I love you

"It is like a deepening pit that starts in my chest and goes clear down to my knees--on the inside. It's filled with, like...warm chocolate that is all melty and good. And the sun is shining out of it, making it feel good and smell good."

"It's something that makes me grin. To say it makes me smile is a little bit smarmy--no, it's not a smiley feeling that I get. It's a self-conscious grin while I look down at my shoes, thinking about it. And yes, it does feel good to me. Maybe that's why I look down."

"My eyes just start to water when I think about it. As soon as I let my mind linger on it I get teary. I don't know why. I wish I got something else instead--puffed out chest or standing taller."

"I can hardly stand to hear when someone says it to me. I get really embarrassed because I'm not used to thinking about myself that way. What I usually do when someone says that to me is, I screw up my face and strike a Napoleonic pose, or I make silly faces to make the person stop saying it. But I really don't want them to stop saying it--I just want to stop feeling like I don't deserve it."

"When I hear it, everything inside of me comes to a complete stop. I even feel like my heart stops beating--and I can hardly breathe. I just look at his eyes and all I can think of is his beautiful eyes looking right into my heart."

"I get warm and wobbly when it happens to me. I think I could just collapse so I usually look away and grab onto something so I don't drop in my tracks. John says I'm being melodramatic but I can hardly hang on enough to keep myself upright sometimes."

"I get this unquenchable yearning that begins to burn inside of me--right over my solar plexus--whenever she does this. I look and look at her just to savor the moment."

"I love when this happens. I smile, almost absent-mindedly to myself, every time I think of it. I get a picture of being in his arms and of those beautiful, moist brown eyes looking into mine. It is such a gift."

What happens to you when someone tells you how much they love and treasure you?

So I went to my ENT doctor this morning and he came into the exam room holding this little handheld gadget high in one hand, like a trophy. This is how we're going to monitor what is going on in your throat that is giving you such a red throat.
And how are we going to get that down into my throat, I wondered?
The smiling, too-youthful young doctor took an implement and opened my nostril up widely. Another nozzle went into my nose and received a sudden blast of bitter spray--curls of it wafting down my throat and into the other nostril. I sputtered and gasped as he opened up the other nostril and repeated the procedure. A sickening taste dripped down the back of my throat as it became numb.
Now just sniff that down the back of your throat and I'll be back in five minutes to put this monitor down your nose.
I couldn't wait.
A few minutes later Dr. Sweetface strode into the room with a little wire immersed in a glob of lubricant on the end. Okay, here we go. He tilted my head back and started sliding this down my right nostril.
Yikes--not that side!
It went down and was I immediately started coughing and my eyes watered. That little wire felt like it was strangulating me. Maybe wrapped around my uvula. That earned me another blast down the nose.
The end of the long wire was a clip that he fastened to my collar. The wire got two big squares of transparent film stuck over it to hold it to my cheek and then to my neck (that will kill, coming off!)
Apparently, the handheld monitor has to be within 25 feet of my nose at all times. I have to push separate buttons every time I burp, cough, have mucous, eat, sleep, or have heartburn. I had no idea that so much goes on in my throat every day!

I had a friend and her young children visit me this evening. They are on a whirlwind trip from Alaska and they have met many people while down here. To them, I will be "the woman with the wire in her nose." It was an issue of great moment for these children.

I'm dragging off to bed now--time to take my wire to bed. I hope it tells the doctor exactly what he needs to know because I don't want to repeat this any time soon!

Am I Better?

It has been a sobering realization over the last few months, that I am no different than these poor, unfortunate souls we see on this page. These men are shooting up heroin, even though they have hardened, infected veins. Even though they have probably lost all significant, intimate relationships in their lives. Even though all there is to them and their lives is the endless, shaky search for more heroin.

Drug users lie, cheat, steal, to get their drugs. They minimize the effects on themselves, hang around with other people who shoot up like they do. They steel their hearts against the pain and concern of their family members. And they keep on using. Regardless.

And here I am, struggling along with obesity and all that comes with it: gastric reflux, bad knees that sound like a man eating peanuts when I walk up and down stairs, and prospect of getting a host of weight-related illnesses and secondary problems. For one, a stiff neck from propping myself up at night on a bunch of pillows. Why? So my reflux won't bother me so much. Why do I have reflux? Because I eat chocolate. And I eat too much at night--the one time of day when I can eat a decent meal unrushed. But see--even here I'm doing it: making excuses, passing it off. Meanwhile, I've all but lost my singing voice, feel awful about myself, have a wardrobe of unattractive, baggy clothes, and feel like isolating myself. I keep saying that one day I'll drop the weight and get serious about my health. Maybe I'll become a vegan, or I'll start training to climb Mt. Whitney next year when I turn 50. But I keep on eating my chocolate chip cookies, and reaching for everything sweet and fattening. Regardless.

Am I really all that much better than these heroin users?

Distractions

This is the church we attended as we grew up, in New York. To us it was just "The Auburn Church." But to everyone else, it was Willard Chapel. I think it used to be part of a theological seminary at one point. It is the only full Tiffany chapel in the United States, and I just happened to be privileged enough to attend it for several years.

We thought it was pretty ugly--all the chunks of greenish glass embedded in the podium and those huge lights of odd colors hanging throughout the sanctuary. We didn't know we were sitting in a national treasure. You can see the organ pipes in this picture. The woman who played it for years was Shirley Chisholm--a short, stout woman who reminded me of my grandmother. She taught me piano for about three months until I lost interest. She died shortly thereafter and I like to think the two events were not linked in any way. In any event, the next woman who took over the organ was hardly an organist at all, and my father had a fit every time we sat through her musical forays. Daddy used to say that she would hold a chord with her hands while her feet scrambled across the pedals, trying to find the right note. But we did think that the organ and the pipes were beautiful.

Back here, in front of this carving that you see across the back wall, was where all the retarded adults sat during church. I know--that is a jarring thing to read, isn't it? There were several people in this church who took in wards of the state. These people came to church every week and sat in the back so they could step down the hall to use the bathroom easily and without disturbing the entire congregation.

Once we invited a man to come and be our new pastor. So he came out and filled the pulpit to see what he thought of us and vice versa. While he was preaching, Pearl in the back row, suddenly stood to her feet and fired off a salute his way. Being far away from her, he was unable to detect that she was retarded. Bewildered, he saluted back. After all, he thought, it is close to July 4. After two more salutes, the poor man's return salute looked more like someone smoothing their forehead. And little wonder: everyone in the church was grinning broadly. Pearl saluted at everyone.

One of the most remarkable things about this wonderful church was the high ceiling and beautiful acoustics there. Apparently though, congregants were not the only ones who enjoyed the high ceiling. Flies lived up there in the rafters. When the lights flashed on in the morning, it stunned them. After about thirty minutes, they began zooming straight down into the pews like kamikazis. You can imagine the wild slapping and head shaking that this prompted, as a startled man or woman tried to sweep it off their lap or off the front of their clothes. But what reduced us to stifled guffaws was when a fly would shoot downward into a woman's beehive hairdoo. This was during the years of the bouffant styles. So their hair would have been teased, swept upward into a heap on top of their heads, and sprayed to within an inch of its life. So when the fly got entangled in those hairdoos, not only did the fly register its distress by buzzing loudly, but the owner couldn't remove the fly with a simple swat. A well placed, panicked karate chop often shifted the style from an every-hair-in-place look to an asymmetrical do with bobby pins hanging off the ends.

Many a week my siblings and I would laugh ourselves silly, watching people dodge these bothersome flies.

Some people would say that these flies, the struggling organist, and the retarded people in the back of the church were all negative factors in our spiritual lives. But it is actually the imperfections that we remember fondly and that often give character to our beloved memories.

And so it is. As I think back on that lovely, historic church of my childhood, many funny and delightful memories crowd into my mind. Everyone should have such good memories of their church home.

Mother Goose and Chi Square

There was a little girl

Who had a little curl

Right in the middle of her forehead.

And when she was good

she was very, very good.

But when she was bad,

she was horrid.

This is what flashed through my mind this morning as I was fighting my hair into submission in front of the mirror. One recalcitrant lock hung straight down in the middle of my forehead and I said this poem to myself as I slung around brush and hairspray.

And in an instant, I was thrilled with a creative flash that brought me an idea for my research class that was about to start in an hour. Since the students were just learning how to create research questions (things that a person can investigate about a topic), why not see how many research questions we could generate about this little ditty?

So when I got to class I wrote it up on the board, sat down and said our opening prayer. Then I announced that this was our first topic for the day. How much research could we think of that could come from this. They were speechless and for a moment I couldn't tell if they were lost, disgusted, or deep in thought. Finally one of the older male students started.

"Well, I'd wonder what events or family qualities predicts whether this little girl behaves badly or not."

From there it really took off. Here are the research ideas we came up with and that thrilled my little teacher's heart. See what you think:

1. Ask a panel of 12 parenting experts to define "bad" behavior in small children. From there, do a survey of parents to find out what they do when their children are "bad."

2. Is there a correlation between bad hair and bad behavior? (the women agreed unanimously that there is!)

3. What are the steps in behavior of someone moving from "very, very good" to "horrid"?

4. Interview children who are "horrid" to understand what they experience when they are behaving horridly.

5. Give a group of parents vignettes of bad behavior in children and examine whether the standards for "good" and "bad" vary across genders.

6. Discover what the precedents or associations to "horrid" behavior might be for peoples whose hair does not curl and whose cultures vary.

7. What parenting practices are used to manage "horrid" behaviors?

8. Are there other features that predict behavior of children?

9. Using a family systems perspective, what is the family impact of one child who is "horrid"?

10. Is there a correlation between marital satisfaction and having a child that acts out?

11. Over the lifespan, what are various "very, very good" and "horrid" behaviors?

12. Are there correlations between adult sexual functioning and "very, very good" childhood behaviors?

And it went on for 40 minutes. By the end of the class there was no more foot dragging and digging in of heels in resistance. Students were buzzing about research ideas and what they might actually do, where to publish it, and how to go about gathering data. I was beyond thrilled. Four hours later when we wrapped up this weekly marathon class, students roiled out into the breezeway outside the building, excitedly talking about what they planned to do for this class. I was ready to drop. But I'm still grinning.

The Bigger Picture

Sam and I took Grampa up to the Monterey Bay area to see Stepdaughter #3 at her boarding school. It sits right on the ocean and is a wonderfully scenic place.
As we drove into the valley on the edge of the ocean, we could only see fields of long ridges of plastic covered mounds full of strawberry plants. It was the most scenic thing: fields of these beautiful green plants full of ripe berries, and low lying fog clouds joining earth with sky.
We walked on the beach Saturday afternoon, Grampa holding Stepdaughter's hand to keep from falling. She was absolutely wonderful to him: so tender and attentive to his needs. At one point, while he was making a point to Sam in his Ricky Ricardo accent, Stepdaughter turned toward me and mouthed, "He's so cute!"
But in addition to the heartwarming experience of being together as a family, what really spoke to me was the beauty of that part of the world. Northern California, especially out on the Coast, is gorgeous. It is misty in the mornings and beautiful flowers grow everywhere. The trees are so green and nice, and the soil is loamy, dark, and fertile. There are four seasons there that are distinctly different from one another, unlike in the South where we live. As we drove through fields of frizzy topped, silvery-green artichokes, I felt an old familiar longing.
Years ago, I had two friends whom I visited outside of Napa where they lived. One was in school back in the early 80s and the other taught up there in the 90s. I always looked forward to going up there because it had such a different culture and the people were different from the people down here. They seemed more earnest and intent on being who they were, having little concern about how Hollywood thought they should look or act. There is a decided back-to-nature feeling about areas up that way. You see a lot more people wearing natural fabrics, wearing Birkenstocks, and eschewing makeup. But more than the people being different and more accessible, it has always been the countryside that has made me feel at home. For several years I tried every way I could think of to scout out a good job for myself up there. But I was interested in going back to school and nothing really panned out. I even indicated interest in a family ministry position at a big church on a college campus. No, I didn't get it and that was a real blow. As I would drive out of Napa Valley, past an old, huge Sycamore tree in the median, I would pray that God would somehow allow me to live up there. I really hated southern California and wanted to get out of here in the worst way.
I reflected on this from my backseat vantage point in the car on our drive through farmer's fields on Saturday. Funny, but although I still feel longing for that part of the world, I have to admit that there is no place where I feel a better fit, greater sense of purpose, or fulfillment in God's leading than right here in smoggy, overpopulated, hot, gang-infested, earthquake-ridden Southern California. And it struck me: a person can be in the worst place on earth and feel satisfaction and gratefulness that they are right where God wants them to be--and that can be enough.
Sunday afternoon we drove back into our town. It was 95 degrees and miserable outside. The hills outside our window look like (as my mother says) "they need a good long drink." You have to water everything to get any green, or else it's all dead looking. But I am happy here because there is a bigger picture and plan that makes sense of the fact that I don't get to live in a prettier place. It's at least not Blythe, Needles, or Yuma! And I haven't been asked by God to go to the Sahara or North Pole or some other uninhabitable place.
His will is amazing--as is His sustaining grace. I have not tired of thanking God for bringing me to this place.

In a family way.

(No. I'm NOT pregnant!)
My father-in-law from Fort Worth is staying with us while he undergoes proton beam treatment on his prostate cancer for several weeks. So far, he's been doing lots of sitting and waiting. Get a CT scan. Wait two days. Then go get lab work. Wait a couple more days. Then get an MRI. We're still waiting on that, and he's been with us for two weeks already. He is a delight to have around. Dad puts away the dishes in the dishwasher, picks up around the house, and tries to help out where he can. Most mornings when I tiptoe past his room, he is sitting in his chair, reading his Bible or praying. He is a devout man and it is really encouraging to see someone living his faith the way he does.
And I am cooking up a storm! Suddenly I hate everything I cook and wonder if he secretly hates my cooking. My mother-in-law is a wonderful cook and there is no comparison between the two of us (she wins, hands down!) And I cook mostly vegetarian food.
If you ask Dad if he is hungry, he looks at his watch to see if it's time to eat or not. Very cute.
Since I've never had kids to cook for consistently for, this is a new experience. I think most moms could pull this off without a care, but I convolute and worry. Sam tells me to settle down and stop worrying. Dad will eat anything. And he does. I secretly worry that I will have run out of every recipe I have by the time his treatment is done--probably in mid-December.
I worry too much.
So it is nice right now to have someone to eat breakfast with, and to augment Sam and I. It is nice to know he is sleeping downstairs in his room, and that he will be up and talking to God first thing in the morning. He has brought blessings into our home and I am so happy to have him.

Mona m'lady

When I was in my early 20s, my best friend and I collected pictures of Mona Lisa. I don't remember all the details, but we had a number of these kinds of pictures. It could have been a set of greeting cards, or just a bunch of pictures in a magazine. Seems it was the latter. In any event, in honor of those days, I have done an exhaustive search on Google Image and have come up with these versions of Mona Lisa. Enjoy, Shelly!

The Urge

Found here

When I was a young kid, our family friends lived about six miles from us on a sheep farm. They owned an enormous, four-story house with a ton of fireplaces in it, about six bathrooms to choose from, an old-fashioned dumb waiter on rope pulleys, and an attic full of antique dresses, complete with bustle and button top shoes. We loved going to their house. Nancy was close to my age and she initiated me into really fun farm activities. Because we lived in suburbia, I didn't know the first thing about laying on the backs of sheep while they were eating their supper out of the feeding trough. I had no idea of how tricky it was to go into the henhouse and gather eggs out from under testy hens. Only my father, who had had a pet rooster when he was a boy, knew that hens, chickens and geese can demonstrate affection for humans. Yes, Nancy's mother had big fat, white goose whom she named Chitty-chitty-bang-bang. He was called Chitty for short, a name which made a number of people pause as what his name wasn't, sunk into their minds. Chitty could be pretty mean. I remember being poked by his beak once when I didn't move out of his way fast enough. But Chitty loved Mrs. K. In fact, he lived to be nearly two decades old and one of his last gestures was a gentle whinny while he rubbed his cheek softly against Nancy's mother's face. I felt sick at heart when Chitty died.

Our parents wanted us to learn about the facts of life in a natural setting. So I remember several midnight phone calls from Nancy's mother: "One of the sheep is in labor. Come on over." We'd all tumble out of bed, put on our warm clothes, and go over to stand in the barn for an hour or so while we watched ewes struggle through childbirth. Gooey little, bleeting lambs slid into the world and took their first wobbly steps. We'd ooh and aah while Mrs. K checked the ewe and made sure she and baby were fine. She loved explaining everything to us through the entire process: why she'd have to put her hand up inside the ewe and turn the baby around, what to do when the cord was around the lamb's neck, etc. After the baby began nursing, we would traipse back to our car in the freezing cold, and drive home, happy for new life and the recurring miracle of birth.

But perhaps one of the most exhilirating things I remember from our many hours on Nancy's farm, was a typically illicit act that we were given permission to do. It was the rotten eggs. Mrs. K. kept a five-gallon bucket somewhere in the barnyard where the odd and abandoned egg was placed. If she happened across a clutch of eggs out in the woods that had been left and were of questionable age, into the bucket they went. After they reached a critical mass, Nancy and I were given permission to go destroy them. It excited us both. Off to the broken down barn wall off in the woods we'd go with our five-gallon bucket. We'd climb up onto a crumbling stone wall and settle down in a comfortable position, the bucket perched between us. Then it would be a contest to see who could hurl the egg with the greatest force into the old barn wall, about 20 feet away from us. Rotten eggs don't smash on a wall, they explode. And my goodness, they reek! That was really fun for kids to do--throw rotten eggs as hard as we could and watch the gooey gold-green-brown spatter in all directions. Then as the wind shifted, we'd groan and jump off the wall to get out of the sulfuric cloud of stench.

There are days when I wish I had a bucket of rotten eggs now, as an adult. As a child, it was only license to be reckless and waste potential food items in a sanctioned manner. But now, it would relieve such frustration and give me incredible pleasure to hurl rotten eggs on say, a public building, or the side of a bus. Wouldn't it be fun to watch brown shelled yucky eggs explode, brown-yellow yolk splashing in all directions upon impact? Then watching people draw back from the sickening cloud of malevolent effluvium (what a marvelous phrase...). I think it would be terrific fun for example, to hide in a park and from time to time, throw a rotten egg near a group of people, having it explode into a tree or rock. As the stink wafts toward people at picnic tables and on blankets, observing the shock and revulsion on their faces.

Yes, I am a closet rotten egg thrower. Few things in my young life can compare with those wonderful experiences. I have pushed my Id into place where it won't be allowed to have me throw eggs. But from time to time I can't help but fantasize about what it would be like...

Can you eat that egg?
If not sure you ought-ter,

then place it in water.

If it lies on its side,

then it's fresh; eat with pride.
After three or four days,

at an angle it lays.

But, it still is a treat, so go on and eat.
Ten days, stands on end,

in your baking 'twill blend.

'Cause it's definitely edible,

in your baking, incredible.
But, if it floats on the surface,

that egg serves no purpose.

'Cause a floater's a stinker!

Out the back door best fling 'er!

My life for a song

Some of you may know that I've been on voice rest for almost a year now. I wasn't able to sing worth a fig for the last four years. The last really serious singing I did was when I lived in St. Paul, almost seven years ago. The voice would go hoarse after just one go through a song and there would be no possibility for a second verse or any kind of proper rehearsal. At Christmas I gave a short concert with a friend and I was humiliated--people couldn't hear me, I went hoarse, and couldn't project sound. Although people thanked me for coming, there were no positive comments about my singing that I remember. So I thought I was finished.

I sought out the local ENT doctor to see what he could tell me. He greased up a flexible camera, slid it down my nostril into my throat and took pictures of my vocal cords. He said I had gastric reflux (I already knew that), and he put me on Nexium. There was the usual admonishment to put the head of the bed up on blocks, don't eat onions, don't eat supper after 7:00 p.m., steer clear from acid foods. He said I had developed a false vocal cord. I didn't know what that was but thought that maybe that was why my voice had a falsetto quality to it. He painted a dire picture of my prospects. Maybe I would be able to sing again, but he didn't hold out any hope. Come to think of it though, he wasn't terribly clear about too much.
I took the Nexium and it did nothing. We got blocks for the head of the bed but they were so high that the bed looked ridiculous. It seemed that we'd end up in a heap at the foot of the bed were we to use them. So I took the Nexium and kept propping myself up with about five chunky pillows at night.
After a year of that and no real change, I went off the Nexium and sought out a voice doctor. He is different from the average ENT man in that he participated in a huge study in Pennslyvania about teachers who go hoarse from using their voices for hours on end. When Dr. V walked into the exam room and found out that I am a teacher, he exclaimed happily, "I just love teachers!" and he was enthusiastic. And amazingly young. I wanted to ask him if he had a driver's license--blond curly hair, and huge blue eyes. He wanted to put a 10-inch rigid steel instrument down my throat, too. "I'm going to pull on your tongue and slip this down your throat. You will then sing an "eeeh" sound. It will sound like an "ahh" sound but think "eeeh" when you sing." I stuck my tongue out and he grasped it with a gauze. He wasn't fooling and I didn't think my tongue could stick out that far! Down went the implement of torture and he instructed me to begin singing. I squawked out low, high, and mid-range notes, all the while he effervesced about the pictures he was getting. A visiting doctor from Beijing and a resident stood by, fascinated by what they were seeing.
When it was all over, he showed me the movies he had taken of me singing. Apparently, I've had a minor vocal cord injury on my left cord, and need to learn how to sing and speak again so it will vibrate normally. But I should have no trouble returning to singing. The problem with gastric reflux remains. I will need to wear a little wire that goes down my nose and dangles in my throat--for 24 hours. It will measure the pH of my saliva there and detect whether or not I have reflux or severe allergies, or both. He thinks it's both. So we have a plan.

When I left his office I was elated. It's surprising how badly I want to sing again. Perhaps it took me losing my voice for four years to really appreciate it. In any event, I can't wait to get started. I've been booked for a classical evensong concert on January 17th and am eager to plan it. I'll probably put together a mixed quartet and sing some Bach motets or something, but I don't know. More on this later. But for now, I have permission to sing--and I'm thrilled beyond words.
Thank you, Lord!