Endings and Beginnings

Today was graduation and all my students publicly moved ahead to their next step in life: new jobs, home and family, further study, vacations, finally time with children. It was such a privilege to see the students walk down the aisle and get their diplomas--these whose lives I've been part of for the last two years. Some of these students are the first in their family to go on for a graduate degree. They have sat in my office and with tears coming down their faces admit that they're terrified of getting an advanced degree because they think they have to act different or speak differently, or that their families will be embarrassed of them in some way. And how are they to prove to their families that they are just the same as they always were? But we know that even though their love for their families will never change, they do change as people. So we've had these conversations that helps to socialize students into a professional identity. Today when their parents saw them in their regalia something changed.

This student's came to the U.S. only four years ago, speaking no English whatever. He is one of the most intelligent and gifted students I've ever had. He is beloved by all of his classmates, his employers and his beautiful family. Today on Father's Day, he had them all come to see him pass this milestone. In the fall he will be in my doctoral classes. I am bursting with pride.

Some students come from families who don't have much faith that they will do more than be able to survive adulthood. When you see someone who has tremendous potential and they don't see it, there is nothing like seeing it register on their face that you have faith in them. For awhile they look at you askance because they're unsure your judgment can be trusted. As it dawns on them that you're serious and you know what you're talking about, something happens to them. Slowly they start paying more attention in class, ask more direct questions, and in general, seem to find their own voices. When they turn to look straight at you as they get their diploma, that knowing look speaks volumes.

This is the son of one of my doctoral students--I told her to look ahead 20 years and think of him in his doctoral regalia. We all start somewhere. She brightened and took a deep breath. It's a very long walk.

Hand-me-downs

A very large box came in the mail today. The postage was over $38 and I wondered what in the world it could be. I am not having a birthday or any noteworthy event, so there was no way to predict what this could be. It was from my friend Lois, who recently moved to Orlando. Inside was a note:

Dear Barbara,

Please accept this in the spirit in which it is intended. In my early life I benefitted from clothes that were handed down to me from my cousin. It was like Christmas when Mom brought me a bag of my cousin's things because suddenly I had a lot of new things. So because you are my friend, I want to pass along these things that I can't wear here in Orlando. I'm bigger than you are, but some of these things will fit and are still pretty new. Don't be afraid to pass along anything that you don't want or doesn't fit.

Have fun!

Lois

I did have fun. There were all sorts of casual shirts, capri pants, and a couple dresses that I can wear. The yellow silk and chartreuse jacket will move on tomorrow. But in the meantime, I'm feeling really blessed to have had such a wonderful time today, plowing through this box and making stacks of things for a couple people who are really in need of things and will look terrific in these clothes that will fit them.
It was a flood of old memories as I pulled things out, oohed and ahhhed, gasped and laughed. When we were kids, my cousins used to send us things they had outgrown. Their mother didn't sew all their clothes like ours did, so their store bought things made us feel really hip--whatever that was back then. It was fun to wear something different to class after being sent these clothes.

My run-around wardrobe grew today. I'm grateful for friends like Lois who understands that it's not just the comfort in knowing the person you give your hand-me-downs to, it's the wonderful feeling of knowing that someone else thought of you.
It was a delightful gift.
Thank you, Lois!

Are you in Sabbath Mode?

We have been out shopping for appliances for our new house. It has been fun--actually having a reason to look at every range, microwave, refrigerator, dishwasher. Yesterday, as we wandered through the appliances department in Sears, who is having a HUGE sale, we came across a similar, wonderful stove and decided that it is just right for us. Beside being white, it has five burners. That means I can cook up a storm. It is also on sale, which we like.
But we found out that it has something called "Sabbath mode." What on earth is that? I imagined that it had to do with Orthodox Jew's laws that forbid the lighting of fires or turning on of lights on the Sabbath. After some interesting reading, here is what I found out:

Typically, ovens automatically turn off after being run for 12 hours at a go. The Sabbath Mode overrides this and keeps going for as long as is needed, which for Orthodox Jews means that the food prepared on Friday can stay warm for up to 24 hours. Also, all beeps, digital readouts, and icons are suddenly invisible in Sabbath Mode. This keeps all the Jews happy and they can adjust the temperature of their ovens without knowing how much they are increasing it (no readout and thus no record of breaking the law); they can make food and keep it warm, and not be bothered by icons of flames, numbers, or any other thing that they make change by doing inappropriate work.

It seems to me to be the ultimate in legalistic adherence to dead rules. I've read somewhere that there were hundreds of laws about Sabbath observance when Jesus walked on this earth. That is why He got criticized by the Pharisees for "harvesting grain" on the Sabbath (rolling the heads of it in his hands and eating it as he walked through a field), telling someone to pick up their bed and carry it on the Sabbath (verboten), or even healed someone on the Sabbath (I have no idea what was wrong with this). These kinds of bogus laws called forth some of Jesus' most crisp comments about those who were careful to tithe the herbs they grew, but were oblivious to the most basic of human kindness and warmth toward others. The Sabbath, Jesus said, was about doing good, resting, meeting together--these things we can see from His example all through the gospels. It was not about measuring steps to see how far a Sabbath day's journey was, or a host of other things that detracted people from the very purpose of the Sabbath: to have 24 hours of guilt-free time to enjoy God and His creation.

Our new oven has Sabbath Mode. We are tickled by this, since we have grown up with the word Sabbath on our tongues since childhood; since we vowed to have a Sabbath home, and since Sabbath is our favorite day. But isn't it ironic that while our Sabbath gives us peace, rest, and fellowship, the Sabbath of Jewry seems to be ironclad in laws and rules? Perhaps I will think of this while I am cooking Sabbath meals on Sabbath, grateful that I don't need to use the Sabbath mode in order to be holy or accepted by God.

The Sabbath was made for man,

Not mane for the Sabbath.

Saturation

Found here

This is now the fifth day that has been relatively free of meetings and work. I can't make myself work. There are tons of things that need to be done and I have nothing left to give toward these things: two articles that are due in 15 days; a certificate proposal for the university council committee; policies galore; letters of recommendation for students. All I want to do is crawl into bed and pull the covers over my head. Better yet, sit in the recliner and doze off and on whilst mindless television shows play. Or, just sit outside with the cat in the lawn chair and look at the sky.

I understand what burnout and fatigue is now, even if I love this job more than I thought anyone could love a job. I'm tired.

It probably doesn't help that I'm emotionally exhausted from the ups and downs of waiting to get our new house, or that both office and home are cramped unfriendly places. I was moved into a temporary office in December where I was to wait for two weeks for the social work faculty to move to their new building. Of course, I am still sitting in the midst of boxes and higgly-piggly bookshelves full of boxes and other odds and ends that I've had to pull out for use in a class. It is distressing to be in such a messy environment for this long. I'm told that I can have a different, more spacious office by the end of this month. We'll see.

Now I get to pack up the house. Have I mentioned that after moving 18 times since I turned 21, I hate packing? I love moving into a place, but moving out of a place is not fun.

But moving and messy living space aside, I feel as though my legs have been shot out from under me this last week. A student has sent me some inflammatory emails. She is friends with the student that I had such trouble with last quarter--wouldn't you know it! So the fight is on. The other day my Chair said, "Barbara, it is always something. You need to adjust that it is almost never calm and business as usual. Business as usual is the unexpected. The unexpected is business as usual." I'm starting to understand this at an experiential level. It is a far cry from the "Sage on the Stage" idea of teaching I held when I went into teaching. It's the tiring committees with the endless discussion of everything under the sun; of dealing with obstreperous students who are ungrateful for the quality of education they are fortunate to obtain from our faculty; the endless red tape involved with simple procedures. And yet, I am happiest at this job and in my life than I could have imagined.

It's the end of the year. My head is full. My plate is piled high with the writing, editing, online course design, and now moving, painting, and unpacking that will need to be done this summer. Perhaps I should go take that nap.

Found here

We just received a call from our realtor: We got our house! They counter-offered and we will formally accept it at 3:00 today--very minor issues that won't break us. Our only challenge now is to get the house inspected within five days, which is what their bank requires. (When we accompany them for the inspection, I will take our camera and snap some shots that can be uploaded here for you to see more of it). And they want another $150 earnest money. We are so thrilled that we don't know what to do with ourselves. Of course, we also have buyer's shock.
Thank you for riding this rollercoaster with us. I'm so very, very pleased!

Woo-hooo!!!!!!

Something Boring

Bob is soaking in the tub one morning and wife, Ann, comes to the door. "What do you want for breakfast, honey?"

He thinks a minute. Not being a chef himself, his repertoire of breakfast food menu items is somewhat circumscribed. "How about oatmeal?"

Ann draws back in horror. "Oatmeal! That's so boring!"

He chuckles. "Ok. Make anything you want." Bob was raised to eat anything put before him, and with nine siblings and a preacher father, he was happy to eat what was put before him.

He sinks back into the tub as he hears Ann rattling pans and rustling up something in the kitchen. It was a late breakfast--more like a brunch, so there was no hurry for him to get to the table.

When he went, there was some sort of vegetarian pattie in a sandwich on his plate. They said grace and he fell to. Ann took a bite and immediately put her sandwich down on her plate. Bob took a bite and thought to himself, "This is absolutely horrible!" But the texture was right, the look was right. It just tasted hideous. But being someone raised to clean his plate without any comment about the taste of the food, he finished off his sandwich, all the while chattering happily to Ann. As he finished up, he saw Ann's unfinished sandwich on her plate and the horrible thought crossed his mind that he might have to eat hers, too. Because in his way of thinking, it is not acceptable to waste food even if it does taste hideous.

Well, she in fact was not going to eat it. What to do? He could hardly get the taste of that pattie out of his mouth. Looking around, there sat Rufus, staring with that hangdog expression on his face. We can feed Ann's pattie to the dog! Out they went, Rufus scampering behind him, excited to have an unexpected between meals treat.

Bob put the sandwich down on the step out back for him. Rufus rushed forward eagerly, and with one sniff of the pattie, backed away immediately.

"Oh no," Ann said quietly. "It is bad."

What could have made it taste so horrible? she went over the ingredients that had gone into it. After much consideration, they made an interesting discovery. She had used peanut oil from an unmarked container that they had taken with them on a trip to California to fry these little dainties. She'd wondered why little tiny bubbles came out of the patties as they cooked.

What else is yellow and makes little bubbles?

Dish soap.

Hurray for the dish soap breakfast sandwich patties!

This morning, Bob is in the bathtub having a soak. Ann pops her head in the bathroom. "Honey, what do you want for breakfast?

"Something boring."

(Thanks to my cousin's gregarious husband for sharing this great story with me today).

Deep Breath

So, we are yet STILL waiting. Since the home we made an offer on is bank-owned, apparently they want to hold it open to see what else comes in before they accept an offer (like a higher offer than the highest that is made right now). It is maddening. We want this house so badly we can taste it--but we are still going out looking for on Sunday and Monday so we can have something lined up just in case.
Stay tuned.

Still waiting

We are still waiting to hear from our realtor if our offer has been accepted on this bank-owned home. It is soooo hard to hang in limbo! I have told my classes that if the phone rings I will be answering it because it could be our realtor. Now they are praying that we get this house, particularly since they know that we will be having them over at least one Friday night per month. We would also like to have an available bedroom/bathroom so we can host people who come here for cancer treatment at our regional medical center.

But God knows--and only He knows at this point.

I woke up with the song, "Oh Jesus I have promised" in my head. It is a bit of a dreary tune and I hope it is not a harbinger of events to come today. The gist of it is that I'll hold on no matter what comes. So today my prayer is that whatever happens regarding our house will honor God in some way. We have contingency plans if we don't get the house, but we still wait in hope. Perhaps this is what the Christian life is all about--waiting with the not-knowingness of it all.

Despitefully Used

Today I have been preparing to teach a general lesson study at church for next week. It is on the amazing love of Christ. Several incidences of His loving acts toward humans are recorded in the weekly lesson study, each that illustrates a different facet of love. I looked over the material that the associate pastor sent me that was supposed to help me put together something. But I've never been one to follow scripts and anything that makes me feel boxed in, structured according to someone else's ideas, makes me lose interest. It is important that a speaker has passion about their message, otherwise their comments feel canned. I needed something fresh that could hold my attention.

So I started casting about for information about love: what it is, where people find it, how people maintain it. Then there are all the stories of couples whose love won out against all odds: different religions, races, social strata, education, and even geographic locations. I even found a site that purports to be a Love Calculator, according to its founder, "Dr. Love." All one does is enter the names of two people who are living together, dating, or married, --that's all--just names, and up pops a prediction about how well they will manage together. I entered Sam and my names and clicked the button: we have a 10% chance of staying together. Based on what, I don't know. I entered the names of a couple who have had nothing but trouble since they got married and their chance of staying together was 54%. That removed any tiny bit of credibility the site had.

Then I began to read what Jesus said about loving our enemies and praying for those who despitefully use us. The word despitefully caught my eye. Other versions of the Bible say things like, "Pray for those who trouble you" or "persecute you." The Message Bible uses the phrase, "...someone who is giving you a hard time" and the New Century Bible says, "Pray for those who hurt you." Wycliffe: "...pray ye for them that pursue and slander you."
I keep coming back to good old King James: "Pray for those who despitefully use you." The dictionary defines despiteful as, "in a maliciously spiteful manner...full of malice."
I couldn't think of anyone who treats me that way at work. My students seem to like me, my colleagues and I get on very well, and my administrators speak highly of me. None of my friends would fall into the category of maliciously, spitefully speaking against me out of malice. So I didn't think much more about it. But my mind has nibbled around the edges of this word all day.

This afternoon, the Lord reached into my heart and squeezed. Step-parents have the potential to understand this verse in a new way. Any time a new party joins any family, there are ripples: sometimes the kind that makes one feel relaxed and happy, and sometimes the kind that threatens to sink your boat.

Jesus doesn't say just to pray for those who despitefully use us--whether it happens out of ignorance, willfulness, or oversight. He points out that this is a Kingdom of Heaven quality. Those who follow Jesus step by step are good to the "good" and the bad, those who support them and also those who dash them to pieces. Because this is how our perfect Father in Heaven treats people. He loves us when we are obnoxious, debauched, stupid. There is nothing that we do that can separate us from Him. Yet He does not leave us or stop loving us. So being perfect as He is means holding up in prayer those who misunderstand or hurt us.

Once when I was a therapist trainee, still in school and starting to wrestle with all of the stuff of being a therapist, a social worker said something that helped me understand the road ahead of me in my discipline. We were both working in a county mental health department and saw people with persistent, chronic mental illnesses. They were pretty much on medications for life and would be debilitated and unable to function without therapy plus meds. Reflecting on a very obnoxious patient who had fussed in the waiting room because the social worker wasn't waiting at the door for him when he arrived, she said, "This is why this man is my client. This is why he needs therapy. This behavior goes with the territory. Do you expect to always be treated kindly, respectfully, cheerfully? Then go into another field. We're here to help these kinds of people who turn off everyone else. If we can help them, they won't be isolated because of their own behavior, and they'll have a better chance at making a more satisfying life for themselves. They will even try to hurt us sometimes. But this is how they get better--test the limits, learn skills, challenge you, become introspective. And you are the tool whereby this happens." This man's behavior merited her attention, it didn't exclude him. What a challenge this presented for me!

This is not to say that bad behavior or people who hurt you shouldn't have limits set on them. Saying a strong "No farther for you!" is a loving thing sometimes. Love does not mean you should lie down and become a doormat for anyone who would walk over you. It means being able to live with the hurt, troubling, malice, and slander after you set the necessary limits and making changes to enhance your own mental wellbeing. But people do what they do because they are hurt, scared, damaged or threatened in some way. Some people yell and act aggressively because being loud and mean is easier on their feelings in the short term than allowing themselves to feel pain, fear, or blame. Such behavior merits the prayer. It doesn't exclude them. Being the target of this behavior calls for staying power. Perhaps that comes from being connected to the One who is able to see the end from the beginning. From knowing that God will make it all right one day.

There is something in this for me. I have miles to go before I can be considered perfect as my Father in Heaven is. I am painfully aware of my failings to be gracious and kind-hearted when faced with personalities that push all my buttons. For now, I focus on the things that I can change and set limits on, and I pray. A lot. All the time. If I am only kind to those who are always nice to me, how good is that? I pray that I may continue to reach out to those who hurt me with an open heart and with care, be available to them in whatever way is possible. And trust God to bring conviction to me out of left field--like He did today.

Speaking in Tongues

Found here

Mother visited a church yesterday because it was medical and dental school graduation weekend, which mean barely controlled mayhem at the church. So she went off to the Indonesian congregation because they were to have a special choir give a concert for the main service. She was excited to go to a new place.

I had some reservations but didn't want to discourage her from branching out and trying new things. I told her that I thought perhaps the singing group would use microphones and it would be quite loud. Since she has a hearing problem and has difficulty understanding accented speech, would she really want to go there? She was undeterred. "George will pick us up and take us home at 1:00 after we've had lunch at the church potluck." She was quite eager to hear the choir and then try Indonesian food.


So at the appointed hour she, Evelyn and Molly boarded the Villa van and off they went to the Indonesian church. They were greeted warmly at the door and invited to attend the English class in the back of the sanctuary. Problem was, Mother couldn't tell if it was English or not--it was so difficult to understand the speaker. But as she said, "I caught a word here and there so I knew what they were talking about, more or less. What I was really interested in was hearing the choir."


When it was time for church, they moved closer to the front of the sanctuary and sat off to the side.

"Gibberish, it was all gibberish!" she later told me last night. She couldn't understand the extemporaneous comments from the pulpit that preceded the sermon. "I looked at Evelyn and asked if she could understand and she couldn't, either." And the choir only sang two songs--and yes, every member had a microphone. "It was blazing loud!" she cackled last night. "I covered one ear and turned my head so I didn't go completely deaf. I didn't want to be offensive, but it was so loud!"


Mother was in hysterics as she explained what happened after the singing. Apparently, the pastor spoke in his native language and used an interpreter whose accent was so thick that the message was almost incomprehensible. So the three visitors sat there, befuddled, for the entire time. Even louder than the choir, the pastor held the microphone right up to his mouth and shouted into it. Shouted. I know the kind of preaching this is for I've seen many foreign born pastors do this. It must fall under the category of "exhorting" that so many old school and foreign pastors adhere to. Mother was completely exhorted by the end of it, which she said, never really came. But she slipped out at 1:00. "He was screaming at us that we need to pray and read our Bibles and he scared the bejeepers out of us with all that shouting. And as if it wasn't enough to have him shout all that gibberish at us, his sidekick would then yell it all in English, so-called, full tilt!" Mother wheezed off into laughter at that point, remembering how shocked she had been. "I didn't dare look at Evelyn because we would have forgotten ourselves right there. That guy went on and on--I didn't know there was so much that we were doing wrong that needed to be corrected. He kept finding things to tell us off about and could have gone until supper if people stayed there to listen!"


George was to pick them up at 1:00 after the potluck. So they slipped out at 1:00. Two deacons intercepted them at the back door. "The potluck! You have to eat. Stay and we will take you back to the Villa."


Mother then uttered one of her famous Motherisms: "I don't care if I never eat, I won't go back into that place!" The three muskateers got into the Villa van and went back home. On the way, the three of them shared their experience while at the church. All of them had been shocked by the volume, couldn't understand what was said, and were disappointed that the entire service wasn't the choir. The man who had invited them told them it would be all choral. So much for truth in advertising.


There were two good things about this adventure that really warmed my heart, as a daughter who has been holding my breath about Mother's wellbeing: first, she got out and did something different--took a risk, was excited about going off on an adventure with her friends. Second, I have seldom heard Mother laugh so hard as she did last night when she was telling me about this. She was absolutely hysterical, repeating the funny moments, describing her internal reactions, and telling me about the church itself. She had to keep putting down the phone because she couldn't stop laughing. She was not politically correct in her opinions and observations, but she was the most energized I have seen her since my father died. Our conversation was probably about 40 minutes and she laughed the whole time.


So life moves on. Mother has a new story that she participated in with her friends, and in a new place. She, Evelyn, and Molly now have new inside comments ("Wanna go over to the Indonesian church next week? I hear they have a choir going to sing there...")

Interesting, what things make for a happy day.