91.5 FM

I listen to a classical music station most of the time. I love early chamber music scored for string and winds. A nice change is medieval music with sackbuts, viola de gamba, and crumhorns. Ah crumhorns: wonderful reedy instruments that sound like a cross between a basoon and the Aflack duck. A terrific piece of music with this gaggle of instruments is the Terpsichore (pronounced "terp-sick'-or-ee") of Michael Praetorius. You can hear one of my favorite dances here.
So while I love this music on the radio, there are times when the announcer is so irritatingly smarmy that I have to turn it off.
Here's what I mean. One guy in particular, seems smitten with the sound of his own voice. He carefully and slowly enunciates every word as though he thinks the English language is above and beyond the hearer's comprehension. Then at the end of a carefully crafted sentence, he pauses as if to reflect smugly on his comments. After a slow breath, he starts in again. I just happened to tune in the other night to hear this series of remarks:
"...a concerto for Jew's Harp. That's not a mistake, it's reality" (he gives the word reality a bit more air through his vocal cords as though singing it), "and oh my...it is quite a work by Johan, Georg, Albrechtsberger" (he pronounces each word carefully and discretely).
"Now" (his voice inflection goes up and then down with this word), "here's a musical vignette that evokes quite another setting. Although I must say it has never inspired me to punch a cow" (he chuckles a low, melodic gurgle), it is music by Thompson who wrote the score for the motion picture, "The Plow that Broke the Plain." "
We are immediately accosted by a somewhat atonal opening by strings and clarinets. I turn the radio off in disgust. As if this guy could even recognize a cow in a lineup.

Why do people have to talk like this? This announcer knows everything there is to know about music, composers, conductors, performers. But he talks about them in such a superior way, as if that is all there is in life which merits attention. As if I need to be concerned whether Alfred Brendel plays in a more spirited way than say, Murray Perahia. As if it is more important to know the name of Glenn Gould's dog and the odd way Glenn spoke to him, than to hear the music and be either cheered on or sent off on on a cloud of reflection.

Robert Fulghum wrote once that America needs more bad singers and piano players. In the evening when we all gather together we should be creating something of our own, not merely listening to perfection that was recorded after repeated takes. Something that comes from our own souls and helps us transcend our surroundings. Forget the bad notes, cracking voice and slurred fast notes. If it makes you smile, stand taller, and have a glimpse of grandeur, then singing is the best thing for you. The product that comes from this enterprise will not have a sniveling program host making a windy pronouncement about it. This kind of singing might make some people laugh, but not those who see and listen with their hearts. It is soulful music of the common man that we need to hear more of.
When I was in graduate school at the University of Minnesota, I used to listen to Minnesota Public Radio every morning on the way to class. There were two hilarious program hosts named Dale Connelly and Jim Ed Poole, as I recall. They played music with soul, right from the center of all that creates Americana. Songs like, I go out walking after midnight by Patsy Cline; 99 1/2 Just Won't Do by the Sabathani Gospel Choir; Waltzing with Bears; and a delightful song called Baby's Got the Car Keys:

Daddy put the keys in his pocket when he walked into the house
Or did he put them on the table by the telephone.
He thinks that's where he left them. He really isn't sure.
He knows he had to have them just to get inside the door.
Mom's in the kitchen, lookin' on the shelf,
She says this kind of panic is a hazard to her health.
Time to go to work, time to go to school,
And everybody's looking like a fool.

Baby's got the car keys and she's crawling down the hall.
She's a cute little pickpocket, sticky-fingered Goldilocks,
And she's not even 3 feet tall.
She puts them in the toy box and rattles them around,
Drops them in her diaper, now they can't be found.

Time to go to work, time to go to school,
And everybody's looking like a fool.
Digging in the sofa gets a dollar, fifty cents,
A toothpick, a candy bar, a dozen fountain pens.
Chaos in the living room, disaster in the den,
Sister says she saw 'em but she can't say when.
Tick-tock the car is locked, Daddy's going into shock.
Smelly, dirty diapers on the breeze.
Dad says he'll change it but baby's got to wait
Until he finds those dad dadgum keys!

Baby's got the car keys and she's crawling down the hall.
She's a cute little pickpocket, sticky-fingered Goldilocks,
And she's not even 3 feet tall.
The baby starts to giggle, there's something in her hand.
That booger drops a wallet in the garbage can.
Time to go to work, time to go to school,
And everybody's looking like a fool.
Mom's on the telephone trying to call a cab,
Daddy's changing baby's diaper in the living room.
The baby's on the table with a bottle in her mouth.
Daddy opens up the diaper, he begins to shout.
Treasure in the diaper, treasure in the muck,
It sure looks a lot like the keys to the truck.
Time to go to work, time to go to school.
And everybody's looking like a fool.

Baby's got the car keys and she had them all along.
She's a cute little pickpocket, sticky-fingered Goldilocks,
And she's not even 3 feet tall.
The party isn't over, they're about to find out,
Daddy threw away his wallet when he took the garbage out.
Time to go to work, time to go to school,
And everybody's looking like a fool.

These are the kinds of songs that make you laugh right out loud at the unexpected when you're stuck in traffic on the bridge over the Mississippi River, or are backed up at the Grand Avenue exit. Long commutes are a delight when the music pulls you right in to sing along, laugh and gasp at the lyrics, gives you a surge of endorphins.

Yes, we need to have conceptions of performance perfection, and we are fortunate to hear samples of this on the radio whenever we are interested in turning it on. I love to hear a flawless rendition of the Nocturne from the Borodin String Quartet. It can make me go helplessly weak. But most of the time, we are all languishing for need of more primal, simple music. More people need to be singing over the dishpan, in the shower, and out weeding the garden. We don't hear people singing very much any more--they all listen to other people do it when they themselves are the ones who would receive the greatest benefit by singing. It doesn't matter if it is off-key or if you run out of breath before the end of a line, or can't remember all the words. More of us need to crash through Chopin's Revolutionary Etude on the piano, and more need to conduct invisible orchestras playing Brahm's First Symphony, no holds barred. We need to cultivate personal cultures that are full of life, tapping into something much deeper than the stagnant, canned accompaniament to life that many tolerate.

I am reminded of a visit I made to a tiny rural church in Ballinacrow, County Wicklow, Ireland. I was asked to sing several songs, and a couple other individuals played instruments and sang as well. The audience was most appreciative, as many of them were farmers and were not trained in music. Then a man named Tommy stood at the front of the church. "Come on then, Tommy. Let's hear ye sing" his friend in the back called out. Tommy cleared his throat. He was wearing ill-fitting dark pants and a soft brown shirt. He looked awkward and a bit apologetic, but he did not flinch. His wife was dying of cancer, he had just learned. He looked out the window past the cows grazing in the church yard. "I first heard this song back when George Beverly Shea sang it on the radio" he said deliberately. "And oi loved it." He drew in his breath sharply as the Irish do when they are making a point. "Oi use ta sing it out in the field walking after the cows. Oi sang it day and night. It's still muh favorite song."
Tommy's rough voice broke in singing then:

The love of God is greater far
Than tongue or pen can ever tell;
It goes beyond the highest star,
And reaches to the lowest hell;
The guilty pair, bowed down with care,
God gave His Son to win;
His erring child He reconciled,
And pardoned from his sin.

O love of God, how rich and pure!
How measureless and strong!
It shall forevermore endure
The saints’ and angels’ song.

Could we with ink the ocean fill,
And were the skies of parchment made,
Were every stalk on earth a quill,
And every man a scribe by trade,
To write the love of God above,
Would drain the ocean dry.
Nor could the scroll contain the whole,
Though stretched from sky to sky.

Oh Love of God!
How rich and pure;
How measureless and strong!
It shall forevermore endure
The saints' and angels' song.

A deep sense of tearful contentment and a reaching out for God was what I breathlessly held to my heart as he finished. There is not a time that I hear this hymn but that I see Tommy singing loudly, untamed graying hair tumbling over his collar, his hands held rigidly at his sides, eyes gazing up at the ceiling toward the back of the tiny church, the music coming from deep within him. It was just Tommy and God that afternoon. We were blessed to be allowed to listen in. The soul he shared with us that day was the most precious musical gift I've ever received.

My wheezing, affected radio announcer knows a lot about music. There are times when I appreciate his interpretative genius and delicate sensibilities. But I wish sincerely that we could hear more music that rises spontaneously from the hearts and souls of men like Tommy on that wonderful summer day in Ireland--music which needs no introduction and no interpretation.

Writing in Flea Heaven

Found here

I spent 10 hours today writing an article, sitting at the dining room table. It is an article that was prompted when a graduate student in the Midwest called out of the blue and asked if she could be part of my research team. Since I didn't have anything for her to help with, I suggested that she start gathering articles for a critical review manuscript. She is the most motivated young woman I've met in awhile: good writer, hard working, eager to learn. After a couple months she sent me a list of articles. After telling her how to proceed, she then produced a rough draft of an article that was quite good, given her lack of professional writing experience and gaps of understanding about research. However, what this has meant for me is that since I'm first author, I'm responsible for the final writing, editing, and submission to the journal. She wants to use this article as part of her portfolio that needs to be ready for application to a PhD program this fall. Since this student has been very patient with me, I decided to take a week of my vacation and hammer this out.
The topic is one that would leave many cold in their tracks. It is entitled, "Mixed-Orientation Marriages: A Critical Review of Peer-Reviewed Empirical Work." Mixed Orientation Marriage (MOM) refers to marriages between gay or bisexual individuals and a heterosexual person. Suffice it to say, I'm just about sick of the topic after summarizing 15 research studies that pertained to it today. Particularly when a very scary movie came on that Sam was watching, and that I couldn't help following as I tried to focus on a particularly badly written study (It took two hours to summarize that one!) The movie turned out okay. I think it was a Mission Impossible movie with Tom Cruise. I remarked to Sam that if any two people experienced the extreme degree of psychological trauma the two characters did in that movie, they would not be able to live a normal life afterward and would probably lose their marriage. He agreed sagely, and I returned with a vengence to my studies of marriages that struggle to survive.
Perhaps the worst thing about my writing experience today is that I suddenly started scratching my ankles and legs. There's nothing to see--no bites or anything else. But I itch all over. I noticed it the other day when Otis started scratching like a monkey. After a visit to the vet it was determined that our house is probably flea infested.
"Flea eggs lie dormant until they feel vibrations. So if a house has been standing empty for awhile, it is probably full of flea eggs." The implications of that statement are truly awful.

So Otis has had worm medicine and isn't allowed to go out into the garage until we spray flea and tick killer there and all over our property. Because the vet also informed us that our yard and garden are probably full of fleas, too.
Meanwhile, we have an appointment to have the carpets steam cleaned and sanitized, and I'm hopping into the shower with the paranoid hopes of drowning whatever little characters are leaping over my body. Not that I've even seen a one, but the power of suggestion is pretty strong.

Tomorrow I will have completed this article. Tuesday I return to work. By Friday, our house will be new and improved inside. Tonight I'm putting up our pictures and rearranging some final items upstairs. Time moves on. I hope the invisible army of fleas will, too.

Vacation

Still on vacation: writing like crazy for a Friday deadline. Two books that need editing yesterday. Two other articles sitting in the wings. Dealing with emergency student issues even when I'm supposed to be sipping a drink out on a quiet beach this week. Still living amidst boxes and pictures that need to be hung up. I can't get Otis' pills down him--never saw a cat who could spit out pills like he can.
On the good side: I love my house, my husband, my job (most of the time), and writing. I love writing at home in my recliner with my cat begging for handouts. I love hearing Gil's key in the door at 5:30, and rushing to meet him. I like making cookies when Stepdaughter #1 comes in, and seeing her carefully guarded nonchalant face break into a grin when I hand her a plate of warm chocolate chip cookies.
I'm tired. Going to bed.

Bad Day

Found here

I have several interesting and unique blog posts in mind that I wanted to make this afternoon, but this was a wretched day. As I sat at my computer in bed, writing a talk that I have to give on Friday night, I suddenly got terribly dizzy. With my head spinning like a top, I lay in bed clutching the side of the mattress so I wouldn't roll off onto the floor. Sam had just gone out to mow the lawn and within five minutes I was sick. Separation anxiety? I hardly think so. Lying down didn't help. Sitting up didn't help. Covering my eyes so I couldn't see the whirling ceiling fan didn't help. Hugging the bowl with dry heaves did help some, though I couldn't guess why.

My concern was that it came on so quickly. Being a retired ICU nurse, I wasn't thinking stomach virus or inner ear inflammation. I was thinking the worst case scenario: brain aneurysm, stroke, brain tumor, or some sort of virus that would send me into a persistent vegetative state like an atypical Guillian-Barre type syndrome. I was very frightened and horribly dizzy. For awhile, closing my eyes helped. Then when I opened them, that seemed to help. But neither one really did much for me. I felt my way down the stairs and out into the garage. I needed to get Sam's attention because I felt so horrible. He was listening to his iPod, edging the grass. He is as deaf as a stone with his earbuds on. So I stood in the garage and weakly waved my arms to get his attention. I was in my robe and didn't want to make a spectacle of myself out on the lawn. (what if I barfed out in the yard before God and the neighbors?) He blissfully continued edging with the most intense focus on his work that I've ever witnessed. I slunk back into the house.

Sitting in the recliner seemed to help me feel a bit better. Otis was worried and had trailed me all morning, trying to help by licking my hand and gazing into my face. He shouldn't have been at such close range when I suddenly started feeling sick. Suffice it to say, he'll probably not be as solicitous again in the same way. Cats can fly...

After a three hour nap on the couch in which I never moved once, I think I'm feeling a bit better. I still feel like I've been hit by a truck and my stomach feels a bit secondhand. So much for writing brilliant blog entries.

Interesting--some people want to be left alone when they are ill. Others want to be hovered over. I get scared and fear dying. After so many years of being my own nurse when I was ill and alone, my need is great for having someone experience my worst times with me. I don't want anything to disrupt the way my life is now. I would hate to say goodbye to this life just as I am experiencing so much that is overdue. But even as I lay in the recliner today, I prayed as though I was dying. I certainly felt as though I was. What I said to God today still stands: my concerns for friends and family members whom I love. My regrets that I haven't been able to be closer to some people, couldn't correct some disrupted relationships, haven't had the wisdom to know how to do certain things in life. And overall, I felt ready to go if that was my fate.

It wasn't.

I'm still here.

Thank God.

Nana

Tomorrow my cousin should receive three boxes of my grandmother's dishes that I finally put in the mail to her. I have saved these for her daughter for at least 10 years, carting the dishes around from place to place, state to state. With this last move, it was finally time to get them out of the garage and into her hands.
Boxing up her dishes in bubble wrap, I couldn't help but remember her and the many visits we had in her home. Walking in the side door and up the steps into the kitchen, the first thing that I always noticed was the strong odor of stale coffee grounds. She always poured them into the trash and since no one in our house drank coffee, it seemed exotic but welcoming.
Then there were the milk bottles from Gates Dairy (I think that was the name). The glass bottles were made to fit in your hand perfectly and had a little cardboard cap that you could pull off and siphon off the cream from the top of the jug. Those were wonderful days, when the milkman left the milk jugs at the back door and mothers were actually up before it got hot, so the milk didn't spoil.
Nana loved white furniture, I think, because she painted her curio cabinet and dining room table white. Mother remembers that the paint was always chipping off but I only remember that it was a wonderful table that seated our family, my cousin's family, and Nana and Dale. We called grampa Dale because one of the older cousins started it, and he was always Dale thereafter.

There were two square pillars in the doorway between the living and dining rooms. They were also painted white. I have a picture of my father when he was two years old, sitting against one of the pillars and holding an orange in his hand. He's wearing the most darling little leather shoes and has a real impish grin on his face.

When we visited Nana and Dale on a Sunday, the lunch menu was predictable: mashed potatoes and gravy, peas, carrots, brussel sprouts (sometimes). If we stayed late, she served us Campbell's Cream of Tomato soup in her good ivory dishes that had two little handles on each bowl. We also got Ritz crackers to crumble up in our soup. Nana always acted like we were a burden and she was rather brusque, as I remember. In any event, I always steered clear of her while we were there. I got on much better with Dale because he was funny and made us laugh. He liked children and I don't think Nana did. The one time I was left alone with her I was terrified. She was very sweet though, and told me that when she was a little girl in school, the boys used to call her Kitty which made her furious. And that one little vignette was the only thing I remember about her telling me anything personal. Ever.
But I loved to listen to Nana rip through the Beer Barrel Polka on the piano. When she would play for Dale as he played his violin, I came alive. It was always a disappointment when she stopped.

Oh, there was the sewing room with the interesting lineoleum on the floor and the little half bath to the side. There wasn't enough room to even turn around in there. I was fascinated by the overpowering smell of Listerine that emanated from a bottle of the yellow stuff that sat on the back of the sink. More than once, I tried to taste it, but I couldn't keep it in my mouth because it burned.

Nana had a wonderful old fashioned bedroom suite: a three-quarter size poster bed with matching dresser, bedside table, and a little black rocking chair with a woven seat. She also kept a large antique pitcher and bowl with red roses painted on the side of it. What I loved most about Nana's room was that there was a walk-through closet that went between her room and the guest room where we kids slept. I always got the trundle bed bottom and slept near the floor. I remember worrying that the door to the closet would burst open and a ghost or ghoul--or my brother--would rush at me.

At night, I'd feel my way along the wall to the bathroom upstairs. I can still see it in my mind's eye. What was truly arresting was Dale's "Holy Nellies" that hung on the back of the door during the day. What is a Holy Nellie? Feet pajamas with mittens and an attached hat, made from white flannel by my mother. Dale must have looked like a giant bunny rabbit in those.

The back yard held hydrangeas and hosta lillies. I have five hosta plants in the front of my house, trying to take hold after being transplanted into the hard, dry earth. They are descendents from Nana's plants. I carried them in a large basin from New York to Indiana, then to Washington, and down to California. Amazing that they've lived this long. I also have a descendent from Nana's Christmas Cactus. Mother had a huge plant that she propagated from Nana's plant, but when we left New York last year, she gave it to someone else. I managed to make off with a little slip of it because I can't bear to see part of the family history die out.

Nana was a short, buxom lady who always wore stockings, black shoes, and an apron. When she hugged me, I would be suffocated in her soft, ample bosom. She smelled of talcum powder. I could see healing scratches on her calves from where Smoky scratched down her legs as she came down the stairs in the morning. Smoky was a snit of a longhair cat. Why she tolerated him, I don't know. But she loved him.

So as I packed up Nana's serving dishes, I remember the mountains of mashed potatoes, the gravy boat, the tomato soup, the side buffet with her nice dishes on it, and the curio cabinet with her glass cat collection in it. Her dishes symbolized all that a woman was to be back then: a good cook, hostess, support for her husband, mother.
Good memories. Rich past. I'm fortunate, indeed.

Questions

When we lived in Indiana we often visited St. Mary of the Woods in West Terre Haute. It was a beautiful convent and girl's school that was up on a hill in (of course) lots of woods. The nuns raised alpacas and the students were allowed to board their horses in the convent stables. They had wonderful property that was always available for us to go walking on. It was one place where I felt safe in Indiana, given how many biggots and rednecks there were in our town. I knew we wouldn't be followed or taunted and I could walk alone and enjoy the contemplative atmosphere. I loved to pray my way through the labyrinth under the pine trees, or sit on the porch of the hermitage (a building built of straw bales) at the edge of the lake, or meditate in the beautiful chapel with blue walls and painted murals on the ceiling. One feature of the convent that I especially liked was the bronze statuary on the promenade that depicted the stations of the cross. I don't remember who the sculptor was, but the figures that lined the sidewalk were beautiful and moving.

One statue was of the soldiers mocking and tormenting Christ as He was trying to carry the cross up Golgotha's hill. As I looked at the sneering faces in that sculpture, it suddenly dawned on me that the only figures that depicted women were the ones of the women standing at the foot of the cross, and then as they took Jesus off the cross. (Perhaps there was also one of Veronica receiving the shroud). I was surprised to think what must go through the minds of the hundreds of nuns who have prayed at these stations, looking at the faces of all the angry, persecuting male faces. Christ's face was the only one that wasn't mean. These nuns who had each been married to Christ in a sacred service, must have had very fond and warm feelings toward Him. But how was their subconscious affected by being bombarded with images of men who abused and tortured a helpless victim? Maybe some of the self-aware had given this thought. My guess was that many had never made any connection between the visual depictions of their beliefs and their daily lives because most people are like this.

If you carefully read the Gospel accounts of the crucifixion, you will find that the men--those who had power in that day--were not the ones who come out looking very good. First, all of the 12 disciples were of no use to Christ during his trial. Nor do we read about any disciple rushing forward to help Jesus carry His cross or give Him water or an arm around the shoulders. John tells us that he was known to the high priest and was allowed to go inside to witness what was happening in Pilate's hall. But there is no evidence that any of Christ's followers ever spoke up in His defence or attempted to protect Him. Except Peter, of course, who cut off the ear of the high priest's servant. Perhaps when Jesus told him that this was unacceptable, the others didn't know what to do or how to act. So they did nothing. That would be the generous interpretation of what they did. Mark says that they all turned and fled. Then he implicates himself by telling the almost comical story about himself, who narrowly missed being seized by running naked out of his clothes. He sounds like a real hero of the cross.

Judas went out and hung himself when he realized the consequences of his acts. The other men were Caiphas and Pilate--both who were on the wrong side of the equation when it came to Jesus. But the priests and the soldiers were the ones who physically harmed Jesus. His disciples harmed Him emotionally, even though Jesus told them ahead of time that this would happen. The ones who came to bury Him after His death--Nicodemus and Joseph of Arimethea--did so privately (read, "cowardly" here) so as not to incur the suspicions of the priests.

When we look at the cross experience, we can see that it was the marginalized of the day who were the most useful to Jesus. Simon of Cyrene, a North African, Black man, was compelled to carry Jesus' cross. And there was a group of women at the cross: Mary Magdalene, Mary the mother of Jesus and her sister, and Mary the mother of Clopas. It must have been comforting in a small way to see His mother and some of the women who had followed Him.

John was "standing near" (John 19:20) and received Jesus' mother into his care. But where were all the other men? This was the question I had on the day when I stood looking at the statues at St. Mary of the Woods. Did the nuns consider themselves extensions of the group of women who had been standing at the cross? I think there is some evidence for this sentiment. How then, might they connote the priest's leadership in their male-dominated religion? Does this set up a subconscious man-bad, woman-good perception for these sisters?

It is quite possible that the disciples and other upstanding men were uncertain about the rules of engagement, since the crucifixion and life of Jesus had defied so many conventions already. I'm sure there are valid reasons why we aren't given more information about the "good" men at the crucifixion. And I'm not trying to perpetuate the man-bad, woman-good notions that some may hold. But the lasting image I have of the crucifixion is of a gentle yet strong man being tormented and killed by other men, while a group of women pressed close. Is it silly sentimentality or a feminine recoiling from violence that kept the women at the cross? It was a mother's love perhaps, that would not allow them to leave the site of their suffering loved One. And thus have mothers been, historically.

Walking along the back of the property at St. Mary of the Woods, one can see the cemetary full of identical white headstones that say RIP on the front of each one. There are hundreds of nuns who sleep in that graveyard, who lived amongst the stations of the cross for the better part of their lives. As I slowly moved through each row of graves, noting the names and dates of their living days, I wondered what they had really thought about men. I guess we're not going know that for awhile. But my contemplation there continues in contemplation here about how I am affected by Bible stories and their parallels in my life today.

Off to the Mission Field

Found here, along with other fascinating facts about Pohnpei SDA School

This morning Sam and I were up and on the road at 5:00, on our way to LAX to see off Briana, Stepdaughter #2 to Pohnpei in the Marshall Islands. She will be teaching second graders at a small Christian school that is out in the middle of what looks like a tropical jungle. Above is an aerial photo of the school grounds and teacher housing. Apparently, this school has a reputation in the region for excellence, which we are very glad about. There are several other Christian schools with whom the students debate and play sports, so they are not as isolated as this picture connotes.
Briana, her sisters, mother and grandmother, looked positively exhausted this morning. They left their home at around 3:30 to be at the airport on time. Briana was excited and even though her mother and sisters tried not to cry, she seemed to be thinking about her destination. She and her college roommate are going to the same school. As we were standing in line at the airport Sam ran into the parents of another student missionary who is going to the island of Palau to teach second grade at a school there. I saw the parents of a young girl from our town who is also going to Pohnpei for a year. All the students are taking off a year from college to serve, and in return are getting some college credit and a life changing experience.
They will first go to Hawaii for four days of orientation and preparatory education with student missionaries from all over North America. From there, they will take a variety of large planes and puddle jumpers to their respective destinations.
We are very excited about Briana's choice to go abroad, and to serve. As she tells it, she heard other student missionaries speak at her college chapel assembly one day, and the tears rolled down her cheeks. She felt compelled to volunteer. So did her roommate. They talked about it at length and then signed up together. I am so glad she is answering the call of God in this way. She has questioned whether or not she wants to study medicine (I think she'll take social work, nursing, or education) and she feels that she needs a clean break from school with some experience to be able to put her future in perspective. This should be a year of great spiritual and emotional growth for her--I hope.
And so as she hugged us all and told us she loved us, I couldn't help but think of the great Christian missionaries of yesteryear: Hudson Taylor, Amy Carmichael, Jim Elliott, William Tyndale, Albert Schweitzer. All headed off into the uncertain horizon of disease, hostilility, misunderstanding, and discouragement. But Christianity took root and became a healing and mobilizing force that could not be quenched even by revolutions, progroms, and dictators. As we speak, Briana is on a five-hour plane trip. Her spiritual fathers and mothers got on ships that took three months to cross stormy, dangerous oceans. She has a year's worth of medicines for every occasion: infections, digestive problems, skin eruptions. Her forefathers had prayer, caution, and common sense.
We worry about tsunamis, earthquakes, and sharks in the reef. And these are the least of what could happen over there. I know that out of real challenges and pain comes spiritual growth. As Dostoyevski wrote, "It is not as a child that I believe and confess Jesus Christ. My hosanna is born of a furnace of doubt." I look back on several excruciating junctures in my life that in retrospect, gave me spiritual discernment, perserverance, and taught me both how to trust, and to step forward on my shaky faith and beliefs. They became mature and strengthened by being challenged. This is what could happen in Pohnpei during the next 10 months.
Into God's hands we place Briana today. We are excited, hopeful, supportive, and in prayer for her. New beginnings can be tremendous opportunities.

Corn Planters

Someone emailed me a series of shoes that are all the rage in Japan and I couldn't help but share them here. It seems that these shoes would be somewhat useful for short people, such as many Japanese are. However the women who wear these will tower over the men.

Do you suppose men would wear anything like this?

Uh...I don't think so. They are used to being visually seduced, but do not themselves often fall for the impracticality of such fashions. Women, whose value is too often judged by what they have on, the way they wear their hair, the cut of their blouse, their manicure--these are the ones who succumb to things like this that not only look ridiculous but also impair their health. Can you imagine the pulled hamstrings and toe injuries that result from wearing these? Not to mention the kind of sprained ankle that someone would get from falling sideways off their shoes.

These shoes would also promote a mincing kind of inefficient walking style. A person couldn't run a city block in these or grab for a recalcitrant child without fear of breaking a long bone. I think I'll stick with my middle-age, appropriately sensible shoes: Birkenstocks, Rockports, Easy Spirit, and Born.


But awkward shoes that wreck your toes and arches have been around forever. Even back in the 60s and 70s when I was a kid.

I well remember one Easter when Mother and Daddy were invited to sing for Amateur Hour at the school where Daddy worked. They chose a Jeannette McDonald and Nelson Eddy number: Easter Parade. It was a cute song from a record they played on the stereo all the time. Nelson Eddy singing through his nose,

Rosemarie my darling, Rosemarie my dear;

Since one night when stars danced above

I'm oh, so, so much in love...

We thought that was pretty romantic. But then there was The Indian Love Song that started off with a prolonged "ooooooh" by Jeannette McDonald, answered by Nelson Eddy: "ooooooh." Sometimes at night, my sister or I would start out with the eerie "Oooooooh" in the dark of our bedroom and wait to see if one of my brothers would sing the other part back (they never would, which would make us even more obnoxious with other musical challenges.

But back to Mother and Daddy. Easter Parade itself isn't such a bad song. But what my parents wore was awful, we thought. Daddy combed his hair down over his forehead which made him look like Captain Kangaroo. Mother wore a pale pink taffeta suit with a straight skirt and three quarter sleeves. The crowning touches were a hat with pink netting that came down over her eyes, and pink high heels. Very high heels. They were almost four inches high. We'd never seen Mother wear anything like that before, and I have no idea where she got them because we certainly didn't have money for her to buy spikes.

The Amateur Hour evening came and they belted out Easter Parade, full tilt. We groaned in mortification as Daddy came out dramatically, leading Mother who was mincing along in her spikes. They always sang incredibly loud (we always knew they had beat us to church when we walked in and could hear their operatic voices above everyone else's). This evening, they did the whole song in front of a microphone, gesticulating and making over Mother's miserable netted hat. It was loud, operatic, and silly. You know how kids are: we could have died seeing our parents up there. But everyone else loved it and Mother gave us a knowing but superior glance as she came off the stage. How she got down in those heels was beyond me.

The evening had been a smash and Mother had even gotten a new outfit from it. She decided to wear it to church the following weekend. So Sabbath morning dawned and she was up and dressed, tripping around the kitchen making us breakfast in her stilty shoes. Mother visually dared us to say anything about her outfit, probably because we kids had given the lowdown about her ridiculous shoes once too often. We ate breakfast quietly and got ready to load into the car.

Bear in mind, we lived in the country, back East. We had a driveway, but no path to where the car had parked. We walked out to find a foggy morning. It had rained during the night and the ground was soaked and muddy. We kids climbed into the running car while Daddy held the front door open for Mother. Out she came in those pink heels. As she stepped off the last stair onto the lawn, her right heel sank into the ground to the hub. Surprised, Mother took a step and put her other foot forward, where the left heel sank four inches into the ground. Yanking out her right foot, she then took a large step forward where her heel disappeared into the muddy lawn. Hurrying while trying not to ruin her shoes, Mother had a most arresting gait as she yanked her feet up and sank in with each step. She seemed to be focusing on keeping her pink hat with the netting atop her head, for she walked very erectly to the car. I wish you could have seen it--we were in hysterics by the time she climbed into the front seat, moaning that her shoes were muddy. Daddy ran into the house to get a rag for her to wipe off her shoes while we teased Mother about her "cornplanters."

Since moving into our farm house, we had discovered an antique corn planting device that made narrow indentations in the soil and deposited one kernal of corn in each hole. We complimented her on the utilitarian nature of her shoes as she glanced balefully at us. (We were awful!)

So when I see these shoes, I think of Mother's cornplanters and wonder if little Japanese children are having a heyday with their mother's ridiculous fashion statements, too.

Senior Saints

Tonight I gave a vespers talk over at the Villa where Mother lives. I love going over there. The warm welcome I receive makes me feel like I have 30 sets of concerned parents, all who make over me, ask how I am and give me advice. It is lovely.
For example, there is a very elderly man there who uses a walker. He was probably 6' 6" in his younger years, and he has a gangly appearance as he hovers over his walker. He is a retired doctor who has spent many years in the mission field. This fine man is rather quiet, but always seeks me out after I speak and with sincerity always thanks me for my comments. There is something peaceful, kind, and gracious about him that I can't quite put my finger on. One evening after I spoke, a group of seniors met in the parlor to sing hymns. As I played the piano for them, I noticed the good doctor come in, settle in a chair in the corner, and sit back in his chair. He closed his eyes and mouthed all the words of the hymns. He knew them all by memory. I was touched by this. He strikes me as someone who has walked a very long time with God at his side.

Then there is Alice. She is 96, I think. She can outwalk a mule and has a youthful bounce in her step. Alice is the widow of a pastor we knew in New York years and years ago. She always talks to me whenever she sees me and thanks me for speaking. Her energy fairly sparks out of her. Alice's white hair hasn't seen a perm in months, and she combs it straight out from her head, giving her a halo type effect. But she's a going concern.

Pastor Johnson has become rather teary in his later years. He's told me that he has many questions about his years as a minister in a large area congregation. "There were so many times that I didn't know what to say!" and the tears trickle down his cheeks. "There are too many things in the ministry that we aren't trained to do." So he took a counseling degree and the church administrators wouldn't give him leave time to get licensed--a terrible disappointment that continues to trouble him. He is an avid listener and loves to "talk shop."

Of course, Evelyn, Mother's best friend there, always comes up and kisses me after I speak. She is a real dear--always holding Mother's hand, hugging her often, and trying to keep up with her. She is 89 and her ankles and lower legs are very edematous--so much so, that she looks like she has no ankles. Apparently, she has congestive heart disease. "Those water pills make me pee like a race horse," she explains, as she scurries off.

Martin lead the singing tonight and he has a lovely voice. I'm sure he must be in his 80s, and his voice is polished and well modulated. He hasn't lost his evangelistic touch. "Third stanza!" he interjects at the end of the first chorus, as he directs with his right hand. "Altogether now," he prompts as we start in on the third verse. He drops in a fermata before the last phrase, holding the high note for several moments, just for effect. I love singing with him, and he glances appreciatively at me.

At the piano sits Marilyn. She was a pianist for a tent revivalist for many years. I love how she plays--full hand chords, perfect sounding progressions, octaves in the right hand on the last verse, and um-pahs on the off-beat. Marilyn is a very quiet little woman who wears a magenta Pakistani outfit: silk tunic over a matching silk trouser type garment. She must have been in the mission field at some point.

And speaking of garments, Joy asked me if I would go up to her apartment after vespers. So Mother and I went on up to see her. Joy has a cochlear implant and reads lips most of the time. She has a voice that could strip wallpaper, poor dear, since she can't hear how loudly she speaks. "I found this nice little jacket and it is so fun, but it is too large for me. And do you know how much I spent for it?" I couldn't guess. "One dollar!" She produces a silk, chartreuse jacket with fuschia and pink beaded ribbon medalions over the front of it. I'm speachless. I look jaundiced in chartreuse, but looking at Joy's expectant face, I can't refuse the jacket. I thank her and hug her, and off we go. But not before she shares pictures with us of her four children, three of whom I used to know in college.

Mother walked me out to the car. She looked marvelous tonight--her hair recently permed and set, a linen sleeveless shirt over khaki shorts and sandals. I don't remember her ever looking so good. She hugs and kisses me and tells me how proud she is. She's had a wonderful day with us in our new house, even if every one of us fell asleep in the living room for most of the afternoon. Her eyes are shining, and she is basking in the joy of being a proud mother. It is worth every bit of effort it took to come up with a talk for the evening.

As I drove away tonight, I thanked God that Mother can be close by and that I have been blessed with all the senior saints who grace my life. They continue to serve God through their love, warmth, and faith in me. What a priceless gift!

A dream come true

Well, today I was told by my Chair and Associate Chair that they want me to "act more like a prima dona." Choose what I want to do and then tell them that I won't do anything else. Apparently, I've outdone myself by taking on so many jobs and trying to give 1000% to everything. It hasn't gone unnoticed, but I'm so burned out that I can hardly think academically any more.

When they asked me what I wanted to do, I told them that I'm really an ivory tower dwelling curmudgeon at heart. "I want to go up to my tower and be left alone so I can read and write to my heart's content. I want to do my research and teach. That's what I went into this field to do."

"Then that's what we want you to do. We need you to be doing that in our department and we're going to be sure that's what happens as far as it lies with us."

The upshot is that I don't have to be director of clinical training in the fall (YAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!) and I don't have to set up a medical family therapy certificate next year (YAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)

I get to teach, write, direct dissertations, and conduct my research. And for now, I get to play for four weeks. My vacation started today at 1:30. I celebrated by going to Lowe's and buying a gas dryer and storage racks to mount inside my pantry door. Oh yes, and ceiling fans with 60-inch blades on them. We are going to have a veritable whirlwind when we turn on these puppies.

Looking around this house there is so much to do that it leaves me almost breathless. The girls are coming for the weekend and we are in boxes and with a dirty carpet. Not to mention, the dishwasher isn't installed yet and neither is the microwave oven. But we are happy and I'm going to be a prima dona somehow, after all.

Wow.