black friday

I can tell the Christmas season is here. It started pre Halloween and hit its first zenith the day after Thanksgiving. I say first zenith because that’s the day known as Black Friday. The day sales are suppose to soar and help merchants get rid of their over priced goods at cost and below. The day people take off from work and productivity to go to the malls for all the bargains. Or better yet, the day everyone slips out of their sleeping bags in the parking lots to be among the earliest in the stores at their ludicrous four a.m openings! I can’t get my daughter to come see me after work, or for lunch, but she was probably at Wal-Mart’s at four a.m. Well to be fair, she works there, but that’s beside the point.

Yes, Black Friday, the day everyone feels the love of Jesus as they hunt for gifts for friends and family, at sub reasonable prices. Sure, they love the recipients of their purchases, but not enough to pay full price for anything, or, my gosh, to wait till the crowds go home. They don’t want to be the ones saying they missed out on a bargain. Black Friday is the day consumers get all stressed out battling the crowds, worn out from wrestling things from strangers grasps, no matter the age or health status, from two year olds, to centurions with supplemental oxygen and walkers.

It’s also the day humanity’s true nature emerges. In New York the an eager mob pushed its way into Wal Marts and trampled a temporary employee to death. To death. Did they care? Oh, yes. They were outraged that such a thing could have happened. Why? Because it caused the store to close for several hours. What a rip off. Surely things could have been handled while everyone browsed at a hundred miles per hour. No remorse was felt for the victim. No one stepped forward and assumed responsibility. We have to rely on video cameras to pick out the guilty. How would that be possible? It was a pack of animals that entered the store to hunt prey. The victim was under their feet. How can police identify which feet trampled the poor guy. Shoe DNA? Even if they could get good videoed face pictures I’m sure all expressions were distorted with the glow of shopping for Jesus’ birthday to be recognizable.

 An eight month pregnant woman was also injured. She shouldn’t have been allowed out on Black Friday! As an employee or shopper. There should be laws. No one with a fetus or embryo can leave the house on Black Friday due to extreme dangers posed by Christmas shoppers. Where are those friends you can count on for unsolicited but badly needed advice?


Lets take a trip upstairs, to Heaven,(Don’t worry, you’ll be back before you’re missed). What do you think the opinion is up there about Black Friday? Do you suppose those that get good deals or die trying get sainthood by dying on an appointed day of human sacrifice? Do you recall reading in the good book about Black Friday being one of the seven festivals or holy days? Right now I can see God frowning. This wasn’t in his plans…though I’m sure he saw it coming. This wasn’t how he had wanted his son remembered. As a reason to shop till you drop... drop dead! As a reason to one up aunts, uncles, sisters, brothers and friends, on the most lavish gift bought at seventy five percent off. To look like big spenders on minimum wage budgets. Yep. I’m sure God knew that we would miss the point. After all, he has many friends surrounding him who are with him because of man’s inability to bear the truth. Isaiah, Jeremiah, Daniel, Elisha, Elijah, Micah, Nehemiah, and numerous other prophets and missionaries that were killed or nearly killed trying to get mankind to see the truth, pre and post Christ’s birth. The truth of Jesus and his sacrifice. That Christmas is a day to honor him and him only. Not to shop. Not to receive earthly gifts. Not to buy earthly gifts. To share Jesus’ entry into the world. To share God’s entry into the world. It’s amazing how many different ways man can corrupt the good news.

I’m pretty sure, not one hundred percent sure, but pretty sure, that on that first Christmas morning God hadn’t gotten up at four a.m. and run down to the nearest pre dawn sale for a seventy five percent discounted son, wrapped him in swaddling clothes, dumped him in a manger and said, “Here you go. This is the best I could do at the last minute”. My take on it is that he prepared for four thousand years to send the most precious gift he had, himself, wrapped in flesh, God in person. No discount, but one hundred percent God. One hundred percent man. One hundred percent free to us. To those that can’t add that’s two hundred percent beyond our expectations. There was no mob that morning trying to get their hands on this gift, trying to get there first, just three shepherds who arrived in awe, who were extremely thankful. There was no Christmas tree surrounded by multi colored packages with gifts for kids that they would grow tired of by lunch time. There was just one gift, to be shared by all. A gift that didn’t need batteries would never wear out and wouldn’t go out of season. There was God.



photo by Michael Nagle/Getty images via The Gaurdian

swimming lessons

I love my pool. It can’t be put up soon enough or left up long enough for me. Granted when it first goes up in the spring the weather isn’t adequately warm to heat the water but I climb down the latter ignoring the icy sensations crawling up my spine. This isn’t hard for me as I’m always ignoring things, like stop lights and yield signs. The minute my feet touch bottom I start running in place and swinging my water barbells. Water splashes on my back and upper arms causing me to question my intelligence, (okay, those of you that know me can keep your thoughts to yourselves, please!) After a few moments I spread my legs lowering my upper body deeper into the liquid, still swinging my barbells, heating up my blood, merging with the H2O, becoming adapted to the nippiness. Or maybe I’m actually heating the pool, being the hot dynamo that I am! (Bear in mind I said keep your thoughts to yourself!)

Before long I don’t remember the frostiness of the water and I’m fully submerged up to my neck, working out and expending calories. I feel myself getting into shape, building muscles as I work against the resistance of the water.

Then the weather evolves into summer with triple digit numbers (if you are still using the Fahrenheit scale). The water becomes refreshing from the get go. I run laps around the perimeter in one direction then the other after I generate a miniature whirl pool creating resistance to build up cardiovascular health. Then I switch to leg kicks, paddling, stationary swimming (I’ll let you figure out how I do that but as a hint it requires a rope tied to the pool’s side and my waist). I sit on my noodles (long foam thing-a-ma- gadgets, not my brains) and do stationary bicycling. I mean I really use the pool for a good healthy work out.

Then comes fall with lower evening temperatures that can’t sustain the pool’s summer warmth. I enter the pool with the same trepidation I had in the spring. After a brief workout of jogging and arm swinging I’m ready to dunk myself and start stretching out the old muscles, (it’s funny how my muscles have aged quicker that the rest of me, I wonder if there was a muscle recall by the manufacturer that I missed! ) Once again, before long I’m so accustomed to the pool’s temperature I don’t want to get out. I eventually climb onto my float and just bob about on the waves I spawn by kicking my feet, getting so relaxed I have to coax myself out to get other unimportant things done, like the laundry, dinner, cleaning, ect, ect. I’m sure by October my neighbors are all wondering if it’s time to call for the men with the butterfly nets; the human size butter fly nets. Really, if I ever see men walking up the streets with a net big enough to catch people I’m locking myself inside with a weapon that trumps their net!

Now, where am I going with this story? I’m sure you’re not interested in thinking of me in a bathing suit splashing around in my back yard pool. Unless of course you’re a pervert interested in middle aged woman that look really fine! My point is, are you ready because this will really catch you off guard? My point is that swimming cycles remind me of bible studies. Wait! Don’t call for the men with the nets; remember I’m armed and dangerous.



Sometimes when I start reading the bible it’s cold and uninteresting, but when I start splashing around in the word it gets more heated up, I start swinging my arms and legs and fighting to get more of the word. Then comes summer where I’m really excited about getting into the word because I’ve built up my enthusiasm. The word has gotten hot and steaming and is ready to be served up. Then comes the fall, where I fall down on my studies and have to get re interested. Studying the word needs to be a disciplined practice with no room for excuses, sometimes it doesn’t come easy because of various seasonal distractions like football, baseball, ice hockey, parties, holidays, the opening season’s episodes of your favorite series, etc. But once I force myself to get my feet wet, then my torso, then get the word to circulate into my limbs, muscles, bone and blood I find it’s hard to put the bible down, it’s like glued to my hands, (maybe I shouldn’t eat gummy bears when reading the bible!)

So I challenge you to try getting wet this week and see how long it takes you to want to stay submerged in the word of God, floating around on his pool of love and wisdom. (That sounded to buttery even for me!)

P.S In the winter I go to the pool at the gym, even I have my limits, I may swim bare sometimes, but I’m not a polar bare, har, har.

hurricane Ike

We’ve been hearing about Ike for months now. No, weeks. No, maybe a week and a half. Oh, whatever, it seems like forever. We’ve been informed, warned and traumatized. News coverage keeps us abreast of it’s present location, future location, damage potential, size, and wind speed. Deep in the heart of Texas we watch the broadcasts daily. We have no choice, except maybe to turn off the television but then it’s front page coverage at newsstands. Stand at the checkout of the grocery store and magazines announce Ike’s arrival. Turn on the internet and somewhere it’ll pop up. Yep. We all know about Ike.

Warnings have been issued for evacuation of areas close to the coast. Areas on the coast. Areas off the coast. Citizens have been warned that to remain in the safety of their homes is certain death. Did that make sense? A wall of water, called a storm surge, of twenty feet or more will wash over their houses and drown them. People are moving inland at rapid rates, by bus, by plane, by car, by ambulance. In a day or two they’ll be able to sail to Fort Worth that is if they survive the storm surge. They are carting up their most precious possessions, their bodies and loved ones, boarding up their windows, tucking their tail between their legs and running. The smart ones that have followed Ike’s path and listened to the advice of the weather forecasters. The ones that believed the reports that people actually died where Ike has already been.

Some people have chosen to remain at home, in Ike’s target, with a big bull’s eye on their foreheads, despite the warnings. They’re closing their eyes to reality; that nature is stronger and more unpredictable than they realize. They have nothing to fear, they’re immortal. They aren’t going to be bullied by nature. They have stored up emergency rations, put blankets under the doors to keep the water out, bought plenty of batteries for their portable TV’s and lamps and stocked up on reading materials and family games. They are going to sit it out patiently. When confronted with the reality they made a humongous mistake they will rely on compassionate people to rescue them when they find themselves trapped. They are going to let their next of kin identify them at the makeshift morgues that will be set up in a week or two at schools and gyms. When the waters recede; if they get found; if their next of kin isn’t lying beside them in another body bag.

It’s evident that not everyone responds to warnings in the same rational way. Take for example those that refuse to see the warnings of the signs of the time. We’ve been warned for centuries by God and his prophets, the biblical forecasters, that the end is coming. By men in sackcloth with picket signs announcing the end of the world, walking up and down fifth avenue. (Bad example; they may be crazy, but they’re still right). Yet we are immortal. Until we die. Then we discover the truth, that we’ve been mortally wrong.

The Bible has notified us there will be an end to what we know now. Not just a coastal calamity but a global calamity. A global cleansing. A new beginning. We’ve been warned repeatedly through pint-sized (yes, I said pint-sized) demonstrations of God’s power and wrath and given simple directions for preservation. Our only evacuation route is Jesus. Where he’s gone we can go. Some have heeded the warning and packed their belongings up and sent them a head. Their good deeds, their prayers, their faith and trust in God. Others have disregarded the warnings by closing their eyes and ears to the flashing lights predicting destruction. They say this world has been around for a long time, it will continue to be around for a long time. Well they are right, but they won’t be here, they’ll be in the lake of fire they’ve been tipped off about. There won’t be any escape routes, no rescue teams, and no emergency equipment capable of extricating them from the heat. This time there will be no one to salvage them and they will have to be accountable for their own misjudgments. Unless they heed the blinking lights, stop to read the bible, listen to the warnings and respond to the two by four that’s been thumping their heads. Thump. Thump.

Repent. Be baptized. Praise the Lord the end is just the beginning. I think I’ll paint that on a sign and parade up and down Main Street in a flour sack. That may sound like I’m crazy, but I know I’m right.

Math 16:3
Math 24:32-35
2 Peter 3:10-13

too much rest?

Too much rest?

My mother in law is-was- a great supporter of rest. Whenever I informed her I was on my way to the gym she would sigh and tell me to relax. I do too much. I need to take it easy. Oh, she was so persuasive. I could feel the comfy couch under my back with my legs propped up on pillows, a soft throw over my lower half. I could picture myself reading… for three minutes before the book toppled to the floor as my lids closed. (Three minutes is actually stretching the
possibilities.) Yea. It was enticing but…I do love a good workout. The exercise bike. The weights and time in the pool. The adrenalin rush. That was relaxing for me. It was time away from duties. From doing for people. From answering the phone or driving someone around. No. The gym was where I really got my breathing space.

My mother in law did however follow her own advice. Approaching 75 she was well rested. Real well rested. My husband would hand carry her dinner to her during our Sunday dinners so she wouldn’t have to get up when we visited. He was being considerate of her age. He was respecting her hospitality, repaying her for fixing our repast. She was so rested that getting up out of her chair was a work out. Huffing and puffing, she would wobble for a few steps till she got her equilibrium and continue to whatever activity that called her to her feet.

Then she started falling whenever she got up from her chair. We began intensive interrogations when we spotted bruises on her. We worried about her. We got her to commit to going to the doctor. I felt it was her knees, arthritis, bursitis or some other “itis” caused by the phenomena known as aging. Or maybe a reaction to her blood pressure meds or seizure meds. Or maybe she had started drinking while she was chilling out.

My sister in law received the honor of escorting mom to the doctor’s office. What she learned was more devastating to us than something that could be corrected with simply altering meds or sending her to alcoholics anonymous. Her diagnosis was…. Are you ready? She was pronounced….get set….well rested. She had rested herself into muscle shrinkage. She had been losing weight over the past couple of months (Yep, that really surprised me since her only exercise was getting out of her chair to go to bed) but the weight loss was mostly muscle mass. Let me explain this simple thing. No muscle mass, no strength. No strength, no balance. No balance no fall prevention. No fall prevention yields broken hips, legs, femurs, arms, faces or wrists. Broken bones in the elderly can heal but they may spend time in a nursing home for rehabilitation, (the person, not just the bones) that is providing they are discovered within a reasonable time frame or they don’t get a fat embolus and….. Well just imagine the worst. The most common reason that nursing homes are filling up with those approaching the later stages of life is due to falls, mostly falls at home.

The doctor predicted at her rate of “resting”, she’d be bed bound in five years. Well, my sister in law responded quickly to this crisis by not taking mom straight home to her easy chair. She took her to the local Senior Citizen’s Center and signed her up. What good does that do? Well, a properly run center has activities galore that keep the participants. She walked. She exercised. She talked. She ate. She socialized. She was even the secretary for a period of time. She redeveloped her muscles and with civilized respect for the miracle of healing, threw her cane in the air. Unfortunately when it landed it knocked her out and we had to take her to the emergency room for a head injury….just kidding!

The point of this long emotionally boring story? “If you don’t use it, you’ll lose it” means something. That goes for many things, like…. using our spiritual muscles. If we don’t keep them fed and exercised we’ll become weak floppy Christians. Our spirits will atrophy. We won’t know how to keep our balance when we get up and we’ll fall. And when a Christian falls, well once again, just imagine the worst. We may not lose eternity, but we may fail to bring someone else along with us to eternity; someone like a child, father, mother, friend, or even a stranger. We can’t afford to rest in our easy chairs while we are still here on terra firma. We need to attend the Christian Citizen’s Center if not five days a week at least once, maybe twice. And in this country there is no law that we can’t flex our muscles at home. Daily devotionals and prayer groups at work are all still permissible, (provided you do it in a dark closet at the back of the hall!) Along with meeting around the school’s flag pole; something school kids do in Fort Worth at the start of the year to seek God’s blessings, and I hope we’re not an isolated patch of religious fanatics.

So stop resting you lazy slugs and get out your bibles, it’s time for a work out. You don’t even have to check with your doctor on this one, even if you are over forty. There are no contraindications due to pre existing health conditions; as a matter of fact it’s the perfect cure for heart disease and mental illness. However there are side effects, like long life and peace of mind. Okay, let’s get started: One, two, three. One, two, three.

Math. 22:29
Luke 24:27
John 5:39
1 Peter 3:15
1 Peter 3:15

spring cleaning

My daughter in law, who along with my son of course, lives with my dad, finally took on the humongous task of spring cleaning. It has only taken thirteen Springs to motivate her, she’s a better woman than I am, I’m still waiting for the right Spring.

While going through a bottom kitchen drawer, you know, the drawer we all have that collects everything we’ve always wanted but never used, she came upon some old serving spoons and forks that she set aside for me.

“These probably belonged to your mother; I thought you or Bruce (my brother) would want them.” She explained when I dropped by for my nightly visit with dad.

I picked up the trophies she offered me. Black. Black as sin. Ugly. Ugly as sin. I thought she was nuts. Why would I want these crummy, filthy , black, ugly things. I don’t have much in the way of standards but I certainly don’t need more junk in my kitchen drawers either.

“I don’t think so, but thanks anyway,” I replied, none to sincerely. Then at the hurt look on her face I swiftly switched gears. “Do you have any toothpaste?” Now I was being looked at as though I was nuts. (An appropriate look on most occasions). It's a little known fact that toothpaste is a handy ingredient for removing tarnish.

Susan brought the toothpaste to me at the kitchen sink where I started smearing it on a serving spoon, encrusted with….gosh I don’t want to know what. As I rubbed, black stains traded sides from spoon to sponge. The sponge got blacker, the spoon got…prettier. Wow. This was real silver junk, not just aluminum junk. It wasn’t long before all the pieces were lying on the counter gleaming up at me. One spoon even had my dad’s name on the handle, having belonged to him as a child. It was impressive watching as each letter revealed itself. The eating tools even played videos of the times mom used these same pieces at holiday dinners. Thanksgivings, Christmases, Easters. Thirty years of memories were unleashed from under all the black, ugly tarnish.

My mom had come home again. She had passed away twenty some years ago but thanks to spring cleaning and my daughter in law, here she was again; sitting on the kitchen counter. What an ironic twist of fate, she would never let me sit on the counter! I couldn’t wait to put these serving pieces into use again, until then they would be in my kitchen drawer; the top drawer that gets opened every day. I won’t wait for special occasions to use these newly discovered utensils. Every day will be a day of remembrance for mom, whenever I get the chance to serve dinner.

This reminded me of a day when God found me in the bottom of a drawer, (under a load of sin and despair). The day he took my black sins (the tarnish veneer over my life) and cleaned me with toothpaste (the blood of Jesus) and made be beautiful (there I go dreaming again) and put me back into service (in the kitchen?) I’m grateful that when he set eyes on me his first reaction wasn’t one of repulsion. He immediately saw my worth and smeared cleansing fluid over me, and placed me in the top drawer. The drawer where all the useful supplies are.

Isn’t it amazing how black tarnished silverware can speak for God! It tells me that buried underneath every tarnished, sin blackened life is a beautiful serving piece waiting to be cleaned and used. Every sin ladened person is a name on God’s heart. I never would have thought of my daughter in law as a prophet but she was definitely God’s messenger that day.

Isaiah 1:18
2 Tim. 2:20

God's kingdom, past present and future

Cars in front of me, cars behind me; all here to safely enjoy nature from the confines of our cars. An African wilderness experience in the heart of Texas, with I’m sure just the right humidity and baking temperature. We were advised by signs throughout the route to stay in our cars at all times, but those clever few who know how to break rules were standing up through their sun roofs or hanging out the windows of their trunks, they might as well have been out walking.

My car at first was surrounded by deer, elk, other horned mammals and ostriches, so many that we couldn’t move. But they had short attention spans and moved on to the next car in line if we didn’t produce any edibles on short notice. No need to wait for us to give a hand out, they were well aware of the purpose of any car here, it was to provide them with sustenance. One ostrich, (man they have humongous feet), actually pecked at my rear view mirror to voice his complaint that we weren’t honoring the “feed me” rule. Or since my car is red maybe he mistook my rear view mirror for a nice shiny Macintosh apple? This was going to be a three hour ride and we wanted to stretch the food to the end.

This was absolutely amazing. All these wild animals just walked up to our car windows. We were instructed by other numerous signs along the way to not feed the zebras by hand because they tended to bite but we ignored that rule. (I guess I pointed some fingers back at me as a rule breaker! Hey at least I still had my fingers!) We didn’t get bit; otherwise we’d have been told we had been warned. One zebra with big sharp yellow teeth did pull a brochure off my dad’s lap however, but dad yanked it back! Good for him, we needed that brochure to describe the animals to us. Then dad placed a hand over the zebra’s snout…nose…whatever, and pushed his head back out of the window. He still didn’t get bit. The zebra didn’t need a brochure.

Then came the giraffes. Awesome. A car in front of us had a sun roof, or should I say an entrance for the giraffes. I got pictures of heads from above the car disappearing inside the car. The giraffes wanted food; lots of food. They also let us pet them, but again, at the price of food. They were magnificent. Such tall graceful creatures, putty in our hands for morsels of food.

My son loved the rams or mountain goats. He’s a Capricorn (not that we follow our “horror scopes”) and finally came face to face with his namesake. I have a picture of his stunned expression as an enormous head entered his window and gently retrieved some tidbits from his hand. We couldn’t move for some time as two rams decided the road would be theirs for the moment….moments. You just don’t take away a ram’s place on the road if he isn’t willing to give it up. Ever see a ram’s horns? If so, you’d appreciate our circumstances and the rule about staying in our cars at all times. Vehicles behind us didn’t understand why we stayed stationary, not being able to see around the bend where the two big horned, shaggy rams were doing what they do best; being stubborn. At last they got bored and shuffled off to buffalo.

Then, as we finally rounded the bend we discovered two of the cutest little deer off to the side. Just standing there with the sweetest big eyes, looking famished though I know they were well fed. I made the mistake of moving my arm and they mistook that for an invitation to eat. We were nearly depleted of the food that was allotted to us at the entrance, but how could we say no. Out the window went our hands with treats and two soft little lips took food from us, no fear of being placed over someone’s mantle or in someone’s freezer.

All these exotic animals (not counting the deer, there’s plenty of them here in Texas) that we’ve only seen on TV or caged in zoos just plodded up to us. Let us handle them, feed them, and take pictures of them.

Well, I should mention the cheetahs and wolves were reminders that wild animals still needed some reverence. They were in confined areas, tucked safely away so we couldn’t feed them, or rather, so we wouldn’t be their food. This is where my bubble burst. I was having a wonderful time imagining what Adam and Eve must have felt like before the fall. You know, that brief time when all nature was in harmony and it was Adam’s job to name all living creatures and be their keeper. That brief time when man and wild life were friends and both ate vegetation. That brief time when the earth was pristine and at peace with God.

How I wish things were like that again. What a legacy our first parents could have given us. The freedom to walk around naked, the freedom to call the whole earth home, to roll about with tigers, lions and bears, oh my! To walk with God in the garden at night fall, to eat anything we wanted except….Well that is the true part of our legacy, the fall; when our first parents broke the cardinal rule. When they ate what was forbidden them. When animals and man became enemies, when we had to be careful what we ate, where we walked and called home.

At least for a few hours I got a taste of what was and could have been. What a minute, I also got a taste of what is to come. When lion and lamb, wolf and calf, bear and child will all lie down together and call each other friend. When once again we’ll all be able to walk with God in the garden at nightfall.

A tribute to a friend

I knew her first as Mrs. Taylor, Lynnda, my best friend’s mother. Then over the years I got permission to call her Jimmy (it seems Mrs. Taylor was her mother-in law!). She was a wonderful lady, full of stories about her father and the Boy Scouts. She glamorized her father in my eyes. Man she built him up, but I thought it was just the ramblings of a proud daughter. Someone who really loved her dad, no problems with that.

Then one sad day this July first I got an email from Lynnda, she was on her way to Missouri where her mother had gone for a speaking engagement at a Boys Scout function, (what else? Scouting was her life) fallen, started bleeding into her brain, went comatose and was only given hours to live. (She actually held on to July 4th, being patriotic she waited till the last firecracker popped before expiring!) That started four days of phone calls back and forth between Lynnda and me. Lynnda even emailed me the newspaper articles about her mother. Apparently her mother was big news in Kansas City. The only daughter and child of H. Roe Bartle. I was impressed. Still, to me, she had always been a wonderful lady, my best friend’s mother. Someone whose table I’d eaten at, whose house I’d spent the night in, who I went to Branson with, who babysat my dogs for me when I went out of town. She was Jimmy. Not just only daughter and child of H. Roe Bartle.

I had to “Google” this guy. There were volumes of hits with his name. Wow. Jimmy’s dad was famous, at least in his part of the country. He was friends of presidents, the FBI, governors…Ect... Ect. He started a Boy Scout tribe in Kansas that is one of a kind, fashioned after our American Indian Heritage. It still bears his name, The H. Roe Bartle Scout Reservation and it hosts thousands of scouts yearly. This guy was like an Apostle Paul impersonator, going about doing good works, and making a difference. His grave can even be viewed on findagrave.com.

Then I got the brainstorm to “Google” Jimmy. My friend’s mother also had her name plastered over the internet. Friend of Scouts. Motivational speaker. Only daughter of H. Roe Bartle. I was learning more about Jimmy Bartle Taylor than I knew when she was alive. Well maybe I‘d heard her mention these things over forty years in small slices and forgotten most of it but now I really researched her family and the scouts. I couldn’t get enough; reading about her brought her back to live. It was a crash course in history. But it all followed on the heels of her death. Why did I have to wait till she died to rediscover and discover all these things? I wish she was here now so I could ask her questions about her dad and about the scouts. Now I have to learn everything myself by reading.

When Lynnda got back home I went to see her. Jimmy’s house was right next door (she had recently bought a double wide trailer and set it on Lynnda’s lot so they could be close to each other) and I asked to walk through it in hopes of feeling her spirit or at the least just walking where she had walked. It had become hallow ground that would never be touched by her feet again. It had become sort of a shrine in my mind; her importance magnified in my imagination. No, she was still Jimmy, my friend, and my friend’s mother. She was very important to me because of who she was. I took two things from her house, mementoes. A bear magnet (it symbolized her tribal name of “Lone Bear Princess,” and another magnet that had a small picture of her in a red hat. Not worth much to anyone, but priceless to me. I’ll place them on my refrigerator so I, won’t forget her, not that that’s possible. Then I sat in Lynnda’s living room and watched a DVD they played at Jimmy’s funeral. From birth to death, there was her life. Awesome. The life of a woman going through life’s developmental stages, rites of passage. Sitting on granny’s lap, going to high school , getting married, having kids, grand kids, great grandkids. A normal woman. My friend. Lynnda’s mother. I was promised a copy. Thank you, Lynnda.

Why is it we learn more about people after they die? At funerals I’ve always discovered things about the honoree that I never knew when they were alive. All this reminds me of a man that lived two thousand years ago. He was someone’s son and friend. He ate with people, traveled with people and slept over at their houses. (I don’t know about babysitting pets?) He was not very famous while he was alive but after he died volumes have been written about him. He can be “Googled” and researched, made larger than life. He spent thirty years as someone’s son, the only son and child of God, the firstborn actually. He was the first Boy Scout, on a mission to build his entourage of twelve. He spent three years going about doing good and making motivational speeches then he died. I bet very little was written about him while he breathed, except maybe on wanted posters. (He still is on wanted posters!) Volumes have been written since. I still research him daily, reading about him in the gospels and epistles. People travel to wear he lived, to walk the hallow grounds his feet had touched. We can’t find his grave on findagrave.com because it’s empty! Sometimes it takes death to get our energy directed on the correct path. If Jimmy hadn’t died, I wouldn’t have spent so much time reading about her, if Jesus hadn’t died (an don’t forget rose again) no one would be interested in reading about him. Do you think he’s worth investigating? Reading about him could bring him back to life, in your heart! Google him and find out what could be a new revelation for you.

post independence day reflections

It's independence Day. A day we celebrate our independence from a foreign dictator, a king who cared nothing about us except for our revenue potential. We were just another feather in his cap, er, crown, in the race to own more and more of the globe. He taxed us to replace the money spent on his wars. Wars to increase his domain, which we were just another part of. We fought to be free of a King who lived across the ocean and taxed us without representation. Many died for that freedom. Young kids who hunkered down next to fathers(mothers), brothers (sisters), uncles (aunts) and neighbors with guns firing away at other men and dying for their country, far away from blood relatives and friends . Lots of innocent men died for us to have our freedom. A freedom that is actually vanishing bit by bit over the years as our taxes increase(again), (let's not mention the role of the IRS in robbing us of our peace of minds) our jobs lay us off, Homeland Security makes new laws to track, fingerprint and x-ray us before we get on a plane just to name a few .

We celebrate this day, Independence Day, whole heartedly, caping it off with tremendous displays of fireworks nationwide and even from house to house.Even though that was over two hundred and thirty three years ago and we never experienced the same tyranny and oppression. Living in the land of the free we know very little about tyranny and oppression except from the news and stories of soldiers returning from countries torn by civil wars. Thousands of us gather in parks to ooh and ahh through "rocket's red glare", after "rocket's red glare" and wear star spangled banner decorated t-shirts and hats. Yes we are glad to be free. Yes we honour those that gave us that freedom.

But a celebration even greater goes on high above us, in a galaxy far, far away. Whenever one of us, and it only takes one, chooses to become dependent on a king far, far away, yet closer than we can even imagine,(I hear he lives within our hearts!) angels set off a gala that makes ours look like a bash thrown with dime store products. (And we each get personal fireworks, yes our very own!) When we become dependent on God we have freedom bought at the price of only one man, only one innocent man's blood was shed, and he is our representation before the Almighty, representing a people he has actually spent time with on earth. Time he used developing a personal relationships. This King, in a far away galaxy, truthfully cares for each one of us as individuals. There is nothing we can give him financially to keep him happy, he has no need to increase his domain, as everything the eyes can see, and can't, already belong to him. You see, that foreign king, years ago, died trying to own land that wasn't his, it was only on loan from one higher than him, it was an illusion that this country belonged to him. Whereas our dependence on the Great Almighty is more real than anything seen by flesh and blood, the unseen being far greater than things seen. And tracking us, not a problem for me, I find great comfort in knowing he really does know where I am at all times, and it is reciprocated, as I know where to find him whenever I'm in trouble; In my heart.

I truly appreciate those who gave their lives for our national freedom and God given rights but I'm more thankful that I had the sense to give up my independence to a King who became a sacrifice for us and whose kingdom people are dying to get into.

Psalm 50:10
Luke 15:7
2 Corin. 4:18
eph. 4:16
Col. 1:13-16

memorial day weekend

“Thanks, but I already have plans for the day," I informed my friend who just invited me over for a day of barbequing and swimming. That was how most of America was spending the day. It was a three day weekend and most people could do this activity any weekend of the year but they make a big deal of it on this particular day. Eating drinking, swimming. That is all this day meant to most people; a time to get together and be a family and enjoy one extra day off work. At least an extra day off if you weren't in the food or merchandise industry. Or the gas industry. Or entertainment industry. The malls would be packed with bargain hunters, sales would be rampant using the day as a reason for extra profits. Movie goers would be out in droves, getting away from routine. Though nowadays, shopping, eating out and going to movies was routine. And profits would be made, no matter how big the sale percentage. Merchants weren't giving stuff away! Besides, most people don't limit themselves to just what's on sale.

My husband and I went to my dad's house and loaded him up into the car, putting his walker into the trunk with his spare oxygen tank. This was dad’s day. He looked forward to this day every year. As a survivor of WWII, the Korean War, and Viet Nam, this was his holiday. I loaded the car with our projects and we took off. We went to the neighborhood cemetery and hunted down his friends. Strange we always had trouble finding them, it's not like they were very mobile. With a walker and oxygen dad was in better health than they were! This was the only occasion he felt complaining about his health was ungracious, walking down the rows of name plaques! He stuck little flags by the names of his service friends. Their kids had not done this, and he mumbled some unkind words about their neglecting their obligations. I think mostly he complained just to make sure I was aware that I would be held accountable for decorating his grave when the time comes. (Knock on wood that better be some time from now!)

After we finished our flag placing chore, we headed off to the main part of his celebration. The Dallas National Cemetery. It was unbelievable. No matter how much time I allow to get there the traffic is so thick inside the grounds we crawled along at a snail’s pace, by hundreds of new graves  buried under blankets of fresh flowers watered with tears. Every day sees the addition of new members at a rate of 19,500 a year. Cars were parked along the route and people milled about the grounds. I caught sight of a man and woman on the grass beside a flowery decorated tombstone. The woman was crying, the man was comforting. This is a customary sight here. Some things shouldn't become customary. Flowers were all over the place. People were pushing baby strollers down rows of graves looking for their daddy or uncle or brother(or female counterparts). Flags were flying everywhere.

Closer to our destination we were directed where to park on the grass. Cars, Trucks. Vans. Motorcycles. Ambulances. TV crews. Care flight personal. Portable potties. Scads of people were heading towards the presentation sight. Dressed in shorts, slacks, uniforms, suits, dresses. Every possible combination of red, white and blue was covered. Red, white and blue on ties, t-shirts, scarves, handbags, hats, umbrellas, baby diapers, Flags lined the road every twenty feet. Hundreds of them. I wondered how much time it would take to lower them tonight. There were several tents up on center stage filled with important looking dignitaries and military personal, from every service, and a school choir dressed in green tops and beige pants or skirts. Red, white and blue drapes hung over their heads.

The ceremony started with introductions of generals, the Governor, the funeral director. Then three planes were heard approaching. Approaching. Nearer. Nearer. They were in sight now; three planes in formation flew overhead. They were punctual, precise timing. They had left their stations on the second to make a show at the correct minute, in tribute to the somber observance. I wished I had anticipated that to get a picture, I was awed by the formation and the planning. However I did get pictures. Pictures of the crowd sitting on lawn chairs, blankets on the ground, the brick wall lining the area. People with water jugs, umbrellas to shade them from the stifling heat of the sun, large protective hats. People dressed in uniforms. They must be really hot. I got a picture of my husband walking beside my dad, holding an umbrella over his head.

The presentation lasted longer than I thought it should in the middle of a hot, humid day. I worried about the old timers present. This could throw their systems out of whack. I worried about my dad. He had spent time in the emergency room once for dehydration brought on by a baseball game, but he wouldn't miss this day. We stayed ahead of things, keeping him properly hydrated, yet at the same time on the verge of dehydration to prevent congestive heart failure symptoms. Jugglers had nothing on me! It was comforting to know that ambulances and medical personal were on the grounds.

Even though,as I said before, the presentation lasted longer that I thought it should, none of these vets, their families, or relatives of the recent victims of Iraq and Afghanistan  complained. They hadn't gone to the movies or the malls today. They came to honor Memorial Day properly. Those not here weren't thinking of the reason they had a three day weekend, they were enjoying a paid day off. Memorial Day meant more to those in attendance here. It meant someone died for the population to spend the day however they wanted. Not under a dictatorship. Not in a civil war. Not scrounging for food. Not part of a genocide committee. Not threatened daily with rape or casual murder.

The ceremony was concluded by a roll call of the recently interred. As the names fell on our hearts a crisply dressed serviceman placed a rose on one of several draped chairs that represented either the Navy, Army, Air force, Marines, or Coast Guards. The families were then invited to collect the rose from the chair representing their sacrifice. A rose. A rose with a thorn. The thorn would draw blood, representing the blood shed for our country.

This is the current Memorial day, but the true Memorial day started years ago. It started on a cross where a savior died for our freedoms. When I mentioned that to my dad he retorted with, "Jesus didn't die on Memorial Day!" No. Dad could only think of his fallen comrades today but maybe latter tonight he'll think of Jesus and thank him for freeing him from slavery to sin and an eternity in hell. In that case, every day should be Memorial Day.

christian fiction?

Now I know my stories in for Hope’s Sake are Christian fiction but they are based on the realism of the bible. The bible teaches that angels are present among us to be our servants as ministering spirits and that is the nucleus of most of my stories. I write as though the veil of the invisible world is open. Well, this weekend it was opened even further, to give me hope and consolation.

It seems that at 11:00 P.M while I was physically dead, an event that happens regularly to me when I close my eyes, my father fell, cut his head open and lost three plus quarts of blood. That is a lot of blood. (I wonder how it was actually measured as it was spilt between his house, my daughter in law’s car and the emergency room) My daughter in law, who lives with him, heard him fall, rushed him to the emergency room faster than an ambulance would have gotten to him while my son tried repeatedly to get me to answer the phone. Like I said, I was dead. Corpses can’t respond to the incessant ringing that must have taken place inches from my ears. About two hours into my death though, I was finally summoned back to earth by the jarring of the phone. Looking at the caller I.D I thought, ‘’Who is that?” and decided to answer because of the lateness of the hour.

“It’s okay now, we’re going home,” a disembodied voice announced.

“What’s okay and who are you?” I mumbled groggily. I wasn’t groggy for long.

“Grandpa is going home now.” Was my answer

I was instantly alert recognizing my daughter in law’s, Susan’s, voice. “What are you talking about?”Then came the explanation. Dad had lost his balance going to the bathroom; fell against the wall causing the whole house to shudder alerting my daughter in law and son who hadn’t fallen asleep yet. They found him on the floor in a pool of red fluid. Susan ordered my son to call me while she rushed Dad to the car instructing Bryan, my son, the whole while to clean the blood up before the dogs and cats got a taste of it (it seems she feared this would cause the family pets to relish the taste of human flesh, at this point I pictured Dad’s eight week old kitten becoming a carnivorous beast sitting on his chest late at night with a fork and knife!) She got him to the hospital faster than it would have taken for an ambulance to arrive. While on the table in the emergency room the doctor’s swore because they couldn’t staunch the blood flow. Blood was everywhere, except in dad’s circulatory system. Dad was certain he was dying from the entire hullabaloo going on around him. Then, suddenly.. a face pressed up against Dad’s. An old wrinkled face. Within seconds it vanished and he caught a glimpse of feathers; wings. He was confident his guardian angel had arrived…and left without him. Latter when dad himself revealed this visit to me, he assumed that this angel had been with him since he was born. He was curious though about the wrinkles, he thought angels were young. I reminded him that Della Reese (Touched by an Angel) wasn’t young, or thin for that matter, so angels can be old and plump it they want to be. (Don’t bother to tell me that was just a show. I consider it one of T.V’s first reality shows!)

So even though my stories are fictional accounts of angelic interventions I really believe there is a host of invisible warriors in the air about us. The unseen world being more real than the seen.

The story could have ended in a much gloomier note; if Bryan and Susan had already fallen asleep dad would have expired on the kitchen floor. If Susan hadn’t been a good speed racer Dad wouldn’t have gotten to the hospital in time. And if Bryan hadn’t stayed behind to clean up the bloody kitchen a poor innocent kitten and two dogs would have been enticed into devouring humans!(is there a twelve step program for that?) As it is, in Dad’s mind, things didn’t turn out so good. They had to keep him in the hospital for a few days to give him blood. (Come on dad, you lost quite a bit!) Then he was sent to a rehab unit to get his strength back. (Again, come on Dad, you lost quite a bit). But, thanks to his guardian angel, he will live to see his house again.


2 Corinthians 4:16-18
Hebrews 1:14

Global Warming?

Worried about global warming? I am also, but I’m more worried about why people are asking the wrong questions and seeking for the wrong answers. Literature is out there where people decades back predicted the impact we were having on our ecosystem. Just thirty or so years ago I remember hearing about hairsprays and spray deodorants doing something to the ozone layers. So obviously we’ve walked around with blind folders and ear plugs, ignoring the warnings of educated men.

Did I say we were warned decades ago? What about millennia ago? The book of Revelation was written by an elderly man, with no expertise in science, on a deserted prison island who predicted things like changes in the stars such as meteorites landing in rivers and oceans, and a sun gone awol, as in the collapse of a supernova. I remember in science class, when I was just thirteen, hearing about our sun’s future and worrying about my descendants dying, millions of years from now when our sun exploded! Do you think the astrologists back in 100 A.D knew we wouldn’t have a sun someday? The apostle John did and he didn’t get his information from the local newspapers. But his good news was it would be replaced by the presence of God and we wouldn’t be walking in darkness anymore.

With the oceans swelling due to melted ice water from the poles, millions of people will be displaced; crowded infrastructures won’t be able to handle the influx. Our cities are built around concrete that attracts heat, increases carbon dioxide emissions, reduces walking paths,(which affects our health, and encourages usage of ecosystem unfriendly cars) and prevents rain water from being reabsorbed into the earth as runoff, causing even more flooding and destruction. Famine and pestilence have figured heavily in our past as well as our future, no arguing with that, so it’s easy to miss the connection with world events and the gospels if you want to remain ignorant of the truth. The truth is that global warming is really a global “warning” sent to us by God as he keeps us informed of his plans for our eternal outlook.

The question is not how are we going to prevent global warming, but can we read the signs of the times? Why aren’t people seeing a connection between biblical prophecy and current events? Is it too farfetched to see the similarities in the book of revelation and what’s happening today? To recognize that our solar system is spreading out as scientist have discovered? Yes, I believe in the big bang theory, the solar system is moving outwards, expanding, causing changes on our earth that have been predicted for our warning. God didn’t want us to be ignorant. But some of us are. We walk around with blinders thinking we can reverse what God set in motion through his prophesies. Oh, I’m not against being a good steward of our recourses but I’m not convinced anything we do now can prevent the unpreventable, the dawning of a new heaven and earth wherein dwelleth righteousness and is illuminated by the glory of God.


Isaiah 48:3-5
Rev 8:7-11
Rev 16:8-9
Rev. 21:23

Summary
There is a bigger problem than global warming. The problem is in the failure to realize the real cause of today’s events. The only solution is following the lord and resting in his promices.

the doctor's prediction

My dad is eighty two and has been around the block more than once. Ever since I’ve known him, almost fifty two years now, (so you can assume I knew him before I was born by about twenty years!) he’s been at death’s door, cheating it with fervor. Well, truthfully, since I was nineteen I’ve been aware of his mortality. I recall going to bed concerned he wouldn’t see me finish college after having spent the day with him in ICU after a heart attack. Added to that was my fear I’d have to care for my mother who had never been on her own. She didn’t even know how to write checks! I’m grateful I didn’t develop ulcers from all the futile worrying.

Well, nineteen from fifty two is thirty three years of growing, adjusting, living in faith. Leaving things in God’s masterful hands. My mother in fact died first, at a young sixty six of breast cancer, surprising us all, as her health, we thought, was better than dad’s whose always been on the wobbly side of the coin. I truly feared dad would terminate himself on her death bed. I’d never heard a wail so horrifying when he witnessed her taking her last breath on this earth. I braced myself to be his buttress careful to not let him grieve himself to death, placing my anguish down good and deep.

But I digress, so back to dad. First were his heart issues that he inherited from a father who died at forty nine, then came head and neck cancer which yielded a perpetual feeding tube, congestive heart failure, then prostate difficulties, a broken shoulder, hip, hands, falling spells, from ignoring my nagging about using his walker! But he has miraculously trekked on; God in his infinite wisdom knows I’m not ready to let him go yet. I’m not prepared to be an orphan, not till I’m at least sixty.

Over time as his health concerns mounted I’ve slipped into the role of his principal caregiver, with minimal reliable help from anyone else. It has not been a hardship, but a privilege to repay him for years of fatherly love and care. I’ve kept abreast of current health trends and kept dad on the cutting edge of my learned wisdom. When his congestive heart failure was at its worst I had him hospitalized, treated with diuretics and improved. (at one point the doctor told me if dad continued his downward decline he’s been gone in six months) Through trial and error I discovered that his interests were best served by keeping him dehydrated and exercised. His primary physician and I have worked as a team to enhance dad’s condition so well congestive heart failure is spoken of in the past tense now, and we raised his ejection fraction (an important heart function) to just below normal, up from just above about dead!

So when I missed dad’s last appointment with his cardiologist (check out the word, last!) I was stunned to find dad at the elevators, puffing on his oxygen canulla and pushing his walker, ready to go home on the verge of tears, with the news that he was only given two to three years left to live due to leaky valves(heart structures). We knew he had this problem for years, and we had agreed surgery would not be wise with his other conditions, i.e., lung issues, feeding tube, and inability to lie flat for any procedure, to name a few. But to tell someone in his eighties that he only could look forward to just a scant three years at the most…well I was so infuriated I marched back into the office and demanded of the receptionist to see Dr. Arrogant. Dad came up behind me and tried to stop me, but I brusquely (with the utmost reverence) told him to go sit down, I would take care of this.

Dad tried twice to get me to listen to him, and finally succeeded when he said, “But I didn’t see Dr. Arrogant, I saw someone else.”

With egg on my face I turned to the surprised nurse and pointedly asked, “All right, I want to talk to the doctor who he saw!” pointing my fingers at dad.

“Is there a problem?” she queried. What fantastic observational skills.

I was tempted to respond with, ”No, I just want to see how he’s doing today,” but instead I verbalized, “Yes, there’s a problem!”

“Well, he’s with a patient right now,”

“I don’t care, get him!” Maybe I was sparing some other patient from getting upsetting news.

We were ushered (swiftly) into a private hallway, presumably to prevent panic from erupting in the waiting room, where a young resident extended his hands to me as though this was going to be a cordial get together. To avoid any miscommunication I requested that this young kid, with the confetti from his high school graduation still clinging to his hair, tell me exactly what he told my dad. From the tone of my voice and a long relationship with my temper, dad decided to abscond and let the doctor work out his own survival system.

“Well, he has some leaky valves and I informed him at his age and with his problems he could only expect another two to three years, but I assured him he could beat the odds.”

Enough said, I thought, and launched into the past thirty plus years of health issues, and overcoming odds.Startng with most people with head and neck cancer and feeding tubes rarely live seventeen years extra and ending with, “He’s 82, he doesn’t expect to live forever, he knows he could die tonight, I know that, I’m 52, I could die tonight, but you’re going to die now!” I scanned the area for security cameras after the words slipped past my filter system and floated on the air between us.

Keeping his composure, I’m guessing from confronting lots of angry family members, made outraged from his inexperienced theory on informing the patients of their prognosis’s, he politely explained, “I feel that patients have a right to know what to expect.”

“Well I feel that only God can make those expectations. At eighty two, three years is a life time, and for him it’s three years you robbed of the joy of living!” With that I turned my back and departed, sure that I made no impact on Dr. Inappropriate but feeling the carthartic release of venting.

What followed was days of encouraging dad to look at all the other mis-information people have received, starting with his boyhood friend who had been told he was beyond help and was given a forty ninth wedding anniversary party by his kids because they didn’t expect him to make another year. That was what? Eight years ago. Who was wrong about that? The doctor of course. There was a long list of soothing stories but dad wallowed in self pity none the less. I even revealed to dad that all the doctors I work with contended that Dr. Inappropriate had over stepped his credentials.

It’s taken some time but now dad no longer tells everyone he meets he's dying soon, but I’m not sure how often it encroaches in his thoughts. I have been counter fighting a slowly encroaching inactivity on his part. It's like he's given up and realizes the fight is almost over, This is referred to as a self fulfulling prophesy. The point of this? Doctor’s, no one for that matter, can tell us when we are going to die. Of course there is a certain predictability with some health issues, that is the reason Hospice provides a useful service, but even they miss the mark occasionally, carrying patients for longer than the six month duration, even removing some from their rosters because of failure to die! Let’s not lose hope. Only God knows when he'll call home, and that life expectancy is a lot longer than two to three years.

Duet. 32:39
Eccl. 9:11
James 4:13-14


summary
we rely on doctors for so much, but sometimes they tend to overstep thier wisdom. Doctors are given their wisdom from God but they need a touch of common sense. See how one doctor changed the life of a man and what the consequense were.

don't ignore china

I couldn’t help myself. I clicked on one picture after another. Rubble. Tears. Bodies. Children. Old, young. Civilian, soldiers. It was mesmerizing. It was depressing. Other people I knew refused to look at the pictures, the hopelessness of the situation made them too despondent. Why let something continents away affect their daily lives?

Here were pictures of women holding, no clutching, each other, trying to find the strength to take another breath in the light of their devastation. They lost husbands, parents, children. No, they lost a child. With the one child policy survivors had no sisters, brothers, aunts or uncles to turn to. Parents lost their only children, grandparents lost their only grandchild. Eighty year olds lost their child, grandchild and husbands or wives.

Pictures enlightened me on the nation I never knew. They had houses just like us, they had hospitals, just like us. They had roads, apartments, washing machines, school, cars, bikes. They dressed like us; jeans, t-shirts, nightgowns, jackets, tennis shoes, helmets. They sent their kids to school, just like us, expecting to see them again at the end of the day coming up the drive way with their empty lunch boxes and homework, tired expressions on their faces, ready to unwind with a snack. But that wouldn’t be anymore, after seven thousand schools were smashed from possibly shoddy construction, leaving colorful backpacks, lunch kits with animated pictures and student I.D’s scattered in the wreckage.

The pictures were grisly. Here was a picture of a child buried under cement. Trapped under cement. The picture just showed her face (a face that is seared in my memory) as workers cut off her left leg to release her. Here was a boy lying in a hospital bed, minus his arms, with his mother beside him. I wonder what she was thinking. Was she grateful her son was still alive? Or horrified at the life he would now lead? Would he rise above his circumstances and be a winner or would he fall prey to endless self pity and despondency.

There were some soldiers and other survivors holding people back from the bodies of their relatives. Why? Would falling on the bodies make the sorrow any worse? Would it not yield closure? How much more dramatic would it be to fling yourself on your dead husband, wife, child as opposed to being held back? What is the purpose in that? They all suffered loss, why care about someone else’s reaction? They cared for each other, just like we do.

There were several pictures of survivors, bandaged up, using homemade crutches and stretchers, getting ready for a nine hour walk to make-shift shelters. Evacuating in a hurry to avoid being flooded by the risk of collapsing dams, more drama, and more destruction. Leaving everything behind, not on purpose but because where was it? Buried under mudslides and rubble. Destroyed. These were people lucky enough to be carrying kids, holding hands of wives, parents. Going to a shelter for what? Would there be supplies aplenty for them? Water, food, clothing, protection from the elements?

There were pictures of the military digging, masks over their faces to minimize the stench and prevent the spread of disease from decomposing bodies. Rescue work isn’t pleasant, but it has it rewards, like finding a pregnant woman and her mother still alive! Shouts went up everywhere as they were extricated and sent to the hospital. Life would go on. Then the return to reality, digging for more survivors, victims. Who really were the lucky ones? The people that died right away, that wouldn’t have to try to cope, hunt for food, and beg for water? Wouldn’t have to wait for help; look for family they would never see again lying in body bags? Grieve?

The military sees its share of the unpleasant but will these rescuers suffer post traumatic distress syndrome? The rescuers at the World Trade Centers did. It’s hard to cope with so much death all in one place, finding bodies, burying bodies in mass graves, burning bodies on pyres. I know the survivors will go through years of mental anguish, loneliness. Hopelessness.

Hopeless. What can I do to give hope? I can send some money for supplies so the refugees can have food when they get to shelters. Food, water, medical supplies, tents cost money. Rebuilding a country takes money.

I got on the phone after hours of picture viewing and praying. Of getting to know the faces of survivors and seeing their torment. Of seeing how much like me they were. People with emotions and needs hit by something beyond their control, something done at random, unpredictable. The groaning of the earth. We have had our fights with nature also. Tornadoes, hurricanes, volcanoes, earthquakes, lightening strikes burning up the country side, and that’s just the damage from nature! It would be fantastic to know that humanity, no matter what their religion or culture, would pull together on this ship called earth and support each other.

I got on the internet and found the American Red Cross, where I made a donation that they would send to the Red Cross Society of China.( China has a red cross? That’s the beginning of optimism). Considering the enormity of the problem what I sent was trifling, an insult really. But it would buy more than “nothing” would. Then I called my friends and suggested they do the same, the little “nothing” they could contribute would build up to more supplies. More than “nothing” would yield.

Hopeless. What else could I do? Pray. After I took action and sent funds, prayer was next on my list, or was it first? Did the quiet praying I did as I viewed the pictures inspire me to send donations? I would pray for hours, days and years. Pray for the surivors. Pray for us. But for the grace of God, there go we.

car shopping

For a year and a half now I've been without car payments after five years of monthly regular installments; so, of course things are going to go wrong now. Three week-ends in a row I've had my PT Cruiser in the shop for overheating, being forced to drive my mother in law's car about town and to work, making me feel needy. Thank God I at least had that option. The weekly mystery was, why was my PT overheating. After 2500 dollars and two months we got the problem fixed but not without leaving me insecure. Having had a dependable vehicle for seven years it was hard to have perfect trust in something that was now unreliable.

Then I got into my car one afternoon and glanced at the gas gauge on my way to the store. Oops, down to empty. That couldn't be right, after all it was just slightly above that before I parked. Then I noticed the speedometer and every other gauge was on zero. Great, another trip to the mechanics and this time I was encouraged to go to the dealer. Some recall affected the circuit that ran the dashboard lights and gadgets and therefore this repair would be cost free! Yea. But while I was at the dealers......why not investigate a new purchase? After all I had time while my car was being doctored.

Meanwhile, I have been diligently reducing my bills, having paid off five credit cards, saving me fifty to a hundred dollars a piece monthly and my house mortgage no longer exited after twenty five years. (No, I 'm not going to tell you how old I am but I was very, very, young when I bought the house!). This meant a monthly cash reserve of five hundred dollars or so.

Oh, the cars I drooled over! It is so hard to concentrate on one vehicle when you have a complete car lot to browse through. The new car looks, colors smells, gadgets. They really had hooks that get under your skin and reel you in. I couldn't imagine driving out of the dealership in my seven year old car, with the floorboards needing vacuuming and the car seats stained from my doggies. And all the junk in the trunk. I had the salesman run some figures by me and was surprised at how affordable a 2008 car would be, especially since all the afore mentioned riches were now at my disposal.

There was no pressure on me to purchase a car right away, but there was a good sales pitch. The salesman knew how to schmoose. He was ready to let me drive a new Jeep Patriot, Jeep Compass or Pt Cruiser off the lot to run my errands in and show my husband while my car was being worked on. Thank heavens I'm not a impulse buyer. I have actually been considering a new car for some time, while in the back of my brain (on a dusty ledge) a thought tugged at my desire to own one car for at least 100,000 miles. My past history with autos ended every seven years, which is where I'm at now. As I sat in each prospective purchase I envisioned myself to be content with it for years. If I could just own "this one car" I'd be content with it for the rest of my life. I was informed of the life time warranty on the transmission and power gadgets under the hood. When I skeptically asked for whose life time I was told for as long as I owned the car, up to and not limited to twenty years. Now I was impressed. I might actually stand a chance of a life time ownership. But I had thought my last car would be my last car! My baby. I had planned on being buried in my PT Cruiser and now I'm considering dumping her because of what probably amounted to my negligence in powder puff mechanics or a national recall.

Then I realized what I had been struck with....The lust of the eyes. The new car look. The new car smell. The new car colors. The clean spotless interiors. The new car warranties. I would be spending thousand of dollars over the next five years on a car to awe people, myself at the top of the list, without giving this one final repair a chance. And in seven more years I'd be just as tired of the looks and make of any car I got today. In seven more years there would be newer and shinier cars with more glitter that I would be tempted to trade a 2008 model in for.

That would be like God saying, okay, you've disappointed me four times now I think I'll throw you in the trash heap and get a new nation. Oh, wait, didn't that happen once? God doesn't get lustful when he sees a new nation develop. He doesn't get tired of us when we malfunction, He doesn't loathe us for the dirt on us or the junk in our hearts. He repairs, washes and vacuums us, and is ready to pick us up again and again and again.......While we are being overhauled he's not out looking for replacements; He waits for us to get steady and go back to serving him.

Oh, the things we can learn while waiting in a service department while our cars get fixed.

National Day of Prayer.

Does any one really believe prayer changes things? That He will really intervene in our nation’s affairs? That taking one day and using it for pray will really be useful?

It isn’t a new thing, this National Day of Prayer. I’m not just referring to it’s fifty seven year history. I recall and old, old story of the Jewish nation being on the verge on eradication, whose last resort was a day of prayer with an added two extra. Last resort? It should have been their first resort, if you’re aware of the victorious out come. People targeted for destruction by Haman, the forefather of Al Qaeda ,were given inner strength, resilience and hope. They didn’t let what appeared on the surface to be the end of their world, be the end of their world. They fought back! I wonder how many participants objected to picking up arms to save their families and way of life? Unfortunately the book of Ester doesn’t reveal those details. Just the fact that victory was quick and sweet. Retaliation, (self defense) only lasted a day or two then partying broke out, with celebration and worship. And giving of thanks to the source of their triumph. They got mad, they got prayerful, they got ready, they got even, they got over it. They never forgot it.

Do those truths apply today? They should. He is after all the same yesterday, today and tomorrow. Like taxes and death, He’s a certain constant factor in the events of history; a much more pleasant constant factor. A ready resource that shouldn’t just be used one day a year. I hope that the Day of National Prayer this May leaves such a good feeling people will carry it on to the other three hundred and sixty four days. After all, batteries need to be recharged to be efficient, recharging our souls regularly, daily, hourly, minutely, and secondly is vital to our success as a nation. We are to pray without ceasing. I’ve heard the adage that practice makes perfect, well it should be modified to “perfect practice makes perfect“. If we keep practicing our mistakes we just make perfect mistakes. If we perfect our prayers we make perfect decisions based on the Source that responds to our requests.

One of the admonitions of Purim (the holy day our Jewish brothers use to commemorate Ester’s heroism in saving her people) is to not read the story of Ester backwards. Meaning, don’t just read it as ancient history, irrelevant for contemporary applications. Well, if you are to any degree a philosopher, you should know that history has a tendency to repeat itself. In Ester’s day there were religious zealots bent on the destruction of other religions, thankfully we know that doesn’t happen today. We all live in peace and acceptance of each other’s views. Not. Just as a day, or two, or three, of prayer and fasting saved God’s faithful millennia ago, don’t you think he can do it now. Look at the World Trade Centers and see if Haman’s evil descendants have experienced success in destroying his foe. Not on your life. It encouraged a nation to band together and fight. To pray. To produce heroes, as on Flight 93, and all the participants of ground zero.

A Day of National Pray is a start. Don’t let it be a one time thing, or merely an annual thing. Make it habitual. We have been warned that He won’t listen to us if we just come to him only in times of trouble. He’ll inform us He has no idea who we are. Times of trouble are when we first meet lawyers and doctors. It shouldn’t be the first time we meet Him.

Ester 4:13-17
Ester 9:1-17
Ester 9:17-19
Isaiah 1:12-15

Buz

I’ve had Buz for fifteen years since he was three months old. I’ve watched him grow from a toddler to adolescent to married man to widow to centenarian in just one third of my life time. I disciplined him when he was young to keep him safe. I played with him to keep him close to me. I talked to him so he knew the sound of my voice. I cared for him so he’d know I was his master. I’m still in my prime and he’s got one foot on the banana peel.

He went deaf first. I thought that was horrible, not being able to hear the sound of my voice warning him of danger or calling him to eat. Yet, he compensated for his handicap. He learned sign language. When I waved him over he would trot towards me voice unheard. He knew who I was and that I was communicating with him so he didn't seem to really miss his ability to hear.
Dinner time? Not a problem, whenever I was just passing through the kitchen was dinner time as far as he was concerned. He could smell me peel a banana three rooms away. When ever I crossed to the pantry, refrigerator or sink he would be under my feet, sometimes literally, yapping for a hand out. You'd think he never got fed, he definitely never went hungry. He made his requests known and I honored them, many times before he even barked. I was always rewarded by his excitement, his eagerness to be near me. His gratitude expressed in wet sloppy kisses that I hungered for.

Then his sight started fading, he was 105 years old after all. He developed cataracts that obscured his vision and kept worsening. Every day I'd find him standing still in some room just looking ahead, not aware of anything around him, deaf and legally blind. I would walk over him and slightly caress his head and ears to make my presence known. He was never startled. He knew I was around somewhere. Even though his sight was poor he still followed my shadow from room to room. He'd wait by my treadmill as I worked out then follow me to the kitchen for his morning treat. Or should I say for his day long treats that were only interrupted by the night long naps I, his owner, took. Oh, by the way, he sleeps near me by my pillow and hence, my head, all night long, and yes, he snores.

One day Buz was outside barking, looking straight up at the sky with his tail wagging to beat the band. Nothing urgent was in his manner. He just stood on all fours patiently waiting for me to answer his summons. And, just as he expected I came. He caught me out of the corner of his eyes and his face turned in my direction. I lifted him and escorted him to the porch where I set him down and made sure he trotted straight ahead into the house. Once when I was negligent he veered to the right, toppled off the four foot high porch, landed on his nose on the concrete covered ground, cushioned by a leaf covered garden hose. I rushed to his side fearful he'd broken his neck. The seconds it took me to get to his side I administered self flagellation, how could I have been so lackadaisical. I picked him up and cradled him against my chest while he shook his head fiercely snorting to expel grass and dirt from his snout. Apparently he'd survived my negligence without giving my any lectures on my carelessness. I now no longer just settle him on the porch without being assured he goes straight into the house.

Deaf and blind he still enjoys life. He still wags his whole body in excitement at feeding time. He still looks forward to his times outside, in his familiar backyard. When he gets lost coming back to the house he just barks for me knowing I'll come. He just knows it beyond a doubt, that I’ll come without hesitation to point him in the correct direction if not carry him in my arms. He's never had any reason to doubt that I'll be there for him.

Too make a long story short, (oops, too late!) blind and death, he knows I’m there, that I’ll never let him down, (well maybe that once when he plummeted off the porch!) He learned this as he grew up. He remembers it in his declining years. He knows I’ll meet his needs for food, water, protection, that I’ll come when he calls if he is just persistent in summoning me. He has blind faith, and even though he can’t hear my voice he knows how to read my signs, or he did until his vision got clouded with cataracts. Isn’t that how our relationship with God should be? He watches us grow and teaches us things along the way so that in our declining years we can have a relationship that is secure, built on a lifetime of experiences. Our lives are much less than one third of God’s existence as it takes a thousand years to make a day for him, yet we are still important to him.

CHRISTIAN ART

There truly is nothing new under the sun. I went from exhibit to exhibit at the “Picturing the Bible, the Earliest Christian Art” presentation at the Kimball Art Museum in Fort Worth, Texas, totally enchanted. A collection of art from the early church history, starting around the third century when Christianity was sanctioned by Constantine and was allowed to come out of hiding, filled room after room guarded by gallery attendants. The visitors to the museum all walked about reverently viewing the display cases and listening to audio presentations. It was as solemn as a church service.

The early Christians had the same emotions and desires we have in the twenty first century! Things really don’t change as far as humans go. They wanted to bury their dead in style. I thought our coffins could be unrealistically elaborate, but….these sarcophaguses would have been beyond my budget even by the standards of the third century. Marble with detailed carvings of bible scenes depicting salvation. Noah and the ark, Jonah and the serpent, Moses leading his people through the red sea, Jesus raising the dead, Jesus rising from the dead, all images of rebirth, salvation and hope. These were obviously paid for by society‘s elite. We place our 12,000 dollar plus boxes in the ground, while these sarcophagus were placed in catacombs where they could be admired occasionally, at the next burial. Where the dioramas could lead someone else to a life changing decision. I wonder how many artisans came to Christ as they researched their subject matter while etching for long hours bible stories into the marble.

And our mausoleums…nothing compared to the artwork on these frescos in the catacombs. Done by hand they told story after story from the old and new testaments. They were modern day devotionals. Testaments of the faith.

And the statures they used for funerary art, spectacular, intricate in detail. Jonah and the Good Shepherd were popular themes. The statures could also have set on end tables in some family’s house to remind them of the bible and its truths, just like we decorate our homes with crosses and angels. They had lamps to burn oil in, made of silver or clay, shaped like ships with Peter and Paul in them, or the ark with Noah and the animals, similar to our novelty lamps. Ornately engraved silver platters like you can find at any modern day department store to add festive touches to dining. Goblets with Christian symbols for church. Crosses? Oh they had some fantastic crosses. One reliquary gold cross with forty or so semi precious jewels that once held a splinter from the cross of Jesus was specially cared for in a temperature controlled display case. I’m no big believer of things that once belonged to the dead having any miraculous significance but I do know God had the Israelites set up stones in the red sea and alters along the way for memorials, so little reminders of our loved ones go a long way.

Two of the saddest tombstones I saw were of a 22 year old wife and a six year old child (not related). Even back then, especially back then, death hit early and hard. Even back then some parents cried: Why me? Why my son? Why so young? And a husband went to bed alone one night, saddened by loss but proud he was able to provide a marble headstone for his loved one who he knew he’d see again some day.

One question that came to mind though as I walked past sarcophagus after sarcophagus, was …where are the inhabitants. Some one paid dearly for their cherished one to be properly interred and now, the sarcophagus is empty and where are the remains? I see the possessions of deceased people, but no people. How long after death does grave robbing turn into an archeological excursion? If I spent tons to bury someone, I’d want them to stay buried. If I paid for a luxury coffin, I wouldn’t want it to be used freely for show without my permission, something that would be hard to acquire millennia after I die.

Other Items that interested me included the reliquary boxes, made of sheet silver with elaborately embossed scenes from the bible. A reliquary box held the remains of martyrs, or pieces of cloth that might have come in contact with the apostles, or even actual pieces of the apostles. Some reliquaries were buried under churches named in honor of it’s contents. How different are we today? We bury prestigious people in the National Cathedral where the public has access to pay eternal respects. Why? They’re dead. There is nothing special about their bodies. No special dispensation will fall on us for touching their remains. We carry hair snippets of our kids, place cremated remains of dad and mom on our mantels, and get personal belongings of loved ones to hold on too.

The early Christians even wore jewelry just like you and I do. Rings with saints and bible characters. The third and fourth century James Avery’s were kept busy with a growing market. Jewelry made of gold, and silver. Nothing has changed. These were real people who were born, lived, loved, married, had their own children, worked, bathed, dressed up, dined, worshiped and died. They craved the same things we do. Food, prestige, adornment, illumination for their homes, freedom to worship, and a place to be buried where they could find their bodies again at the resurrection.

Yes, I disapprove of grave digging, of intruding into the personal lives of the deceased, but nothing has changed. I’m just as much a voyeur as the next person. Count me in the long line of hypocrites because I do recommend this display of our early church family’s lives as worth paying to see.

Heart Health

(this is a true story)

It started with her carotids; no, it started with her eyes. Ellen (not her real name) had been complaining of seeing spots or floaters in her vision so she made an eye appointment. The eye doctor examined her then referred her to a vascular doctor, go figure. It seems something in the eyes’ blood vessels signaled vascular problems. The tests ordered by a vascular surgeon revealed 90 percent plus clogged carotids( the main arteries to the brain) . In the case you don’t know, that’s not good, it means the brain wasn’t receiving adequate nourishment and could precede a transient ischemic attack (TIA, mini stroke) or full blown stroke. After the studies she was kept in an observation unit till she was fully recovered from the sedatives she’d been given for the tests. When she called me to come pick her up she was scared and refusing to go home. It seemed her blood pressure was too high for her liking and she feared a crippling brain infarction. When I got in to see her, I agreed, her blood pressure needed to be evaluated. The doctor that had ordered the tests informed us that her high blood pressure was a good thing at this point since it was keeping her brain perfused (oxygenated), sending vital blood flow past the clogged passageways.

The next step was scheduling surgery to get her carotids cleaned out. One at a time is the safest approach, leaving one artery alone to work while the other healed. So one side was repaired and six weeks latter the opposite side was fixed. She was off work for two weeks each time, and since we carpooled that gave me a wonderful break even though I checked up on her regularly. Now, I’m no doctor, I’m just a "dumb" Registered Nurse, but I suggested to my friend, Ellen, that if her carotids were so bad maybe she needed to have her coronary arteries (arteries in the heart itself) investigated, they were after all smaller than the carotids. Ever hear the word stubborn? In the dictionary, my friend’s picture is on the same page. She insisted that wasn’t necessary. Well, okay, it was her life so I let it go…until…

A year later, Ellen, now in her early 60’s, started complaining of an ache, not a pain, in her left arm that went up her neck and through her left shoulder blade, she blamed the problem on her trip to Houston and the high humidity. I begged her to go to the emergency room for days. She argued; “I can’t just walk in there without seeing my primary physician!” She was right, she could barely walk from work to our car in the parking garage without getting short of breath. With the shortness of breath came anxiety. Something was wrong and yet she refused to get medical help till she contacted her primary physician who was out of town, she wouldn't see his backup, it was her primary or no one! She saw our insurance rules in black and white. Some people feel like insurance companies get the final say.

“Yes you can! Call his office and the answering machine will say ‘if it’s a medical emergency go to the emergency room!’ ” She wouldn’t do it because it wasn’t a medical emergency! Denial in progress. She was smarter than me. (interpretation, more obstinate )

Did I mention, we’re both nurses, and we both work in surgery? That gave me lots of resources. I got three doctors to try to persuade Ellen to go to the emergency room. No good. Then I got the director of surgery to talk to her, still no good. She finally decided to go after her favorite anesthesiologist persuaded her. I accompanied her and waited till she was assigned an examining room,(after an hour wait in triage, women's symptons aren't always taken seriously!) then told her to call me to come pick her up.

After three hours I called the E.R to check on her only to find out that no one knew who she was. Now I was furious, she must have called a taxi after I left and went home! I called and left several messages on her machine. She didn’t have the nerve to call me back. Then an idea came to me. I called our department conveniently located right above the E.R and had someone go down. There was Ellen still waiting for all her tests results. The emergency room personal didn’t know what the right hand was doing!! At least I was no longer mad at my dear friend. It had been loving anger, but it was anger just the same. She was admitted to the hospital that night. I didn’t feel any better about being right when the next day my supervisor popped into my room at work and informed me Ellen had three severely blocked coronary arteries and was scheduled for emergency bypass surgery later in the day. If she had ignored me and her symptoms much longer she‘d being sitting with Jesus now. Not a bad thing, but why rush it, obviously he still has work for her to do down here. Though her physical heart was damaged her spiritual heart keeps me going, she is the most generous person I’ve ever met and this world would not be the same without her.

That has been several years now, and she is still working and praising the person who saved her life. Me?Of course not, I was the nagger. One of the doctors I convinced to talk to her had become her hero! I may have been the one who pleaded and begged with her, and then got the doctors and director involved but she credits her favorite doctor for saving her life!!

This whole story is to illustrate how important it is to watch out for ourselves. Women, we have different symptoms than men and need to take charge of our health. Our greatest deterrent to self care is denial. We don’t have time to be sick, we care for our husbands, kids, pets ect. The world can’t go on without us so we put our care last. Stop it. The world won’t come to a screeching halt if you step back and look after yourselves but it just might stop if you drop dead in your tracts before your appointed time. And so many things can be done to postpone sudden death. Not all risk factors can be changed, (like age, heritary, sex) but following a regular exercise and diet regimen, and of course giving up smoking, can certainly add years and quality to your lives!

Pro. 11:14
Mark 2:17Luke 5:31
Acts 28:8-9
James 5:15

Heart Attack Symptoms in Women

Heart attack symptoms are different for men and women. some warning signs for women. Very few pre-menopausal women have heart attacks, unless they smoke, have diabetes, or are on birth control pills for a long period of time.
Smoking seems to be the biggest risk factor:
• Nausea and vomiting that won’t stop • Breathlessness (but not sighing) with exertion or especially if it wakes you up at night
• Chest discomfort that starts behind the breast bone and radiates to either shoulder or arm, neck, or to the lower (but not upper) jaw
• Discomfort in the lower jaw especially if it occurs only with exertion or will not go away
• Discomfort in the upper back especially if it occurs only with exertion or will not go away
• Discomfort in the chest or back that occurs when doing usual chores after a large meal • Sudden onset of weakness that won’t go away
• Sudden racing heart sensation with a very fast pulse
• Sudden loss of consciousness
• Physical inability to perform usual household chores Who is most at risk with these symptoms? The more of these factors that apply to you, the greater your risk:
• Menstruation has stopped
• Smoking • Family history of arteriosclerotic heart disease before age 60
• High blood pressure (even treated)
• Diabetes (even mild, even treated)
• Obesity
• High cholesterol (even treated) ???