he have offered some suggestions about how to stop drinking? Should I talk with him as a therapist, a representative of Christ, a nurse, or a friend? Which language would be appropriate? Should I ask him about his family--children, wife, mother, father? Would it be appropriate to ask him about his line of work? Would that just be mockery, since I couldn't see how he might even hold a job, as saturated with alcohol as he was. I sat, studying the tip of my pen, as I tried to think how to interact with this man that would make some sort of difference in his life--or in mine.
All I could come up with was that I didn't want to treat him in a less than respectful, honoring way--even if he is a drunk, or whatever else he might be. I'd been pleasant to many irresponsible, womanizing, drinking, controlling men on airplanes before. They just hadn't been as drunk as he was.
As I pondered what to do, it dawned on me that I might be like this man in many ways. I eat too much--gluttony, it's called--and it doesn't seem to go away, but get worse and worse with time. What makes me so different than him? Clean teeth, minty breath, clear skin, ability to think clearly, a bank account, and probably much less pain in my life. But if the flight attendant had offered us chocolates, I'd have gobbled one down and wished for a second. So what should I do about this guy? Who was I to do anything? What made me better?
Maybe the only thing I could do would be to stay with him--sit with him shoulder to shoulder, and feel the commonality of being just one more member of the human family for whom Christ died. And so the drunkard and the glutton rode quietly together for the duration of the flight.
As we lurched and soared into our final destination, two people, greatly in need of God's grace, sat shoulder to shoulder, waiting to see what God would do in their lives. Wherever he is now--waking up from a bender, or on his way to church, God is as merciful to him as He is to me--loves him no less and no more than me. He is no better and no worse than me. We all need what Jesus came here to give us. Every one of us.
April 24, 2006
Still chuckling
I just received this missive from my father that I'm passing along. I just love the way my parents do things together and support one another in so many of life's circumstances.
Hi Y'all:
Mother wanted me to pass on the exuberances of this a.m.
She had been selected for jury duty starting today so we promptly arrived at the court house around 9:00 a.m., went through the detector looking for hidden weapons and then upstairs to the jury room where we watched a film, watched several different people (i.e. court stenographer, a couple sherif deputies, the prosecution and the defense along with some young chap in a nice suit) under surviellance by a female deputy that was short, squat, and built very substantially.
"All Rise!" was the command as the honorable Peter Craft* entered the room. He made some announcements, explained what the rules wre for the court decorum and then called the first twelve potential jurors for examination.
Questions like:
State your name and pertinent information as to what you do, if employed.
How do you feel about drinking and driving?
How do you feel about sentencing and finding someone guilty?
Several answered how they were feeling, what experience they had with alcohol etc.
Out of twelve juriors, nine stayed and the rest were excused.
The second batch entered and they got pretty well cleaned out.
The third batch entered and then the fun began again. The judge would call each one by name and then start out asking questions.
"Elvira Coolan?" Elvira answered "ELVIRA COWLAN"
"Tell us a little bit about yourself, Mrs. Cowlan"
"I'm Elvira Cowlan, housewife, and have been married to the same man for 55 yrs."
The judge: "Well, I've been married for 48 years, but what my wife doesn't know,...well" ...with some snickers from the courtroom.
Your heroine said "My husband is a good man and is sitting right over there. I left my job at the Bushwick Savings Bank in Brooklyn, N.Y. and since then we have raised 4 children." [ooooh! I just know she was seething when she said this!]
Judge: Well, that seems commendible. And tell us Mrs. Cowlan what is your opinion of alcohol and driving?"
My Heroine: "I am a teetotaler and I believe 'If you commit the crime...you should pay the time' unless you have someone in high places, then you can go Scott free."
JUDGE: "Well, I believe we won't need you Mrs. Cowlan. You're excused."
WOW! I was proud of her. And we walked out. Mother didn't want to be in that horrid old jury room anyway. [What was significant about that and the judge is that his son was involved in a drunk accident several years ago in which one of my former students and her sister were killed for failure to stop at a light, and drunk to boot.]
With that, we left, "free at last..Free at last, Thank God I'm free at last."
*Names changed
Hi Y'all:
Mother wanted me to pass on the exuberances of this a.m.
She had been selected for jury duty starting today so we promptly arrived at the court house around 9:00 a.m., went through the detector looking for hidden weapons and then upstairs to the jury room where we watched a film, watched several different people (i.e. court stenographer, a couple sherif deputies, the prosecution and the defense along with some young chap in a nice suit) under surviellance by a female deputy that was short, squat, and built very substantially.
"All Rise!" was the command as the honorable Peter Craft* entered the room. He made some announcements, explained what the rules wre for the court decorum and then called the first twelve potential jurors for examination.
Questions like:
State your name and pertinent information as to what you do, if employed.
How do you feel about drinking and driving?
How do you feel about sentencing and finding someone guilty?
Several answered how they were feeling, what experience they had with alcohol etc.
Out of twelve juriors, nine stayed and the rest were excused.
The second batch entered and they got pretty well cleaned out.
The third batch entered and then the fun began again. The judge would call each one by name and then start out asking questions.
"Elvira Coolan?" Elvira answered "ELVIRA COWLAN"
"Tell us a little bit about yourself, Mrs. Cowlan"
"I'm Elvira Cowlan, housewife, and have been married to the same man for 55 yrs."
The judge: "Well, I've been married for 48 years, but what my wife doesn't know,...well" ...with some snickers from the courtroom.
Your heroine said "My husband is a good man and is sitting right over there. I left my job at the Bushwick Savings Bank in Brooklyn, N.Y. and since then we have raised 4 children." [ooooh! I just know she was seething when she said this!]
Judge: Well, that seems commendible. And tell us Mrs. Cowlan what is your opinion of alcohol and driving?"
My Heroine: "I am a teetotaler and I believe 'If you commit the crime...you should pay the time' unless you have someone in high places, then you can go Scott free."
JUDGE: "Well, I believe we won't need you Mrs. Cowlan. You're excused."
WOW! I was proud of her. And we walked out. Mother didn't want to be in that horrid old jury room anyway. [What was significant about that and the judge is that his son was involved in a drunk accident several years ago in which one of my former students and her sister were killed for failure to stop at a light, and drunk to boot.]
With that, we left, "free at last..Free at last, Thank God I'm free at last."
*Names changed
April 23, 2006
The Sum of Life
My husband watched an episode of the show, The Sopranos. Why don't we have a television program named "The Counter Tenors"? How about "The Altos"? What would you name a television program that depicts your life?
On any given day I often ask my students to summarize what they've learned in class by providing a byline or title for what they've learned from the lecture in the style of some sensational magazine. Here are some examples: "Nanny Techniques Revealed!" or, "Encopresis Soon to be Extinct!" "I am Joe's neurosis." It's always fun to hear what they think about the counseling topics we discuss in class.
What title would do justice to the story of your life? I suppose this is the question that people have to answer when they decide on their own epitaph. What would you write about yourself? Would it be thought-provoking, serious, or funny? How about this epitaph?
It's not to be macabre that I bring this up, it's to facilitate thought about a number of things: the impact we leave on other people; how we think; how we live in relation to God and our intimate others; our opinions about issues--what would it be for you?
On any given day I often ask my students to summarize what they've learned in class by providing a byline or title for what they've learned from the lecture in the style of some sensational magazine. Here are some examples: "Nanny Techniques Revealed!" or, "Encopresis Soon to be Extinct!" "I am Joe's neurosis." It's always fun to hear what they think about the counseling topics we discuss in class.
What title would do justice to the story of your life? I suppose this is the question that people have to answer when they decide on their own epitaph. What would you write about yourself? Would it be thought-provoking, serious, or funny? How about this epitaph?
Here lies Ann Mann,
Who lived an old maid
But died an old Mann.
Dec. 8, 1767
Who lived an old maid
But died an old Mann.
Dec. 8, 1767
(more epitaphs here)
It's not to be macabre that I bring this up, it's to facilitate thought about a number of things: the impact we leave on other people; how we think; how we live in relation to God and our intimate others; our opinions about issues--what would it be for you?
April 16, 2006
The Promise
I visited my friend, Betty last evening. She calls herself an "invalid," the British word for a disabled shut-in. Laughing and talking, we shared a slice of cake while we watched an inspirational music program on television.
At one point I looked out the window at the sky.
"Oh Betty, just look at that sky!"
There was a very dark grey-blue-black sky. Just at horizon level, the setting sun shone, lighting up a narrow strip of landscape. We jumped up and ran out to her little balcony to have a look. As we stood there, the beginnings of a rainbow could be seen. It was raining in the mountains, cloudy in the valley, and the sun was shining--perfect weather for a rainbow. In a few minutes, we could see a vivid double rainbow making two perfect parallel arcs in the sky.
As I looked at this gorgeous display, I thought back to the first time a rainbow was seen on earth. Noah and his family had just come out of the ark after being at the mercy of the elements for three months, and locked in for close to a year. God promised that He would never send a destroying flood of water on the earth again. Caught up in the beauty of a perfect double rainbow, I asked, "Can you just imagine what Noah thought the first time he saw one of these?" She answered by shaking her head, as she took this all in.
As I stood at the balcony railing with Betty, both absorbed in our own thoughts, I recalled an earlier conversation with her about another promise she had been given. It was 1940, and Hitler thought to intimidate Brittain into supporting him. He bombed London on September 7 and 8. It was called, the Blitz. Betty was a young 15-year-old girl who had just become a Christian. Her family thought she had lost her mind, and her parents were annoyed with this religion that changed the way she ate, how she worshipped, and how she spent her leisure time.
This particular evening of the bombing, another visiting family stayed with them in their home. After they had retired for the night, suddenly they heard the air raid sirens. Worse yet, they could hear planes overhead, bombs exploding, and see flashing lights and flames to the West. Betty woke up, terrified, and through her sobs began praying. A little boy sleeping in the adjoining room rushed into her room looking for someone to protect him. She held him while the bombs fell, and tried to provide solace for him. After it was quiet, she put him back in his room and returned to her own--too frightened to sleep. Again, she began to pray.
Betty had felt completely overwhelmed with her family's resistance to her newfound religious faith. Now the bombing seemed to take her to the very end of her resources. Crying, she continued praying for some time, sitting at the foot of her bed. Suddenly she became aware of a light that was getting brighter and brighter in the room. When she could finally open her eyes and look, she saw an angel in brilliant white clothes standing next to her bed.
"Don't be afraid, Betty" he said.
"But I have no one to take care of me--I'm all alone. My family think I'm crazy, and there is no one to help me," she cried back to him.
"I'll always take care of you. You have nothing to be afraid of." And he smiled warmly at her. She sat looking at him for several moments before he was gone as quickly as he came.
It was his promise.
If you fast-forward Betty's life to when she was 41, she planned to marry a man named James. He had just proposed to her and wanted her answer by Monday morning. On Saturday evening, Betty prayed before she went to bed, asking God to give her wisdom and to help her with this decision. About 2:00 a.m., she was awakened by someone shaking her. Betty lived alone, so this was terrifying. As she awoke from sleep, she heard a deep man's voice say aloud, "Do not marry James!" That was some dream, she thought, and went back to sleep. But in the morning, Betty couldn't put it out of her mind. Had God spoken to her? Had she just eaten too late and had a vivid dream? Sunday night before she fell asleep again, she thought again about what had happened. It must have been a dream, she said, and fell asleep.
About 2:00 in the morning she was again awakened by someone shaking her shoulder. "Betty. Do not marry James!" This time Betty woke up and sat up in bed.
"Why?"
"Do not marry James!"
"But Lord, I'm all alone. I'm here in America by myself and I have absolutely no one. I don't want to be alone" she began to cry.
"Do not marry James. I will take care of you. You will never be alone."
She didn't marry James.
As I stood with Betty on her balcony, I thought of these wonderful promises that have been made to her by God. He has been true to His word, because she has had every reason to fall through the cracks of society, becoming destitute and lonely. Yet after scrimping and saving all her life on a church secretary's salary, she lives in a beautiful, new retirement community, and has two younger women who love her and take care of her needs. I am blessed to be one of them.
Does God keep His promises? I had only to look at that beautiful rainbow last evening and stand next to someone who has received His promises to realize that He always has and He always will.
At one point I looked out the window at the sky.
"Oh Betty, just look at that sky!"
There was a very dark grey-blue-black sky. Just at horizon level, the setting sun shone, lighting up a narrow strip of landscape. We jumped up and ran out to her little balcony to have a look. As we stood there, the beginnings of a rainbow could be seen. It was raining in the mountains, cloudy in the valley, and the sun was shining--perfect weather for a rainbow. In a few minutes, we could see a vivid double rainbow making two perfect parallel arcs in the sky.
As I looked at this gorgeous display, I thought back to the first time a rainbow was seen on earth. Noah and his family had just come out of the ark after being at the mercy of the elements for three months, and locked in for close to a year. God promised that He would never send a destroying flood of water on the earth again. Caught up in the beauty of a perfect double rainbow, I asked, "Can you just imagine what Noah thought the first time he saw one of these?" She answered by shaking her head, as she took this all in.
As I stood at the balcony railing with Betty, both absorbed in our own thoughts, I recalled an earlier conversation with her about another promise she had been given. It was 1940, and Hitler thought to intimidate Brittain into supporting him. He bombed London on September 7 and 8. It was called, the Blitz. Betty was a young 15-year-old girl who had just become a Christian. Her family thought she had lost her mind, and her parents were annoyed with this religion that changed the way she ate, how she worshipped, and how she spent her leisure time.
This particular evening of the bombing, another visiting family stayed with them in their home. After they had retired for the night, suddenly they heard the air raid sirens. Worse yet, they could hear planes overhead, bombs exploding, and see flashing lights and flames to the West. Betty woke up, terrified, and through her sobs began praying. A little boy sleeping in the adjoining room rushed into her room looking for someone to protect him. She held him while the bombs fell, and tried to provide solace for him. After it was quiet, she put him back in his room and returned to her own--too frightened to sleep. Again, she began to pray.
Betty had felt completely overwhelmed with her family's resistance to her newfound religious faith. Now the bombing seemed to take her to the very end of her resources. Crying, she continued praying for some time, sitting at the foot of her bed. Suddenly she became aware of a light that was getting brighter and brighter in the room. When she could finally open her eyes and look, she saw an angel in brilliant white clothes standing next to her bed.
"Don't be afraid, Betty" he said.
"But I have no one to take care of me--I'm all alone. My family think I'm crazy, and there is no one to help me," she cried back to him.
"I'll always take care of you. You have nothing to be afraid of." And he smiled warmly at her. She sat looking at him for several moments before he was gone as quickly as he came.
It was his promise.
If you fast-forward Betty's life to when she was 41, she planned to marry a man named James. He had just proposed to her and wanted her answer by Monday morning. On Saturday evening, Betty prayed before she went to bed, asking God to give her wisdom and to help her with this decision. About 2:00 a.m., she was awakened by someone shaking her. Betty lived alone, so this was terrifying. As she awoke from sleep, she heard a deep man's voice say aloud, "Do not marry James!" That was some dream, she thought, and went back to sleep. But in the morning, Betty couldn't put it out of her mind. Had God spoken to her? Had she just eaten too late and had a vivid dream? Sunday night before she fell asleep again, she thought again about what had happened. It must have been a dream, she said, and fell asleep.
About 2:00 in the morning she was again awakened by someone shaking her shoulder. "Betty. Do not marry James!" This time Betty woke up and sat up in bed.
"Why?"
"Do not marry James!"
"But Lord, I'm all alone. I'm here in America by myself and I have absolutely no one. I don't want to be alone" she began to cry.
"Do not marry James. I will take care of you. You will never be alone."
She didn't marry James.
As I stood with Betty on her balcony, I thought of these wonderful promises that have been made to her by God. He has been true to His word, because she has had every reason to fall through the cracks of society, becoming destitute and lonely. Yet after scrimping and saving all her life on a church secretary's salary, she lives in a beautiful, new retirement community, and has two younger women who love her and take care of her needs. I am blessed to be one of them.
Does God keep His promises? I had only to look at that beautiful rainbow last evening and stand next to someone who has received His promises to realize that He always has and He always will.
April 11, 2006
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.
April 10, 2006
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).
April 9, 2006
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.
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.
April 8, 2006
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:
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.
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.
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.
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