A Small Thought or Two

I don’t think I will ever get this right. I read John Cowart’s blog and know I will never be able to do that.

So I wrote for a living for almost 25 years. That doesn’t mean I’m a writer. It just means I knew how to keep the editors from finding out!

I thought of myself more as a messenger than a writer. If someone gave me something to say, I could do that. I could even do that fairly well. I could communicate their thoughts so others could understand them.

For example, and I am very proud of this, I interviewed a social science type person one time about a program he headed that was supposed to do good to a certain group of people. He spoke jargon – that is he used the vocabulary he and others of his trade used to speak to each other. And it was totally incomprehensible to me.

So I asked him to give me an example. And a little way into the example, I asked him to put what he was saying into simpler words. And so on and so on for about two hours.

In the end I wrote an article and it was published. The next day, he called me. I waited for him to tell me what I had gotten wrong. Instead he thanked me for clarifying his message so the non-professional could understand it. I was amazed and grateful.

Occasionally I have a thought or two of my own. Often these are about an inch long, or maybe two and a half inches long. But they don’t go far or say much.

While I was writing a weekly column, I relied HEAVILY on the Lord to give me something to write about. AND HE DID! That was how I knew I was to write a column.

The day came when He no longer did. I struggled on for a while, meeting deadlines. And then, fortunately, retired.

Since then my writing has been short and, well, I don’t know. Unsatisfactory to me.

I have reused a few of the earlier columns. I have 15 years worth to draw upon. But it doesn’t seem right somehow. They had their 15 minutes of exposure.

Today, I have a little thought to share, so I will. On Wednesday, after her second session of in this round of chemo, Mary, my daughter, was able to make the bed and prepare the coffee pot. She was able to say a few words together without gasping for breath or coughing. These are things she had not been able to do for several weeks.

This is actually her third round of chemo, the first one was back in the fall of 2005. Three rounds of radiation and one brain surgery have come in between.

But I’m happy today with today’s progress. And I don’t mind her bristly hair. I think she’s beautiful almost bald.

Hail, Fellows, Well Met

THOUGHTS ON FELLOWSHIP


I was supposed to say a few words on fellowship recently at the last gathering of a group at my church. Instead I was at home recovering from a colonoscopy – or rather the preparation-from-hell for the event itself.

I had jotted down a few notes ahead of time, so I expanded briefly on these and sent along a copy to the meeting. It said:

One of the things I have really loved about this mentoring program has been becoming part of a fellowship.

I’m a fan of the Lord of the Rings trilogy by Tolkein. I read the books long before the movies came out. The first book is called The Fellowship of the Ring. It’s about a band of people – including a dwarf, an elf, a wizard, several hobbits and a few men – who came together to try to destroy a ring that could ruin their world.

They did not know each other when they started on the task. Some of them didn’t even like each other much. But as they journeyed together, through rough, even dangerous times and ways, they grew to love each other.

We are a fellowship, too, a fellowship of those seeking to know the Lord better and to follow Him more closely. We have come together to share with each other some of the exciting and even maybe dangerous ways our journey with the Lord.

I have loved it. Nothing thrills me more than this kind of sharing. It speaks of Truth and what it means to live within it.

The one-to-one sharing has been especially wonderful, but the fellowship of the larger group has also been very meaningful to me. As I walk through the halls now I know more of you than I did before – and I know you as companions on the same journey.

Thank you all for being this fellowship of the Lord and letting me be part of it.

Why Do You Love Me, Lord?

“Why Me, O Lord! Why did this happen to me?

I could ask myself these questions every day. But if I’m really thinking about it, I wouldn’t actually be asking about the bad things that happen to me and those I love.

I would be asking why the Lord brought me through safely to morning; why I escaped the dangers of the night that befell so many others.

I could also ask why He blessed me so – but most often I don’t.

I don’t always even think about it. I blithely accept the gift of life from God’s hand with barely a hint of thanks. A rainbow may make me appreciate His creation for a moment; the scent of a rose may remind me of His blessings.

But most of the time “Why me?” means, “Why did this terrible thing happen to me?”

If I compared what I do and what I am with the perfect goodness of God, I would not be surprised at the tragedies and troubles that come my way. If strict justice were meted out by God, I’d be in a heap of trouble all the time!

And I’m trying to be good. I’m trying to be a witness to the action of the Spirit of the Lord in my life. I’m trying to love the Lord with all my heart and all my strength and all my mind. And I’m trying to love my neighbor as myself.

But I’m doing a rotten job of it.

I don’t steal or kill or commit adultery. But while the law bans murder, Jesus commands us to love one another – as He loved us. And this love is an action verb.

It isn’t trying. It’s doing.

It isn’t emotions. It’s actions.

I don’t know anyone who does this all the time.

Fortunately, we are not judged strictly by either the Law of Jesus’ commands. He provided for that by His death and resurrection. And we don’t have to do it by ourselves. He also provided us with a Comforter to strengthen us and guide us.

So I try to do His commands not for fear of the just retribution for my law-breaking, but because I bloom in the wellspring of His love and I desire to please Him.

Why me, Lord? Why do You love me so?

I can’t imagine. But I thank You that You do.

And when those tragedies and troubles come?

Then the question becomes, “What do You want me to do now, Lord? Will You help me use it for Your glory?”

A Morning Song

There is a song called, “Morning Has Broken,” that was taken from a poem in the book Children’s Bells, published by Oxford University Press. It is a favorite song of mine.

It starts, “Morning has broken, like the first morning. Blackbird has spoken, like the first bird.”

All this week a very noisy bird that appears to live in a nearby tree has been “speaking” – and waking me up – at the first faint promise of dawn.

His song is sometimes sweet and sometimes raucous. It is his strident notes that penetrate my sleep.

One morning, early, I wondered briefly why I was awake – then I identified the extravagant frills and swirls of the nearby song.

I stretched lazily and turned over on my other side – with my back to the window.

And I thought about how this particular bird reminds me of the newly converted.

People who are newly born-again or Spirit-filled tend to be so thrilled with the least little touch of light in their lives that they make a nuisance of themselves. In fact, sometimes, like my bird, they make so much noise that they disturb the rest of those of us who don’t want to get up for anything less than the blaze of midday.

That thought shook the rest of sleep from my mind.

I wondered, Am I so accustomed to the day that, without the persistent, even pesky chattering and twittering of my morning singer, I would sleep through the fresh newness of the day my Lord has given me?

The newly converted have lived so long with drab darkness that they carry on extravagantly over every little tine of color they can see. Have I lost that sense of awe at the glory to come? Am I so jaded that I no longer see any need to rejoice daily at the announcement of its imminent arrival?

My bird has been charged by God with the daily task of celebrating His creation.

Unlike the bird, I may forget to praise at all.

Tomorrow – if I am awake to see it – the first blush of color in the sky, the fruit of the coming dawn, will remind me of the unforgettable.

Lord, don’t let me forget, not THAT morning.

The Light that came into the world through the Incarnation has risen from the darkness of death.

My eyes have sometimes seen its appearing. My heart has been pierced by its brightness. Even the faint brightness of dawn can pierce a heart.

Tomorrow the dawn – whether I see the sun rise or not – will reveal again the day of Resurrection.

My noisy bird has reminded me that every morning echoes this truth as night fades before the coming light.

The first verse of that song I mentioned ends, “Praise for the morning. Praise for the singing. Praise for them springing fresh from the Word.”

The last verse says, “Mine is the sunlight. Mine is the morning. Born of the one light Eden saw play. Praise with elation. Praise every morning. God’s re-creation of the new day.”

I Miss My Mind

Yesterday’s column is representative of the way my mind is working – or not.

I don’t know where the word “stumped” for “stubbed” came from. Some forgotten pocket in the little gray cells, I suppose. The same place “spelt” for “slept” came from in an earlier entry.

I did read over the earlier entry. My mind just supplied the correct word in the sentence needing slept and I never saw the typo. I mean, it had all the right letters, just not in the right order.

I did not read over the one yesterday. I could barely stand to write it, much less read it again. I wrote because my heart was so full I had to let something out.

Maybe I will try writing one day and waiting for the next day to read it again before posting.

And maybe not.

Brain cancer tops a stubbed toe

I was visiting my daughter and son-in-law recently. He mentioned he had taken the dog – a boxer named Hootch – to the dog park that morning, which explained why Hootch was sleeping instead of bumping me around.

I stumped my toe on a root at the dog park, Dan said.

I had brain surgery, Mary responded.

I’m never going to be able to top that, am I, he asked.

No, she said.

And they laughed.

I don’t even know the words to tell you how I felt. I guess “joy” is the closest I can come.

Mary was diagnosed with small cell lung in October 2005. She had chemo and radiation together.

Her hair fell out. When it began coming out in hand-fulls, she had me cut it short, so it did not look so bad on the shower floor.

She bought a wig in expectation of going bald, but never wore it. Wisps remained around her face and I guess as along as she could see some hair, she didn;t much care what everybody else saw.

Anyway, scans showed the lung cancer was gone, kaput, not there any more.

But another scan six months later found it outside thr lung, in a lymph node by her collarbone. More radiation and more chemo.

And plans for a different chemo to try to “get it” everywhere, to start in three weeks.

Only she had a headache before then. And a slowness to respond. And another spot in her brain.

Thus the brain surgery, which she went through with flying colors – and no apparent loss of anything.

But all her doctors said she needed to radiate her brain. So that’s what’s going on now. The third time for chemo must wait til this is over – the body can take only so much poison at one time.

In the meantime, they laugh with each other. A lot. I think Dan works at finding things to laugh about, including stubbed toes.

I don’t mean they never worry, or cry. I suspect they do. They are real people after all.

But they do laugh and they do it a lot. And they take each day as I comes. And I feel joy when I am with them.




I was visiting my daughter and son-in-law recently. He mentioned he had taken the dog – a boxer named Hootch – to the dog park that morning, which explained why Hootch was sleeping instead of bumping me around.

I stumped my toe on a root at the dog park, Dan said.

I had brain surgery, Mary responded.

I’m never going to be able to top that, am I, he asked.

No, she said.

And they laughed.

I don’t even know the words to tell you how I felt. I guess “joy” is the closest I can come.

Mary was diagnosed with small cell lung in October 2005. She had chemo and radiation together.

Her hair fell out. When it began coming out in hand-fulls, she had me cut it short, so it did not look so bad on the shower floor.

She bought a wig in expectation of going bald, but never wore it. Wisps remained around her face and I guess as along as she could see some hair, she didn;t much care what everybody else saw.

Anyway, scans showed the lung cancer was gone, kaput, not there any more.

But another scan six months later found it outside thr lung, in a lymph node by her collarbone. More radiation and more chemo.

And plans for a different chemo to try to “get it” everywhere, to start in three weeks.

Only she had a headache before then. And a slowness to respond. And another spot in her brain.

Thus the brain surgery, which she went through with flying colors – and no apparent loss of anything.

But all her doctors said she needed to radiate her brain. So that’s what’s going on now. The third time for chemo must wait til this is over – the body can take only so much poison at one time.

In the meantime, they laugh with each other. A lot. I think Dan works at finding things to laugh about, including stubbed toes.

I don’t mean they never worry, or cry. I suspect they do. They are real people after all.

But they do laugh and they do it a lot. And they take each day as I comes. And I feel joy when I am with them.

Hello, Cute Kitty

There was a half-grown kitten in the middle of a pot of impatiens outside my sliding glass windows the other morning.

I didn’t notice him right away. The large black cat pacing majestically by the window caught my attention first. This full grown male was surveying the territory as the lord of the manor might. He stopped and looked over his shoulder briefly and then strode on, out of my sight.

And at that moment I saw the kitten, sitting tall and compact, like an Egyptian god, looking down from his meager height and thinking “I’m invisible.”

The retirement community where I live has a lot of feral cats making their homes here. They like it here because they are well fed and mostly left alone. Some residents complain about them, especially those who accuse them of cutting down on the bird population.

But there are a lot more old women – and maybe an old man or two – who feed them and give them pet names.

But mostly they don’t ever get to pet them, to scratch behind their ears or under their chins, or hold them their furry little bodies on their laps and listen to them purr.

I don’t feed this really cute little kitten. My next door neighbor does. She has since the momma cat appeared at her window with two quite small balls of yellow/orange fur. These two are on their own now. But they know where food is to be found.

The darker one likes my potted plants. I’ve seen him often in another pot that has taller plants in it – I forget the name, dusty miller, I think. Anyway, he sits looking out through the stems.

The impatiens, however, are in a pot on top of another, large Chinese pot turned upside down. It is a more exposed, but higher perch.

I don’t even know if he is a him, but I think he is. His sibling, I think, is a girl. She’s more dainty, less adventuresome. But just as pretty.

I miss my Murphy. She moved in here with me four and a half years ago. We were both old and not too spry. But she must have been older in cat years because she dies almost two years ago

She was a rescue cat and I never knew how old she was. It didn’t matter. She didn’t know how old I was, either.

We just found each other.

I wooed her with food and quiet conversation from a distance. She had not grown up feral and eventually she approached me. I remember the day she let me touch her, the day she decided to jump into my lap, the night it was going to freeze and I asked her if she wanted to come in and she did.

She slept on top of me after that – until I got too hot and made her get off. Then she spelt next to me.

But I had two rooms then and my bathroom was large enough for a litter box. I have one room now and a smaller bathroom. And I can’t bend down to clean a litter box if I had room for one.

So I admire and enjoy watching our untouchable felines. Occasionally I sigh.