At the end of last year, I declared that this new year would be the year of getting back on the beat and finding a steady rhythm in life again after being out of sync for so long.
‘How’s that workin’ out for you?’, you might ask.
Well, in my last post I came clean and admitted my love of the musical, and since then I’ve had all kinds of show tunes running through my head. Even one about rhythm.
Remember that scene in “The King and I” where Mrs. Anna is trying to teach the King of Siam how to dance? More specifically, polka? (and BTW fun facts to know and tell your friends but not really related to this post – I saw Yul Brenner perform this in person. Not on Broadway, but later in a traveling company).
She first tries to get him to feel the beat and counts it out for him:
one – two – three – AND
one – two – three – AND
He tries it together with her.
He counts: ONE – two – three – ONE – two – three – ONE – two – three.
Which doesn’t seem to go with her one – two – three – AND count.
He then declares, “Something wrong.”
“I know. I forget AND.”
Then they dance happily ever after with the “clear understanding that this kind of thing can happen…”
Well. I experienced the one-two-threes myself this past weekend.
My father-in-law, aka Pop, is visiting with us now. His home is three hours away. When he comes to visit us, he usually stays for a little longer than he used to when my mother-in-law was alive and with him. She would always tell him she was ready to go home. Without her, he’s not as eager to leave. I can certainly understand that and he’s always welcome in my home.
When he’s here, the rhythm of our daily lives changes a little bit. Our food habits are one example. We avoid Taco Bell, at which Scott and I usually dine about twice a week. Pop just doesn’t like the “spicy” food. So, we eat more sandwiches. That’s OK too. It’s just different.
The TV is another thing. Pop likes Fox News and Bill O’Reilly and Sean Hannity and Nascar. I can take small doses of all of those, but then I have to go and do something else. I can’t watch an entire hour or three of any of that. I certainly don’t mind him watching it. It’s just different than what the TV schedule is when it’s just Scott and I around the house. I’m usually tuned in to the Food Network. I should probably learn to do with a little less TV anyway.
One of the things Pop wanted to do during this visit was to attend a concert that was taking place nearby. The group he wanted to hear was the Primitive Quartet. So, we went this past Friday night. The music they make is a little bit out of my comfort zone; not a concert I would have attended without Pop’s interest and company. I guess you would classify their music as bluegrass southern gospel. I’m not really sure why they call themselves a quartet because there are six men in the group, but oh well. This post is about not being able to count anyway.
The music was a little twangy for my taste, but their presentation was intriguing. There were no soundtracks. Five of the six men played a string instrument while they sang. The acoustic sound was just their voices and their instruments. No electronic sounds at all. Sometimes they would swap the instruments out with each other, showing proficiency with multiple instruments. A violin, an upright bass, two guitars, and a mandolin.
Unlike the Fox News channel, I was able to sit through an hour of the Primitive Quartet without wanting to flip the remote to Chef Duff and the gang.
Most of the audience was like Pop, and rightly so; really into that kind of music. They sang along and clapped and responded to the lyrics with lots of “hallelujahs” and “praise the Lords.”
A lot of bluegrass music has a waltz-type beat. You know, like:
OOOM–pa–pa. OOOM–pa–pa. OOOM–pa–pa.
Or in real words:
ONE–two–three. ONE–two–three.
It’s a very simple and distinctive cadence that you can both hear and feel, even for the rhythm-challenged individual.
The audience began to clap along with a particular song that moved with this OOOM-pa-pa rhythm. Except, they weren’t clapping in sync with that distinctive waltz-like pulse.
I felt the beat of the music as:
OOOM – pa – pa – OOOM – pa – pa
ONE – two – three – ONE – two – three
rest – CLAP – CLAP – rest – CLAP – CLAP
The clapping, however, ignored the emphasis on the ONE and/or the OOOM and went like this:
CLAP – rest – CLAP – CLAP – rest – CLAP – CLAP
Try waltzing to that. It’s like they were two beats behind.
In the words of the King of Siam, “Something wrong.”
I got the giggles. Mostly it tickled me that no one clapping could tell they were ignoring the over-emphasized down beat or that they were out of sync with the obvious rhythm of the music. One person started it, and as with that concert mob-mentality, everyone else got caught up in it and joined it – and didn’t stop until the song was over.
And then the next song the Primitive Quartet sang that had 3 beats to each measure, the audience did exactly the same thing.
It made the concert a lot more enjoyable for me, and not because I was laughing at people who were clueless about the beat. Absolutely not. I was laughing because I could finally hear the rhythm in my life again and I realized that it is not the same one that everyone else hears. As a matter of fact, I might be the only one that hears it.
And now I have “clear understanding that this kind of thing can happen. Shall we dance? Shall we dance? Shall we dance?”
The Lord appeared to us in the past, saying: "I have loved you with an everlasting love; I have drawn you with loving-kindness. I will build you up again and you will be rebuilt, O Virgin Israel. Again you will take up your tambourines and go out to dance with the joyful. Jeremiah 31: 3-4
Monday, March 1, 2010
Monday, February 22, 2010
Facebook brings back Andrew Jackson
I am a fan of the musical. I always have been. Old Rogers and Hammerstein movies always have a way of sucking me in. I’ve been to Broadway and seen a couple of shows. I’ve experienced traveling production companies and local theater productions too. And, don’t mess with my Andrew Lloyd Webber soundtracks.
There’s just something about needing to burst into song when you reach a critical juncture in your life that appeals to me. Having a four-part chorus line to back you up is also a bonus. There have been many times in life when I met a crisis head-on wishing beyond all else that I had just the right lyrics to some power ballad, a voice like Maria Friedman, and a couple of back-up singers. Somehow that would have made whatever it was I was facing not quite so calamitous.
My husband is a professionally trained musician. He has never been a big fan of the musical. Not the Broadway kind, anyway. To him, it just isn’t serious music. When we first met, my love of the musical was the geez-louise factor about me that he merely tolerated to humor me. Since then, he’s learned to laugh at them. Admittedly, some of the lyrics are a bit ridiculous. (for example : “Sure as the tide wash the golden sand, Benjamin is an innocent man; Sure as bananas need the sun, We are the criminal guilty ones”; and yes we saw "Menopause: The Musical" together - thanks, S & J!)
When the whole Disney High School Musical phenomena happened, I became terribly conflicted. A new musical, yay! But high school? Um. Uh. Geez –louise.
I wanted to jump on the High School Musical wave with everybody else. I refrained. I was a little intimidated.
I never was very good at the whole high school thing. It took me three years to finally begin to figure it out, and by then the band was already playing Pomp and Circumstance. I think mostly I spent my high school years waiting. I’m not sure what I was waiting for, but I knew I hadn’t found it yet. I was so busy waiting for whatever the next thing was, that I think I missed a lot of what was going on around me. I guess if I had to sum up my years at Andrew Jackson Senior High in one phrase it would be: Almost, but not yet.
I remember one incident with my guidance counselor, Melba Collier. She was a wacky sort of woman whose reputation preceded her. She was tiny in stature and wore tailored, no-frills clothes. Her smile flashed a hefty investment in dental work. To be honest, I formed my opinion of her based on what all those who went before me had said about her, and it wasn't pretty.
One day in my senior year Ms. Collier sent a notice to Mrs. Camp’s trig class for me to report to her office. I walked out of that third floor classroom and headed down to the first floor guidance office. When I walked into her office, Ms. Collier came from around her desk, closed the door, and then sat down in chair beside me. She put her arm around me and began to cry. I had no idea why she was crying. Not a clue. I sat there speechless and let her cry. I remember thinking that suddenly I had confirmation of what everyone had been saying about her all along – she was truly wacky (cue the music, insert Broadway power ballad and a few back-up singers right here).
I finally realized that she did not call me into her office for me to comfort her. She was crying FOR ME. Turns out some new scores were out, there were 10 slots and with the new scores I was #11. It wasn’t the first time something like that had happened that year. There had been a series of runner-up kinds of outcomes for me that year. Ms. Collier was trying to show, in the best way she knew how, some empathy for me. God bless her. Maybe she wasn’t so wacky after all.
I guess the wacky one was me because as Ms. Collier cried and went on to explain the sorry-you-didn’t-make-it thing, I remained a little clueless. I saw no reason to shed tears. I couldn’t figure out why she was so upset, or why she thought I was so upset. Because I wasn’t.
I wasn’t bothered because I was too busy still waiting. For something else. I wasn’t sure what it was, but I was pretty certain it didn’t have anything to do with those last 10 slots. I was still waiting for the not yet to become the now and forever.
Almost, but not yet.
So, fast forward a few decades and Facebook brings back high school. Suddenly, I’m reconnected with people I literally haven’t seen since graduation. Finding all the new-old friends again has also brought back that almost, but not yet feeling. In many ways, I’m still waiting for something. Still not sure what it is.
Am I waiting to finally get it right? I mean, not just high school but the whole life in general thing. Maybe.
If I could go back and do high school over again, you bet I would do it different. I held out and held back a lot in high school. In some areas, that was good and I’m a better person for it. I held out on the opportunities for drugs, alcohol, and sex. I just said no. I lost a friend or two over it, but the truth is I probably needed to lose them anyway. The holding back is what I’d do differently. I held back too much of what I should have been giving away. My love. My knowledge. My help. My concern.
If I could have a conversation today with my then 18-year old self it might include some statements like this:
And by the way, I love you!
“Then he said: 'The God of our fathers has chosen you to know his will and to see the Righteous One and to hear words from his mouth. You will be his witness to all men of what you have seen and heard. And now what are you waiting for? Get up, be baptized and wash your sins away, calling on his name.' Acts 22:14-16
There’s just something about needing to burst into song when you reach a critical juncture in your life that appeals to me. Having a four-part chorus line to back you up is also a bonus. There have been many times in life when I met a crisis head-on wishing beyond all else that I had just the right lyrics to some power ballad, a voice like Maria Friedman, and a couple of back-up singers. Somehow that would have made whatever it was I was facing not quite so calamitous.
My husband is a professionally trained musician. He has never been a big fan of the musical. Not the Broadway kind, anyway. To him, it just isn’t serious music. When we first met, my love of the musical was the geez-louise factor about me that he merely tolerated to humor me. Since then, he’s learned to laugh at them. Admittedly, some of the lyrics are a bit ridiculous. (for example : “Sure as the tide wash the golden sand, Benjamin is an innocent man; Sure as bananas need the sun, We are the criminal guilty ones”; and yes we saw "Menopause: The Musical" together - thanks, S & J!)
When the whole Disney High School Musical phenomena happened, I became terribly conflicted. A new musical, yay! But high school? Um. Uh. Geez –louise.
I wanted to jump on the High School Musical wave with everybody else. I refrained. I was a little intimidated.
I never was very good at the whole high school thing. It took me three years to finally begin to figure it out, and by then the band was already playing Pomp and Circumstance. I think mostly I spent my high school years waiting. I’m not sure what I was waiting for, but I knew I hadn’t found it yet. I was so busy waiting for whatever the next thing was, that I think I missed a lot of what was going on around me. I guess if I had to sum up my years at Andrew Jackson Senior High in one phrase it would be: Almost, but not yet.
I remember one incident with my guidance counselor, Melba Collier. She was a wacky sort of woman whose reputation preceded her. She was tiny in stature and wore tailored, no-frills clothes. Her smile flashed a hefty investment in dental work. To be honest, I formed my opinion of her based on what all those who went before me had said about her, and it wasn't pretty.
One day in my senior year Ms. Collier sent a notice to Mrs. Camp’s trig class for me to report to her office. I walked out of that third floor classroom and headed down to the first floor guidance office. When I walked into her office, Ms. Collier came from around her desk, closed the door, and then sat down in chair beside me. She put her arm around me and began to cry. I had no idea why she was crying. Not a clue. I sat there speechless and let her cry. I remember thinking that suddenly I had confirmation of what everyone had been saying about her all along – she was truly wacky (cue the music, insert Broadway power ballad and a few back-up singers right here).
I finally realized that she did not call me into her office for me to comfort her. She was crying FOR ME. Turns out some new scores were out, there were 10 slots and with the new scores I was #11. It wasn’t the first time something like that had happened that year. There had been a series of runner-up kinds of outcomes for me that year. Ms. Collier was trying to show, in the best way she knew how, some empathy for me. God bless her. Maybe she wasn’t so wacky after all.
I guess the wacky one was me because as Ms. Collier cried and went on to explain the sorry-you-didn’t-make-it thing, I remained a little clueless. I saw no reason to shed tears. I couldn’t figure out why she was so upset, or why she thought I was so upset. Because I wasn’t.
I wasn’t bothered because I was too busy still waiting. For something else. I wasn’t sure what it was, but I was pretty certain it didn’t have anything to do with those last 10 slots. I was still waiting for the not yet to become the now and forever.
Almost, but not yet.
So, fast forward a few decades and Facebook brings back high school. Suddenly, I’m reconnected with people I literally haven’t seen since graduation. Finding all the new-old friends again has also brought back that almost, but not yet feeling. In many ways, I’m still waiting for something. Still not sure what it is.
Am I waiting to finally get it right? I mean, not just high school but the whole life in general thing. Maybe.
If I could go back and do high school over again, you bet I would do it different. I held out and held back a lot in high school. In some areas, that was good and I’m a better person for it. I held out on the opportunities for drugs, alcohol, and sex. I just said no. I lost a friend or two over it, but the truth is I probably needed to lose them anyway. The holding back is what I’d do differently. I held back too much of what I should have been giving away. My love. My knowledge. My help. My concern.
If I could have a conversation today with my then 18-year old self it might include some statements like this:
The chorus line can be just as much fun as a lead role, and with a lot less pressure.Now I guess I’m waiting on someone to cue the orchestra for an encore. Maybe I’ll never get it right, but hopefully, if I ever get any kind of do-over maybe I’ll at least be a little better at it the next time.
Every once in a while, a little extra eye liner and some Capezio dance shoes can change your outlook. Don’t take yourself too seriously. Sing. Dance. Out loud. In public.
It’s OK to tell someone you love them. As a matter of fact, it is very important to do so. Sing it if you have to.
Share what you know. Don’t keep it to yourself. It just might help somebody else. Sing it if you have to.
There are around you people speaking destiny into your life even though you don’t realize it. Listen to them.
There are people around speaking destiny into your life even though you don’t realize it. Do NOT listen to them.
The challenge is figuring out the difference for yourself without blaming either one for the outcome of your destiny.
And by the way, I love you!
“Then he said: 'The God of our fathers has chosen you to know his will and to see the Righteous One and to hear words from his mouth. You will be his witness to all men of what you have seen and heard. And now what are you waiting for? Get up, be baptized and wash your sins away, calling on his name.' Acts 22:14-16
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Stop, drop, and roll
We live in a small house. It’s about 1,200 sq. ft. of 3 bedrooms, 2 bathrooms, a small kitchen, and a great room/den/living room/dining room kind of space. The house will be paid for in a couple of years. I never thought we would live here long enough to pay off a mortgage, but then that’s another story.
In our house are two ceiling fans, one big 36” portable fan on a stand, and several other small fans. My husband’s internal thermostat hovers right around boiling point most of the time. The fans are for his benefit.
There are three smoke detectors/fire alarms in the house. One of them is at the entrance of the master bedroom. The second one is over the laundry closet in the hall. The third one is about 4 feet from the oven in the kitchen. That third one is for my benefit. It spares me from having to cook a lot. How, you may ask? Well, if the oven is on even at a low temperature, that alarm goes off screeching DANGER DANGER every time I open the oven door. If I’m cooking something at a high temperature, the oven door doesn’t even have to be open; that alarm just goes off anyway. It’s very annoying.
Mostly, I just avoid using the oven. If I absolutely must bake something, I have to ignore that obnoxious siren warning me of impending doom, pretending that I don’t hear it. It is not easy to ignore being that it’s loud enough for all my neighbors to hear.
On top of that, there’s no measure for what it has done for my self-confidence in the kitchen. I know I’m not a very good cook, but to be taunted by a piece of technology every time I turn on the oven? Well, needless to say, that’s why I started turning the oven off and turning on the Food Network where I can live vicariously through Paula and Duff; and going out to eat; and eating a lot of cereal for dinner.
We have lived in this house 13 years and it has always been that way. I don’t know why it took me so long, but lately I discovered somewhat of a fix for that maddening, blaring alarm that screams at me HEY THE OVEN IS ON even though I am standing right in front of it. And no, the fix was not to just take the batteries out. That was the first thing we ever tried all those years ago. Stupid thing still went off because it is wired into the electrical supply. Batteries are just a back-up. Neither Scott nor I wanted to take on the electricity, so we just dealt with it.
I got one of Scott’s little portable personal fans, put it on a step stool directly under the alarm, turned the fan on high and aimed the cool breeze right at that pesky little alarm. Worked like a charm. I baked some kind of Pillsbury canned bread without the first sound of a disaster warning.
It also gave me a new confidence in the kitchen. Hmmm, maybe I’ll try this cooking thing again.
The past weekend Scott and I made a trip to the big city. The last stop before we headed home was Publix (our small town is a bit grocery store challenged, which is also a story for another day; we simply must visit Publix when we get out of town). Publix had London broil steaks on sale. We bought one. To cook. More specifically, to BROIL.
When I got home from work yesterday, I set up my step stool-fan apparatus. I put two potatoes in the oven to bake. I figured that would pre-heat the oven and get it ready for the London broil that had been marinating all day. I also put some Publix green beans in a pot on the stove.
An hour or so later, Scott got home, the potatoes were done, and it was time to cook the London broil. Still not a peep from the alarm. Every London broil recipe I read said to broil the meat 5 minutes on each side, then let it rest for a few minutes. 10 minutes. That’s all I needed to get through cooking the rest of this meal in total peace and quiet.
I moved the oven rack up to the top position, turned the dial to broil, and put the steak in. Quiet.
One minute went by. Quiet.
Two minutes. Quiet.
Three minutes. Quiet.
Four minutes. Quiet.
Then it started. DANGER DANGER. That incessant, pulsing alarm.
I told Scott to grab the fan, stand on the stool, and hold the fan right up against the alarm. He did that for a little while to no avail. He stepped off the stool and then set about turning on all the fans in the house and opening all the windows and doors.
I took the steak out, turned it over, put it back in for the last 5 minute broil. The alarm was still blaring IMPENDING DOOM. DEATH IS IMMINENT. REPENT NOW. THE END IS NEAR. I just went about my kitchen business. Scott spent the next three minutes trying to get the air to move away from the alarm waving his arms and such. ALL of the alarms were going off by then; not just the one closest to the oven.
Scott walked out to the front porch holding the storm door open. I think he was also trying to intercept any neighbors that might have come running over thinking we needed to be rescued from our demise. I’m sure he would say, “Nothing to see here. No cause for concern. Just my wife cooking dinner.”
After about minute 4 on the second side, I looked in the oven. Sure enough. There it was. Flames. My London broil was on fire.
I called for Scott and pulled the pan out of the oven. We got the fire out (it was small), turned off all the stove and oven elements, and let the steak rest while we continued to move fans around. Finally, the noise of the alarms was silenced. I ended up having to microwave the meat a little because it was still too pink for Scott (who LIKES his meat pink). Dinner turned out OK, but I don’t know if it was worth all the ringing that is still going on in my ears.
It never occurred to me that there might actually be a fire. I was too busy trying to find a way to silence that nasty alarm.
How many times have I tried to silence the warning without actually looking for a cause?
How often have I ignored the warning of danger believing there was no real threat?
How many times have I stuck my fingers in my ears and sang a senseless “la la la la” in my head just to drown out the warning noise?
Oh, Lord, open my ears to Your warnings. Open my eyes to Your work. Open my heart to Your love.
"Today, if you hear his voice, do not harden your hearts…” Hebrew 3:15
In our house are two ceiling fans, one big 36” portable fan on a stand, and several other small fans. My husband’s internal thermostat hovers right around boiling point most of the time. The fans are for his benefit.
There are three smoke detectors/fire alarms in the house. One of them is at the entrance of the master bedroom. The second one is over the laundry closet in the hall. The third one is about 4 feet from the oven in the kitchen. That third one is for my benefit. It spares me from having to cook a lot. How, you may ask? Well, if the oven is on even at a low temperature, that alarm goes off screeching DANGER DANGER every time I open the oven door. If I’m cooking something at a high temperature, the oven door doesn’t even have to be open; that alarm just goes off anyway. It’s very annoying.
Mostly, I just avoid using the oven. If I absolutely must bake something, I have to ignore that obnoxious siren warning me of impending doom, pretending that I don’t hear it. It is not easy to ignore being that it’s loud enough for all my neighbors to hear.
On top of that, there’s no measure for what it has done for my self-confidence in the kitchen. I know I’m not a very good cook, but to be taunted by a piece of technology every time I turn on the oven? Well, needless to say, that’s why I started turning the oven off and turning on the Food Network where I can live vicariously through Paula and Duff; and going out to eat; and eating a lot of cereal for dinner.
We have lived in this house 13 years and it has always been that way. I don’t know why it took me so long, but lately I discovered somewhat of a fix for that maddening, blaring alarm that screams at me HEY THE OVEN IS ON even though I am standing right in front of it. And no, the fix was not to just take the batteries out. That was the first thing we ever tried all those years ago. Stupid thing still went off because it is wired into the electrical supply. Batteries are just a back-up. Neither Scott nor I wanted to take on the electricity, so we just dealt with it.
I got one of Scott’s little portable personal fans, put it on a step stool directly under the alarm, turned the fan on high and aimed the cool breeze right at that pesky little alarm. Worked like a charm. I baked some kind of Pillsbury canned bread without the first sound of a disaster warning.
It also gave me a new confidence in the kitchen. Hmmm, maybe I’ll try this cooking thing again.
The past weekend Scott and I made a trip to the big city. The last stop before we headed home was Publix (our small town is a bit grocery store challenged, which is also a story for another day; we simply must visit Publix when we get out of town). Publix had London broil steaks on sale. We bought one. To cook. More specifically, to BROIL.
When I got home from work yesterday, I set up my step stool-fan apparatus. I put two potatoes in the oven to bake. I figured that would pre-heat the oven and get it ready for the London broil that had been marinating all day. I also put some Publix green beans in a pot on the stove.
An hour or so later, Scott got home, the potatoes were done, and it was time to cook the London broil. Still not a peep from the alarm. Every London broil recipe I read said to broil the meat 5 minutes on each side, then let it rest for a few minutes. 10 minutes. That’s all I needed to get through cooking the rest of this meal in total peace and quiet.
I moved the oven rack up to the top position, turned the dial to broil, and put the steak in. Quiet.
One minute went by. Quiet.
Two minutes. Quiet.
Three minutes. Quiet.
Four minutes. Quiet.
Then it started. DANGER DANGER. That incessant, pulsing alarm.
I told Scott to grab the fan, stand on the stool, and hold the fan right up against the alarm. He did that for a little while to no avail. He stepped off the stool and then set about turning on all the fans in the house and opening all the windows and doors.
I took the steak out, turned it over, put it back in for the last 5 minute broil. The alarm was still blaring IMPENDING DOOM. DEATH IS IMMINENT. REPENT NOW. THE END IS NEAR. I just went about my kitchen business. Scott spent the next three minutes trying to get the air to move away from the alarm waving his arms and such. ALL of the alarms were going off by then; not just the one closest to the oven.
Scott walked out to the front porch holding the storm door open. I think he was also trying to intercept any neighbors that might have come running over thinking we needed to be rescued from our demise. I’m sure he would say, “Nothing to see here. No cause for concern. Just my wife cooking dinner.”
After about minute 4 on the second side, I looked in the oven. Sure enough. There it was. Flames. My London broil was on fire.
I called for Scott and pulled the pan out of the oven. We got the fire out (it was small), turned off all the stove and oven elements, and let the steak rest while we continued to move fans around. Finally, the noise of the alarms was silenced. I ended up having to microwave the meat a little because it was still too pink for Scott (who LIKES his meat pink). Dinner turned out OK, but I don’t know if it was worth all the ringing that is still going on in my ears.
It never occurred to me that there might actually be a fire. I was too busy trying to find a way to silence that nasty alarm.
How many times have I tried to silence the warning without actually looking for a cause?
How often have I ignored the warning of danger believing there was no real threat?
How many times have I stuck my fingers in my ears and sang a senseless “la la la la” in my head just to drown out the warning noise?
Oh, Lord, open my ears to Your warnings. Open my eyes to Your work. Open my heart to Your love.
"Today, if you hear his voice, do not harden your hearts…” Hebrew 3:15
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Where's Mikey when you need him?
There are a handful of blogs that I read frequently. Unlike this blog, those writers are in the habit of posting almost daily, so reading a fresh post frequently from them is not that difficult. A lot of bloggers who write daily posts take the first week of January to review all their posts from the previous year. They do a year in review and highlight their top ten or something like that. So, I've read a lot of "Best of 2009" blog posts lately.
Funny thing about those "Best of" posts. Not funny ha ha, but rather funny hmmmm. More of them than not included some kind of statement about 2009 being a difficult year. Yes, there was the sagging economoy and all that, but even beyond that it seemed that a lot of people who write there lives' events down in a daily blog found their moods and topics with a lot less funny in them this past year.
Well, me too. I lost my funny somewhere back in 2009. I have been determined to find it again in 2010.
And God is faithful. Even in the little things.
Scott and I went out of town for a couple of days. When we returned, a new sign greeted us:
Here's a close-up for a better idea.
Funny thing about those "Best of" posts. Not funny ha ha, but rather funny hmmmm. More of them than not included some kind of statement about 2009 being a difficult year. Yes, there was the sagging economoy and all that, but even beyond that it seemed that a lot of people who write there lives' events down in a daily blog found their moods and topics with a lot less funny in them this past year.
Well, me too. I lost my funny somewhere back in 2009. I have been determined to find it again in 2010.
And God is faithful. Even in the little things.
Scott and I went out of town for a couple of days. When we returned, a new sign greeted us:
Here's a close-up for a better idea.
Andrew Zimmern should seriously consider filming an episode of his Bizarre Foods show here.
I never met a tick until I moved here. Every time Scott went to pick up trash on the roadway our church sponsored in the Keep America Beautiful program, he would come home with ticks attached. That always made me moan and groan even though he was the one with the ticks attached.
I never knew you could fry 'em up like funnel cakes. Hmmm.
Oh well, I guess I'd rather eat them than have them eat me.
They shouted, "This is the voice of a god, not of a man." Immediately, because Herod did not give praise to God, an angel of the Lord struck him down, and he was eaten by worms and died. But the word of God continued to increase and spread. Acts 12: 22-24
Monday, December 28, 2009
It's December 28 and I'm ready for Christmas
Yesterday on the drive to church (Sunday, December 27) I saw a Christmas tree already tossed out on the sidewalk for the refuse workers to pick up. The pick-up schedule for yard waste is bright and early Monday morning. I suppose the tree owners had had enough of that tree and just couldn’t take it for one more day, let alone another week until the next pick-up.
It made me sigh a little to see that naked tree lying on the sidewalk. I just wasn’t ready for Christmas to be over yet.
Actually, I never achieved the “fully prepared” level before Christmas. We stayed busy doing all the things we do for the Christmas season. You know. Eating meals with groups of people we don’t normally eat meals with because special occasions dictate we need to have party.
Musical programs. Oh, the musical programs. There’s a separate one for every age group. I love them, but they do fill up the calendar, especially with all those extra rehearsals.
There’s decorating (Is it just me or was there an inordinate amount of glitter in all the decorations and cards this year? ) Oh, yes, the cards, and the packing and the shipping and all the other postal necessities.
Shopping, which I didn’t do much of this year.
Wrapping. Not much of that either.
And travelling. I honestly can’t remember the last time I woke up on Christmas morning (having to stay in town on Christmas Eve for the communion service at church) and didn’t have to travel several hours to get to any family. Christmas day means we get in the car and go somewhere else.
It’s all fun and I love the Christmas season.
Much of the preparations are so meaningful. I went caroling a couple of times and each time my heart was moved by how the people we sang to expressed their appreciation for our visits. The program the children presented at church was a clear offering of the gospel and was blessed by God like never before. I was so overwhelmed by it I hardly had any words afterwards. I received several Christmas cards with pictures of families I don’t ever get to see in person. I love those because for a few minutes I feel connected to all my long distance friends.
But does it have to be over so soon? We spend at least a good, solid month getting ready for Christmas. I think we should spend another month just enjoying it.
Or maybe we have it backwards. Maybe we should spend less time in preparation and more time just soaking it all in. After all that’s what the shepherds and the wise men did on the first Christmas. They didn’t spend a lot of time getting ready. They received an invitation and went straight to the Savior. They didn’t plan a party or send a card. They just went to see the Savior.
We were reminded of this yesterday in Sunday School:
I just want to do that little bit longer. I don’t want to be “getting ready” to do that. I just want to worship Him.
He’s coming again and when He does, I don’t want to be caught up in any excessive preparations. I want to save my energy and efforts for the praise and worship that will take place when He does come. All it takes to get ready is a prayer:
Get ready now. Then, O, Come, let us adore Him. Today.
Even if it is 3 days after, or 362 days until Christmas again.
When they had seen him, they spread the word concerning what had been told them about this child, and all who heard it were amazed at what the shepherds said to them. Luke 2:17-18
It made me sigh a little to see that naked tree lying on the sidewalk. I just wasn’t ready for Christmas to be over yet.
Actually, I never achieved the “fully prepared” level before Christmas. We stayed busy doing all the things we do for the Christmas season. You know. Eating meals with groups of people we don’t normally eat meals with because special occasions dictate we need to have party.
Musical programs. Oh, the musical programs. There’s a separate one for every age group. I love them, but they do fill up the calendar, especially with all those extra rehearsals.
There’s decorating (Is it just me or was there an inordinate amount of glitter in all the decorations and cards this year? ) Oh, yes, the cards, and the packing and the shipping and all the other postal necessities.
Shopping, which I didn’t do much of this year.
Wrapping. Not much of that either.
And travelling. I honestly can’t remember the last time I woke up on Christmas morning (having to stay in town on Christmas Eve for the communion service at church) and didn’t have to travel several hours to get to any family. Christmas day means we get in the car and go somewhere else.
It’s all fun and I love the Christmas season.
Much of the preparations are so meaningful. I went caroling a couple of times and each time my heart was moved by how the people we sang to expressed their appreciation for our visits. The program the children presented at church was a clear offering of the gospel and was blessed by God like never before. I was so overwhelmed by it I hardly had any words afterwards. I received several Christmas cards with pictures of families I don’t ever get to see in person. I love those because for a few minutes I feel connected to all my long distance friends.
But does it have to be over so soon? We spend at least a good, solid month getting ready for Christmas. I think we should spend another month just enjoying it.
Or maybe we have it backwards. Maybe we should spend less time in preparation and more time just soaking it all in. After all that’s what the shepherds and the wise men did on the first Christmas. They didn’t spend a lot of time getting ready. They received an invitation and went straight to the Savior. They didn’t plan a party or send a card. They just went to see the Savior.
We were reminded of this yesterday in Sunday School:
They worshiped him.After they had heard the king, they went on their way, and the star they had seen in the east went ahead of them until it stopped over the place where the child was. When they saw the star, they were overjoyed. On coming to the house, they saw the child with his mother Mary, and they bowed down and worshiped him. Matthew 2:9-11
I just want to do that little bit longer. I don’t want to be “getting ready” to do that. I just want to worship Him.
He’s coming again and when He does, I don’t want to be caught up in any excessive preparations. I want to save my energy and efforts for the praise and worship that will take place when He does come. All it takes to get ready is a prayer:
I know I’m a sinner and that I need a Savior. I believe You, Jesus, are the one and only born into this world to die for my sins and for that reason, I want You to be Lord of my life.That’s all. No decorated trees that will be discarded to the sidewalk . No glitter. No extra rehearsals.
Get ready now. Then, O, Come, let us adore Him. Today.
Even if it is 3 days after, or 362 days until Christmas again.
When they had seen him, they spread the word concerning what had been told them about this child, and all who heard it were amazed at what the shepherds said to them. Luke 2:17-18
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Intentional Intentions
I've been intending to write this post since the weekend after Thanksgiving. That's at least how long I've been thinking about it. (I'm still trying to find my rhythm again, but working on it).
I intend to do a lot of things that I never get around to doing.
And you know what they say... the road to you-know-where is paved with lots of good intentions.
Then there are things that I do that have nothing to do with original intentions.
Like this, for example.
This is one of my precious Fiesta tumblers. The intention of its creation was to hold a fruity, breakfast beverage. I put pens and pencils in it.
There are other pieces in my Fiesta collection that also don't get used for the purpose they were intended. Like my pitchers. I couldn't find any pictures of my own pitchers (OK, I didn't really look very hard), but a quick Google image search tells me there are others who also misuse their pitchers.
Fiesta pitchers make very lovely vases. I think I've used my Fiesta pitchers as vases more often than I've used them for liquids. The only thing I really ever use a pitcher for is iced tea, and if you're going to make tea you need to make at least a gallon and Fiesta pitchers are just too small for that. So, in my house they hold flowers.
I looked around my computer desk and found a couple of other unintended things.
I've already admitted that I have a issue with pens (you can read about it here). That's another story. Today it's about the cups. And the pitchers. And all the other things not serving their original purpose because I've filled them up with something else. I fill them up and call it creativity and resourcefulness.
Like I said, I've been thinking about these intentions since the weekend after Thanksgiving. That's when we decorated our church sanctuary for Christmas. The people in charge of decorating the sanctuary for Christmas really take it seriously and it always turns out lovely.
The building structure is very traditional Baptist architecture built in the middle of the historical district of an Old South rural town. That's a blessing and a curse. It's a rectangular sanctuary with tall ceilings and large stained glass windows. There are wooden pews with dark red velvety cushions. The pews are in three sections with the center section being the widest. No center aisle. Up front on the altar/stage/I-never-know-what-to-call it section there is white, heavy, wooden pulpit furniture. There's a huge proscenium arch, behind which is a cove that houses a cranky, old pipe organ and some more wooden pews for the choir. Behind the choir pews and elevated above everything else is another recess - -the baptistry (spellcheck wants to make that baptistery, but that just doesn't look right to me).
The baptistry has tall, white, wooden doors. I'm not sure why. To keep people out? To keep people in? Well, back to that in a minute...
Here's a visual peak just to get some perspective. That's Rhonda back there standing behind the tree (and she's not a short person), just so you can see how large that evergreen is.
Now. Here's where the pens in the cups and tumblers come in. And the creativity and resourcefulness. I present to you, The Baptistry.
We close those doors, hang a 10 lb. wreath on them, cover the ledge with red, satiny cloth and holiday poinsettias. It's beautiful. And well done. That's the real thing too, no tacky plastic here. It's creative. And resourceful.
And not at all what it was intended for.
That's the part that makes my heart hurt.
We truly have paved the road to hell and shut the door to heaven with our good intentions and filled it up with our own creative and resourceful purposes. Those doors should be open. It should be filled with water. The water should be warm from the frequent use and cloudy from all the sins that have been washed away.
"For the Son of Man came to seek and to save what was lost." (Luke 19:10).
That is Christmas.
But Joseph said to them, "Don't be afraid. Am I in the place of God? You intended to harm me, but God intended it for good to accomplish what is now being done, the saving of many lives. Genesis 50:19-20
I intend to do a lot of things that I never get around to doing.
And you know what they say... the road to you-know-where is paved with lots of good intentions.
Then there are things that I do that have nothing to do with original intentions.
Like this, for example.
This is one of my precious Fiesta tumblers. The intention of its creation was to hold a fruity, breakfast beverage. I put pens and pencils in it.There are other pieces in my Fiesta collection that also don't get used for the purpose they were intended. Like my pitchers. I couldn't find any pictures of my own pitchers (OK, I didn't really look very hard), but a quick Google image search tells me there are others who also misuse their pitchers.
Fiesta pitchers make very lovely vases. I think I've used my Fiesta pitchers as vases more often than I've used them for liquids. The only thing I really ever use a pitcher for is iced tea, and if you're going to make tea you need to make at least a gallon and Fiesta pitchers are just too small for that. So, in my house they hold flowers.I looked around my computer desk and found a couple of other unintended things.
I've already admitted that I have a issue with pens (you can read about it here). That's another story. Today it's about the cups. And the pitchers. And all the other things not serving their original purpose because I've filled them up with something else. I fill them up and call it creativity and resourcefulness.Like I said, I've been thinking about these intentions since the weekend after Thanksgiving. That's when we decorated our church sanctuary for Christmas. The people in charge of decorating the sanctuary for Christmas really take it seriously and it always turns out lovely.
The building structure is very traditional Baptist architecture built in the middle of the historical district of an Old South rural town. That's a blessing and a curse. It's a rectangular sanctuary with tall ceilings and large stained glass windows. There are wooden pews with dark red velvety cushions. The pews are in three sections with the center section being the widest. No center aisle. Up front on the altar/stage/I-never-know-what-to-call it section there is white, heavy, wooden pulpit furniture. There's a huge proscenium arch, behind which is a cove that houses a cranky, old pipe organ and some more wooden pews for the choir. Behind the choir pews and elevated above everything else is another recess - -the baptistry (spellcheck wants to make that baptistery, but that just doesn't look right to me).
The baptistry has tall, white, wooden doors. I'm not sure why. To keep people out? To keep people in? Well, back to that in a minute...
Here's a visual peak just to get some perspective. That's Rhonda back there standing behind the tree (and she's not a short person), just so you can see how large that evergreen is.
Now. Here's where the pens in the cups and tumblers come in. And the creativity and resourcefulness. I present to you, The Baptistry.
We close those doors, hang a 10 lb. wreath on them, cover the ledge with red, satiny cloth and holiday poinsettias. It's beautiful. And well done. That's the real thing too, no tacky plastic here. It's creative. And resourceful.And not at all what it was intended for.
That's the part that makes my heart hurt.
We truly have paved the road to hell and shut the door to heaven with our good intentions and filled it up with our own creative and resourceful purposes. Those doors should be open. It should be filled with water. The water should be warm from the frequent use and cloudy from all the sins that have been washed away.
"For the Son of Man came to seek and to save what was lost." (Luke 19:10).
That is Christmas.
But Joseph said to them, "Don't be afraid. Am I in the place of God? You intended to harm me, but God intended it for good to accomplish what is now being done, the saving of many lives. Genesis 50:19-20
Monday, November 30, 2009
The Beat Goes On
Two or three weeks ago, Scott and I were sitting on the couch mindlessly trying to find something to watch on TV. Scott was flipping through the channels. He stopped on the movie Drumline. We came in on the last 10 or 15 minutes of the movie. I don’t think I’ve ever seen this movie in its entirety, but in all my channel surfing days, I have caught this final culminating scene several times. Something about that last snare beating showdown always makes me stop and watch.
From what I gather from that final scene, it is an underdog struggle kind of movie centered on a band competition. The final face-off comes down to the rhythm sections of the final two opponents. Both sides beat the heck out of those drums all the while they were spinning and dancing and who knows what else. In the end, the top dogs lost because they disrespectfully beat on the other line’s drums. The underdogs won because they showed some class by keeping their own drumsticks to themselves (oh, just go rent the movie. It’s a lot more effective to see and hear it yourself!).
ANYWAY.
As I watched the blur of those drumsticks moving back and forth and listened to that click-clack cadence get more and more intense as the competition grew fiercer, something hit me. BANG! Like a big bass drum. Or maybe some really loud cymbals. It’s the rhythm. My rhythm! That’s what’s off with me. I’ve lost my rhythm.
Not my dancing or foot tapping rhythm, but my living rhythm. I’ve been clapping on the offbeat since about April. It’s just taken me this long to realize it and to begin to try and get it back.
Yesterday in Sunday School we talked about hope. What are we hoping for in the next year? Saying out loud that I hoped the next year would have none of the icky that this year had helped me see it. And I began to faintly hear it. Ahhh, a quiet little tapping.
The icky of this year that threw me off?
Well, there were my friends. One of them died. In her 40’s. That’s not supposed to happen, is it? Circumstances I can’t do anything about have taken two other special friends out of my regular day to day circle. The quick pace of their chatter in my ears leaves me with lots of quiet. I miss them.
Then there’s my family. My dad was diagnosed with cancer. My 86-year old dad has lived through a heart attack, open heart surgery, prostate cancer surgery, all kinds of skin cancers, a lawn mower accident that took one and a half of his fingers, and a long list of other medical maladies. This chemo has about done him in. It has also sent my mother into orbit because she just doesn’t process new information like she used to. I don’t really know what to do for them anymore or when to do it. I can no longer read their sheet of music.
Oh, and my church. I’ve loved church since I was a little girl. When I was a teenager, I was the only one under 30 that would show up on Wednesday night. That’s how much I loved it. Still all these years later, everything in my life is based around my love for the bride of Christ, often at my own personal expense. So needless to say, I was knocked off balance when the leadership there very NON-lovingly told me that I did not live up to the standards and expectations they had for me and that I needed to sit down and shut up or else. What? All I was doing was trying to look out for someone else’s wellbeing, not even my own. I don’t even know now to march in step with that.
Then, there’s my job. There are just two of us in our office. The boss and me. It’s been a tough year with the economy the way it is and all. The boss turns 65 in January 2010. With business slow and that social security eligibility date looming for him, he announced his retirement for that date. I spent weeks posting the job announcement, collecting resumes, reviewing the resumes, taking all kinds of phone calls about the position, wondering about all the what-if scenarios that might take place after he was gone, and getting slightly depressed over all the variables and unknowns. Then, over a long weekend earlier this month, he changed his mind. He’s staying one more year. Well, OK, I can get back in that groove, but my, oh, my, all the worrying and speculating I wasted on it!
The only major area of my life that has not been rattled this year is my marriage. Then again, Scott and I have always, always, always, marched to completely different drummers anyway. (insert your favorite Thoreau quote here). I think continually trying to hear each other’s drum is what keeps us together. He picks us all the extra beats that I miss. We truly live a syncopated life together.
Once the Drumline movie inspired me to label my situation as a rhythm problem, I did what I usually do. I went to scripture to try and find out what God might say about such a thing. I did a little research (admittedly, not a lot, but still—I used a concordance and a lexicon. That counts for something, doesn’t it?).You know what I found in the Bible about rhythm? Nothing. It might be in there, I just didn’t find it.
The closest I came was:
Well. I’m not ready to give up yet. I’m not ready to throw it away yet. I get more and more ready to speak up every day.
Scripture also says that to God, a day is like a thousand years and a thousand years are like a day. Not only do the number of days belong to God, but so does the rhythm at which the days pass by. Some days are soooo long they seem like years. Some years fly by so quickly that it seems like just weeks between birthdays. In all of them, God is the one beating the drum.
Just one more thing….
(and a spoiler alert...I'm about to REALLY embarass myself).
When Scott was in high school, he was the drum major for the James F. Byrnes Marching Rebel Regiment Band. Apparently, that’s a big deal in South Carolina. His mom told me on several occasions how she prayed for him to achieve that position if it would help him with this career down the road. He’s still pretty good at this beat-keeping business.
Me? I’ve always had trouble keeping up. When I entered band class in the 7th grade, I started out playing the drums. I blinked my eyes every time my drum sticks would hit the snare head. I could never see the music because my eyes were always closed. That lasted about a month then I switched to the woodwind section. A couple of years later, I was in the marching band for one and only one football season. I just couldn’t cut it and eventually gave it up.
I just wish I had been more in tune to God’s cadence at the time and not the one I was conjuring up myself. It would have saved me a lot of heartache and embarrassment.
Please don’t let this happen to me again. If you see me swaying out of step, remind me again to get my fingers out of my ears and listen for God’s rhythm that makes everything beautiful in its time.
But do not forget this one thing, dear friends: With the Lord a day is like a thousand years, and a thousand years are like a day. 2 Peter 3:8
From what I gather from that final scene, it is an underdog struggle kind of movie centered on a band competition. The final face-off comes down to the rhythm sections of the final two opponents. Both sides beat the heck out of those drums all the while they were spinning and dancing and who knows what else. In the end, the top dogs lost because they disrespectfully beat on the other line’s drums. The underdogs won because they showed some class by keeping their own drumsticks to themselves (oh, just go rent the movie. It’s a lot more effective to see and hear it yourself!).
ANYWAY.
As I watched the blur of those drumsticks moving back and forth and listened to that click-clack cadence get more and more intense as the competition grew fiercer, something hit me. BANG! Like a big bass drum. Or maybe some really loud cymbals. It’s the rhythm. My rhythm! That’s what’s off with me. I’ve lost my rhythm.
Not my dancing or foot tapping rhythm, but my living rhythm. I’ve been clapping on the offbeat since about April. It’s just taken me this long to realize it and to begin to try and get it back.
Yesterday in Sunday School we talked about hope. What are we hoping for in the next year? Saying out loud that I hoped the next year would have none of the icky that this year had helped me see it. And I began to faintly hear it. Ahhh, a quiet little tapping.
The icky of this year that threw me off?
Well, there were my friends. One of them died. In her 40’s. That’s not supposed to happen, is it? Circumstances I can’t do anything about have taken two other special friends out of my regular day to day circle. The quick pace of their chatter in my ears leaves me with lots of quiet. I miss them.
Then there’s my family. My dad was diagnosed with cancer. My 86-year old dad has lived through a heart attack, open heart surgery, prostate cancer surgery, all kinds of skin cancers, a lawn mower accident that took one and a half of his fingers, and a long list of other medical maladies. This chemo has about done him in. It has also sent my mother into orbit because she just doesn’t process new information like she used to. I don’t really know what to do for them anymore or when to do it. I can no longer read their sheet of music.
Oh, and my church. I’ve loved church since I was a little girl. When I was a teenager, I was the only one under 30 that would show up on Wednesday night. That’s how much I loved it. Still all these years later, everything in my life is based around my love for the bride of Christ, often at my own personal expense. So needless to say, I was knocked off balance when the leadership there very NON-lovingly told me that I did not live up to the standards and expectations they had for me and that I needed to sit down and shut up or else. What? All I was doing was trying to look out for someone else’s wellbeing, not even my own. I don’t even know now to march in step with that.
Then, there’s my job. There are just two of us in our office. The boss and me. It’s been a tough year with the economy the way it is and all. The boss turns 65 in January 2010. With business slow and that social security eligibility date looming for him, he announced his retirement for that date. I spent weeks posting the job announcement, collecting resumes, reviewing the resumes, taking all kinds of phone calls about the position, wondering about all the what-if scenarios that might take place after he was gone, and getting slightly depressed over all the variables and unknowns. Then, over a long weekend earlier this month, he changed his mind. He’s staying one more year. Well, OK, I can get back in that groove, but my, oh, my, all the worrying and speculating I wasted on it!
The only major area of my life that has not been rattled this year is my marriage. Then again, Scott and I have always, always, always, marched to completely different drummers anyway. (insert your favorite Thoreau quote here). I think continually trying to hear each other’s drum is what keeps us together. He picks us all the extra beats that I miss. We truly live a syncopated life together.
Once the Drumline movie inspired me to label my situation as a rhythm problem, I did what I usually do. I went to scripture to try and find out what God might say about such a thing. I did a little research (admittedly, not a lot, but still—I used a concordance and a lexicon. That counts for something, doesn’t it?).You know what I found in the Bible about rhythm? Nothing. It might be in there, I just didn’t find it.
The closest I came was:
There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven...a time to search and a time to give up, a time to keep and a time to throw away… a time to be silent and a time to speak… I have seen the burden God has laid on men. He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the hearts of men; yet they cannot fathom what God has done from beginning to end. Ecclesiastes 4
Well. I’m not ready to give up yet. I’m not ready to throw it away yet. I get more and more ready to speak up every day.
Scripture also says that to God, a day is like a thousand years and a thousand years are like a day. Not only do the number of days belong to God, but so does the rhythm at which the days pass by. Some days are soooo long they seem like years. Some years fly by so quickly that it seems like just weeks between birthdays. In all of them, God is the one beating the drum.
Just one more thing….
(and a spoiler alert...I'm about to REALLY embarass myself).
When Scott was in high school, he was the drum major for the James F. Byrnes Marching Rebel Regiment Band. Apparently, that’s a big deal in South Carolina. His mom told me on several occasions how she prayed for him to achieve that position if it would help him with this career down the road. He’s still pretty good at this beat-keeping business.
Me? I’ve always had trouble keeping up. When I entered band class in the 7th grade, I started out playing the drums. I blinked my eyes every time my drum sticks would hit the snare head. I could never see the music because my eyes were always closed. That lasted about a month then I switched to the woodwind section. A couple of years later, I was in the marching band for one and only one football season. I just couldn’t cut it and eventually gave it up.
I just wish I had been more in tune to God’s cadence at the time and not the one I was conjuring up myself. It would have saved me a lot of heartache and embarrassment.
Please don’t let this happen to me again. If you see me swaying out of step, remind me again to get my fingers out of my ears and listen for God’s rhythm that makes everything beautiful in its time.But do not forget this one thing, dear friends: With the Lord a day is like a thousand years, and a thousand years are like a day. 2 Peter 3:8
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