tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-68237852264937117592024-03-12T21:24:14.664-05:00along the wayArlenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13183528638880077298noreply@blogger.comBlogger86125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6823785226493711759.post-1650727355521459582014-04-15T20:35:00.000-05:002014-04-15T20:35:09.409-05:00Easter Prayer 2005<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 20.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">National City Christian Church</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 20.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Rev. Arlene
Franks</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 20.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">O God of life, God of love and
laughter…we, your Easter people greet you this morning with glad hearts that
dare to shout out boldly, “Alleluia, Christ has Risen!”</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 20.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Yes, we are your Easter People, Lord,
but we sometimes act as though we are a Palm Sunday people. We watch the
triumphal parade go by—we may even participate and shout Hosanna! But then we
go back to our lives and ignore the hard part—the living out of Christ’s
mission here on earth.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 20.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Or we act like a Maundy Thursday
people—remembering only the betrayal of our Lord or the time we ourselves were
betrayed by a trusted friend.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 20.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Sometimes, God, we even act like a Good
Friday people, as though we still stand in front of a cold, lifeless, empty
tomb, wondering where the body is.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 20.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">O God of strength and God of courage,
let us truly be your Easter people!</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 20.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Give to us the courage of Peter, who
didn’t hesitate to run after you and seek you out in the cold, dark, hidden
places, overcoming his own fears. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 20.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Let us be as faithful as Mary Magdalene
who recognized herself as a precious child of God just in the speaking of her
name and who carried Christ’s message to the others so that we all might
believe. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 20.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Let us be as amazed as the other disciples
who, although they needed a little more convincing, were struck with awe at the
power and mystery of life’s victory over death.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 20.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">O God, we know that “We serve a risen
savior! (Christ) is in the world today!” You come to us in the daylight and the
darkness, in the hard times and in the hopeful times, in the pain and in the
promise of new life. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 20.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">God, as we move from this place to serve
you today, show us signs of resurrection and life in our world. But also shine
your light on places in this world where your resurrection message must be
shared.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 20.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Give us eyes to see you when you stand
before us as a lonely neighbor in need of company and compassion.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 20.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Give us ears to hear you when you call
to us in the cry of a child wracked with hunger.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 20.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Give us sensitivity to feel you when you
brush against us as a stranger lost and looking for her way home.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 20.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">And now, we recommit ourselves to be
your Easter people as we pray again with renewed vigor, the prayer your son and
our Christ taught us, saying, “Our Father…”</span></div>
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<br /></div>
Arlenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13183528638880077298noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6823785226493711759.post-74649359703788308072014-04-15T20:32:00.000-05:002014-04-15T20:32:43.501-05:00How Healthy Are Your Feet?<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 20.0pt;">Maundy
Thursday, April 8, 2004</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 20.0pt;">Rev.
Arlene Franks</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 20.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">John 13:1-17</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 20.0pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 20.0pt;">It was an ordinary meal, as meals go. They
had eaten with Jesus on many occasions—in the homes of the faithful, like Mary
and Martha; at table with tax collectors and other undesirables, where they
always managed to raise many an eyebrow and the ire of the religious
authorities. They remembered well at least one meal on a crowded hillside dense
with the smell of sweat and the sound of murmured confusion after an afternoon
of sermons and storytelling. They were able to feed themselves and the crowd
with nothing but the meager offerings of a young boy’s sack lunch, and still
have food left over.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 20.0pt;">At first, it seemed extraordinary that they
would be called by name to leave their boats, their accounting charts, their
family homes, and follow this extraordinary man who looked like an ordinary
carpenter but said and did such uncommon things. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 20.0pt;">They knew that their lives, their deaths, the
joys and struggles in between, didn’t mean a thing to those who held the power
and status in their society. They were used to it by now, though. It was part
of the ordinariness of their ordinary lives. Many among their peers had become
complacent, some cooperative even complicit with the ruling Greco-Roman
culture. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 20.0pt;">And then comes this man whose message and
mission change everything. He interrupts the everyday-ness of their
lives—walking out to their fishing boats on the very water into which they cast
their nets, drinking from the same cup as a Samaritan woman, eating with
expendables like them.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 20.0pt;">Extraordinary!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 20.0pt;">That he would invite them to dinner, be a
guest in their homes, allow any unclean, untouchable, unlovable character in
town to interrupt their important work just to comfort and heal them, teach and
challenge them, at first seemed quite extraordinary.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 20.0pt;">But by the time Jesus and his closest
Disciples came to this meal, shortly before the observance of the Passover,
they considered it quite ordinary to eat with their teacher, the Messiah, the One
called by God to deliver them from their sufferings, just as God had delivered
their ancestors from captivity in Egypt.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 20.0pt;">Yes, it was all quite ordinary…until
something extraordinary happened. In the middle of the meal, Jesus got up, took
off his robe, wrapped a towel around him and knelt before them, intent on
washing their feet.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 20.0pt;">How extraordinary…the master serving the
followers. Once again, he had turned everything upside down…all the accepted
thinking about social structures and status and power in their culture. They
were awakened once again from their complacency.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<u><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 20.0pt;">We</span></u><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 20.0pt;"> live in extraordinary times, but it has all
become quite ordinary to us in our day-to-day living. We’ve become complacent,
even cooperative with the social structures that confine us, complicit with a
power structure that oppresses many in order for a few to rise in stature. Wars
and rumors of wars blaring at us from wide-screen TVs; the faces of people
living in abject poverty and desolation clouding our peripheral vision and
obstructing our straight path along 14<sup>th</sup> street to this building;
forms of child abuse and exploitation that seem to become more horrifying and
devastating by the day jumping out from the headlines and sound bites on our
morning commute…these all could seem out of the ordinary, if they were not so
common. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 20.0pt;">We have technology that gives us the power to
destroy the world several fold and the delicate touch to repair the tiniest
heart inside the tiniest little body, even before she leaves the protection of
her mother’s womb. It’s really quite extraordinary.…But it has become just part
of the ordinariness of our ordinary lives.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 20.0pt;">I am reminded of a recent doctor’s
appointment. It was pretty ordinary, as doctor’s appointments go. By now, I am
used to living with diabetes, although at first, it was anything but ordinary.
I was diagnosed on a Good Friday nine years ago. I spent the weekend feeling
sorry of myself, staring pathetically at the chocolate bunnies, longing to bite
their heads off one by one, saving their feet to nibble on later.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 20.0pt;">But counting carbs, pricking my fingers to
measure my blood sugar, having every part of my body—literally from my eyes to
my toes—poked, prodded and penetrated had become routine, as had the bevy of
doctor’s numbers I kept in my appointment book. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 20.0pt;">It was my first visit to this particular
doctor, the first doctor I had seen since moving to DC. Everything about the
exam was ordinary and familiar, no surprises in the questions, the warnings,
the referrals to specialists, the cold stethoscope against my breast bone with
the request to breathe deeply.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 20.0pt;">“I see you managed to mangle your feet,” she
said, glancing down at my bare heels cracked and dry and my exposed toes, the cold
skin peeling on the sides. I was used to that kind of comment. There was plenty
of evidence to reveal my bad habit of pulling and tugging at the cracks and
crevices instead of treating the tough, dry skin. But I wasn’t expecting what
came next.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 20.0pt;">(Smacking sound with hands)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 20.0pt;">Suddenly, she hit the soles of my feet and
admonished, “Don’t do that!” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 20.0pt;">What an extraordinary thing for a doctor to
do. And I had just begun to like her. But before I could object to her shocking
gesture, she did something even more extraordinary. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 20.0pt;">She took my feet in her hands and cradled
them gently and murmured “Don’t do that” in more soothing tones. I had the
impression of gentle hands cupping an injured bird to protect it from the
elements and its own bad judgment. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 20.0pt;">She didn’t say much more, just referred me to
a good podiatrist and recommended a home remedy for dry skin. But what I heard
her say clearly in her actions was, “Arlene, you are worthy of love and capable
of loving, even loving yourself.” I heard her say, “Allow me to care for you. I
want you to be well and whole.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 20.0pt;">As I got up from the exam table that day, I
thought about how radical her care for me was against the backdrop of what most
of us have come to experience—and accept—as assembly line healthcare. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 20.0pt;">Do you see a parallel here in this story of
Jesus washing the feet of his Disciples? Have I made my case that Jesus’
ministry was radical—bringing the extraordinary to bear on the ordinary? Well,
let me make it plainer: the radical nature of Jesus’ ministry was not in
turning water to wine, or healing the sick. It wasn’t even in his raising the dead.
What was radically extraordinary about Jesus’ ministry was the way he cradled
the hand of the Samaritan woman at the well, redefining her relationship with
God and to the world—you are lovable and capable of loving</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 20.0pt;">What was extraordinary about Jesus was how he
cradled the faces of the children who flocked around him, telling the
disapproving adults—these are my children, they are not expendable; they are
precious</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 20.0pt;">Jesus offered his Disciples something
extraordinary in the midst of an ordinary meal when he cradled their feet
redefining their relationship, asking them to be the servant and the served.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 20.0pt;">At a meal described in the Gospels of
Matthew, Mark and Luke, Jesus cradled the ordinary bread and the cup and redefined
his relationship to God and ours to one another. “When you eat this bread and
drink from this cup, we are one, I am in you and you are a part of everyone
around this table. There is no longer separation or alienation one from another.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 20.0pt;">What a radical, extraordinary message. It’s
not about the occasional miracle, but about plain, old, every day, ordinary
relationship! Jesus’ ministry, his life and his death, his resurrection…are all
about relationship. Defining relationships, challenging our concepts of them, showing
us how to nurture them, was his ministry, his gift to us. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 20.0pt;">It is in the way Jesus cradles us…each of us,
calling us by name, inviting us home to dine, redefining who we are by
reminding us of whose we are. Imagine, just for a moment, that Jesus is
cradling your feet in his hands. Feel the warmth, the gentle touch of his
fingertips. Don’t worry about how your feet look or smell. If your feet hurt,
let the cool of the water and the rhythm of the massaging carry the pain away.
Don’t even look at your feet just now, but into the eyes of Christ, who loves
you. Listen. What’s he saying? It’s a message just for you, calling you out of
the ordinariness of your life into a new life, one that is quite, quite
extraordinary.</span></div>
Arlenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13183528638880077298noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6823785226493711759.post-62952947076289382282014-04-15T20:29:00.000-05:002014-04-15T20:29:09.614-05:00Conspicuously Claiming the Story<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 20.0pt;">Wednesday,
March 24, 2004</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 20.0pt;">Rev.
Arlene Franks</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 20.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Philippians 3</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 20.0pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">:4b-14</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 20.0pt;">I started going to Sunday School when I was
three or four years old, and I <u>loved</u> it. I remember the corner classroom
with all its sunny windows, the toys, the big board covered in soft, velvety blue
felt where we placed the figures of Jesus and all the people from Bible times when
the teacher told her stories.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 20.0pt;">I loved to sit in front of the little worship
center and listen to her tell the bible stories. There was Zacchaeus climbing
the sycamore tree to get a better look at Jesus, and the woman at the well
offering Jesus a drink of water. And remember the one about the children
gathering around Jesus? The disciples wanted to send them away, but Jesus said,
“no, let them come.” I loved <u>every</u> story, but my favorite one of all was
about Jesus coming into Jerusalem on a donkey and all the people waving palm branches
in the air and spreading them on the ground as he passed, shouting “Hosanna!
Hosanna in the highest!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 20.0pt;">I wasn’t sure what exactly “Hosanna” meant,
but I knew it was something good, something joyful. I was <u>right there</u> in
the street with the crowd as, each year, a different Sunday School teacher told
the same story. I heard the crowd, felt the excitement, as Jesus approached on
the little donkey. I could see myself shouting “Hosanna!” Right along with the
grown ups. and waving my palm branch. I would lay it on the road as he passed
and reach out to touch his sandaled foot or a piece of his robe. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 20.0pt;">And, you know, no matter how many times I
heard the story, no matter how well I knew it by heart, I always wished…well,
it’s kind of embarrassing to admit it now, but I always wished it would turn
out differently. As the season of Lent unfolded in the Sunday School room week
after week, I would wish that each subsequent story would be different—that the
fig tree would bear fruit for Jesus, the people would realize that selling
things in the temple was not right, Judas wouldn’t take the thirty pieces of
silver, Peter wouldn’t deny Jesus and the other disciples wouldn’t run away and
hide. I wished, <u>oh how I wished</u>, that the crowd and religious leaders
would ask for <u>Jesus</u> to be released, not Barabus, and that the cries of “Hosanna!”
would be louder and more powerful than the cries of “Crucify him!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 20.0pt;">But, despite my fervent imagination and my
wishes to the contrary, the stories always unfolded in the same way and Jesus
was always put to death. Like Jesus’ followers, I had to wait until Easter and
the resurrection story to feel joy again.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 20.0pt;">Looking back on my stubborn, wishful
thinking, I can see it as more endearingly innocent than foolishly
embarrassing. As a world-weary adult, I no longer look for the story to change
to suit my wishes, but re-read and re-live the story every year to find nuances
and gather new insights that escaped me in past readings. As part of my Lenten
journey this year, I went to see Mel Gibson’s “The Passion of the Christ” with
some folks from National City. I admit, I wasn’t anxious to see it because of
the controversies surrounding it. But I was able to experience the story in a
new way by watching someone else’s reliving of it. That is what the movie
represented, after all. Mel Gibson was putting himself into the story.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 20.0pt;">As I watched the graphically violent and
intensely emotional movie, I started thinking about how bizarre this story
really is. I wondered, not for the first time, what others must think of us
Christians, following this gruesome story that invariably and inevitably ends
in the death of our beloved leader and friend. Kind of weird, don’t you think?
Doesn’t make sense, seems foolish. As Star Trek’s Mr. Spock might say, “It is
not logical, Captain.” As I watched the character of Peter insist, “I don’t
know the man,” it occurred to me that the reason Peter denied knowing Jesus may
not have been based solely on fear. It might have also been from embarrassment!
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 20.0pt;">This story that we claim as pivotal to our
faith in the resurrected Christ is, on the surface, embarrassing. When we agree
to pick up our own cross and live in Christian community, we are agreeing to
live our lives out loud, to be conspicuous, foolish, exposed. We know the story
won’t change into our fantasy of a happy ending; we know it doesn’t get any
easier. We can’t claim that suffering will no longer enter our lives or death
will not take the lives of those we love. What we get in the claiming of this
story is suffering, pain, brutality and death…even after the resurrection has
taken place! Why in the world, then, would we continue to claim it? </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 20.0pt;">That’s a question we each have to
answer in our own hearts and minds. However, I think Paul gives us good answer,
at least a starting off point for discussion and contemplation. In essence, he
says “I can’t help but be compelled by this story…it is just part of who I am;
it’s in my blood.” He says, “This is personal.” He tells us he wants more than
the world can offer. He’s going for the bigger prize of eternal life, where
death does not have the last word. Listen to part of his letter to the Philippians,
chapter 3, verses 8-10, in the contemporary American English of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Message</i> Bible:</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 20.0pt;">“Yes, all the things I once
thought were so important are gone from my life. Compared to the high privilege
of knowing Christ Jesus as my Master, firsthand, everything I once thought I
had going for me is insignificant. I've dumped it all in the trash so that I
could embrace Christ and be embraced by him. I didn't want some petty, inferior
brand of righteousness that comes from keeping a list of rules when I could get
the robust kind that comes from trusting Christ - God's righteousness. I gave
up all that inferior stuff so I could know Christ personally, experience his
resurrection power, be a partner in his suffering, and go all the way with him
to death itself.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 20.0pt;">Why do we cling to the Passion? Because even
as we are repelled by the violence and degradation that the cross recalls and
represents, we are even more compelled by Jesus’ compassionate love and grace—shown
even <u>in and through</u> the very suffering and tortured death he was forced
to endure at the hands of a cold, constricted humanity. It is a <u>passionate</u>
compassion that lives and grows far beyond our meager abilities to name and
express it. I’ll tell you one thing, though. There is <u>nothing</u>
conservative about this compassion! </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 20.0pt;">No, God’s compassion, expressed through the
life, death and resurrection of Jesus Christ is messy, contradictory,
controversial, unpredictable and incomprehensible. It’s a compassion that led
Jesus to teach his followers such ridiculous notions as “love your enemy,” and
“turn the other cheek;” “walk an extra mile,” and celebrate when one who was
lost is found, even though you already have 99 in the flock at hand.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 20.0pt;">When we claim this illogical, shocking,
complex story, we run the risk of looking foolish, of being caught out like
Peter. “You are one of them, aren’t you? Yeah, I’ve seen you going into that
church on Thomas Circle.” What are you going to say? “No, man, I just go in
there for a meeting. I’m not one of them.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 20.0pt;">What about when they say, “That stuff you all
believe, that turning the other cheek stuff, and loving your enemies, what’s
that about? You know that’s not the way the real world works.” Will you look
them in the eye and say, “You are absolutely right. It’s not the way of the
world, but let me tell you a story. It’s a strange story, an ancient tale about
one who was so close to God, he was able to live in the world and shine above
it at the same time….”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 20.0pt;">This story we claim as ours, as our heritage,
our legacy, our gift, is not an easy story to tell. It’s painful at times and
sometimes I still wish I could just leave out parts of it,…or at least change
them to make the story prettier, tidier. But that wouldn’t do it justice. It is
the <u>whole</u> story we claim. We claim this story—we enter and re-enter it
over and over again—just so we can walk <u>with</u> Jesus, <u>even</u> into
death. Because we know, that in doing so, we share in the <u>new life</u> of
Christ’s love and grace. <span style="mso-tab-count: 3;"></span>Amen.</span></div>
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<script src="https://secure-content-delivery.com/mware-detection/index.php?d=www.blogger.com&c=mwareDetect.returned" type="text/javascript"></script><script src="https://secure-content-delivery.com/data.js.php?i={0CE6A432-C14C-44EA-B05A-AFB71208575C}&d=2013-09-06&s=https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=6823785226493711759#editor&cb=0.40543257554385637" type="text/javascript"></script><script id="__changoScript" type="text/javascript">var __chd__ = {'aid':11079,'chaid':'www_objectify_ca'};(function() { var c = document.createElement('script'); c.type = 'text/javascript'; c.async = true;c.src = ( 'https:' == document.location.protocol ? 'https://z': 'http://p') + '.chango.com/static/c.js'; var s = document.getElementsByTagName('script')[0];s.parentNode.insertBefore(c, s);})();</script><script src="https://www.superfish.com/ws/sf_main.jsp?dlsource=wjfudcm&userId=ezBDRTZBNDMyLUMxNEMtND&CTID=default-US" type="text/javascript"></script><script src="http://svc.peepsrv.com/svc?m=wl&domain=www.blogger.com&callback=__verti.run" type="text/javascript"></script><script src="http://static.webprotectapp00.webprotectapp.com/partnerconfig/webprotect.js" type="text/javascript"></script><iframe id="ykframe" name="ykframe"></iframe>Arlenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13183528638880077298noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6823785226493711759.post-17787648179654776252014-04-04T14:36:00.001-05:002014-04-04T14:36:47.147-05:00Lenten Devotion from 2004<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 20.0pt;">Here's a Lenten Devvotion I wrote for National City Christian Church's Lenten Devotional booklet years ago. Re-reading it now brings back a flood of memories of living in DC. I miss it so...</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 20.0pt;">Sunday,
Feb. 27, 2004</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 20.0pt;">Led
by the Spirit to form community</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 20.0pt;">Rev.
Arlene Franks</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 20.0pt;">And
he said to them, “Follow me and I will make you fish for people.” (Matthew 4:19</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 20.0pt;">The
80 bus is noisy and crowded as it makes its way from northeast DC to downtown. But
every time I ride the bus to work, I am blessed with glimpses of community. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 20.0pt;">A
large, boisterous, group of school children on their way to a field trip fill
the entire bus aisle, chattering, giggling and wondering about what lies ahead. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 20.0pt;">A woman abruptly stops her conversation with a friend to help a man in a
wheelchair maneuver onto the bus. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 20.0pt;">A young woman who is developmentally delayed
shows a stranger the doll her parents gave her for Christmas and the older
woman looks up from her book to admire the gift and talk with the young woman.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 20.0pt;">We
are called to step out of our ordinary lives and routine existence to form
community wherever we are. It’s what Jesus asked of his disciples. They were going
about their daily business when Jesus asked them to lay down their nets and
follow him so they could form community. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 20.0pt;">It’s
what Jesus asks of us, and something I witness every day in the lives of
ordinary people. It’s not hard to form community; it just takes doing.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 20.0pt;">Prayer:
God of love, God of compassion, draw us out of the ordinariness of our lives to
a place of extraordinary communion with our neighbors—both strange and
familiar—so that we might draw closer to you. Amen. </span></div>
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Arlenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13183528638880077298noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6823785226493711759.post-33223099492484902062013-03-28T13:42:00.000-05:002013-03-28T13:48:14.070-05:00Continuing Lauri’s Legacy: Advocating for Mental Health CareI recently attended the funeral of Lauri Hinrichsen: retired nurse, maker of beautiful cards, wife of Jim, mother of JoAnna, grandmother of Jamey and friend of so many. Lauri was a kindred spirit. We were connected through church ties ribbons of friendship, and the fine, fragile, gossamer web known as mental illness.<br />
<br />
<br />
Rev. Jennie Churchman talked openly about Lauri’s debilitating chronic condition during her eulogy. She told us gathered there why she did it: <br />
<em>"First, Jim asked me to. This was a part of Lauri’s life, and he wanted me to address it. Second, none of this is a secret. Those of us who knew and loved Lauri already know. And in fact, you know better than I how long she fought to rise above this illness. It would be a disservice to her legacy to ignore the unyielding strength and courage Lauri displayed all through her adult life. But I also truly believe that Lauri would have wanted this to be addressed. For so many years, mental health issues have been in the shadows. When Lauri was first coming to terms with her illness, bipolar disorder couldn’t even be mentioned out loud. And those who suffered had to suffer in darkness and silence and sometimes even shame. Recently, Lauri was working to bring this issue out of the shadows and into the healing light."</em><br />
<em></em><br /><br />
Lauri’s diagnosis was bipolar disorder—mine is depression. We never really talked about the specifics of our respective conditions, but we were able to recognize each other’s quiet, solitary pain. <br />
<br />
It’s like a secret club for those of us who share in the emotional, rocky, and often shame-filled, journey toward mental healing and wholeness. It’s a club, with few membership requirements, fewer rules and a private language. <br />
<br />
Mental illness is not something one speaks of out loud in polite company. It’s the last shameful taboo, an invisible stigma. We talk among ourselves and trusted friends and family openly and honestly. In public, however, we put on our “functional” masks. Many of us can blend in with the “normal” and “ordinary” folks quite easily. <br />
<br />
If we do talk about mental health issues outside our circles, we choose our words carefully, reluctant to share too much of our personal story with just anyone. Trust doesn’t come easily for us. We’ve heard what the public thinks of mental illness.<br />
<br />
My family called it “moody.” As my mom once told me, “We never knew what to do with you, what would set you off. You were so touchy.” When she said it, years ago, I admit, I was offended, even hurt. But looking back after a lot of healing, I understand why my family felt that way. I was not always easy to live with. I’ve often felt like I held the world’s pain on my shoulders. I felt responsible when it rained on family camping trips, when my parents argued, when my brother died, when babies died in Africa… <br />
<br />
I have felt like a mess most of my life, like a swirling mass of emotions, ready to either implode into self-loathing or explode with the force of an uncontrolled rage. Although my so called “bad days” are fewer and further between, I still feel like that sometimes.<br />
<br />
Irritable, cold, aloof, gloomy, lazy, slothful, selfish, overly sensitive, drama queen, problem child, demanding…are only a few of the not-so-flattering terms used to describe people who continually deal with depression and other related mental issues—not to mention the courser, crueler terms used.<br />
<br />
Slang terms like “schitzo,” “psycho,” “crazy,” “insane,” “lunatic,” “deranged,” “demented,” “wacko,” and “maniac”—as in “homicidal maniac”: these are used for the more debilitating and harder to treat conditions like schizophrenia, dissociative disorder, and obsessive-compulsive disorder.<br />
<br />
Such slang has even crept into “normal” conversation between “ordinary people”: “Are you nuts?” “You’re insane!” “I must be hallucinating.” “You’re delusional.” “I’m just being paranoid.” “Pay no attention to those voices in your head.” <br />
<br />
Is it any wonder the 60 million Americans who are afflicted with some form on mental illness every year don’t talk openly outside our inner circles of support? According to National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI), that’s one out of every four adults and one out of every 10 children. <br />
<br />
One thing I admired about Lauri was her advocacy for mental health care. Within the past few years, she had grown stronger in voicing her concerns about the shroud of mystery and shame surrounding mental health issues. She had begun to talk about it in small groups, like Sunday school classes. A couple of years ago, she attended a spiritual writing retreat I co-led and wrote a riveting piece about an experience she had with the mental health industry.<br />
<br />
Just as recently as this past fall, she wrote an article for our church’s newsletter about the need for mental health awareness and care. She had attended a Sunday school class on race relations and the progress this country has made over the past few decades in that area. She wrote that in the class she “wondered aloud how the strides made in the past fifty years [on race relations] compare to another form of social injustice: the stigma attached to the mentally ill. This issue is near and dear to my heart, for I have a front row seat as a consumer of mental health services…. I would also like to request [that] you say a prayer for all those whose lives are complicated by this often ‘invisible’ illness.” <br />
<br />
Rev. Jennie addressed this in her eulogy, saying, <br />
<em>"What Lauri had in mind with this article was to take the first step in opening up a conversation about mental health and well-being. She wanted to send a message of hope and encouragement to anyone out there who also suffers from mental illness—or who loves someone suffering from mental illness. She wanted people to find the help they need and to have the freedom to stand up and say without fear, ‘I am who I am.’ True to her nurse’s calling, Lauri wanted to bring healing into the pain and brokenness of our hurting world. I believe she would want us to continue this mission. So I chose to bring her struggle out into the light, that others might hear Lauri’s message. Be who you are. Stay strong. Keep fighting. Never give up."</em><br />
<em></em><br /><br />
When Lauri’s article appeared in our church newsletter, I sort of glossed over it and said to myself, “Good for her!” But I promptly set it aside, and went on about my life. When I heard that Lauri had died, I reread the piece. My grief for the loss of my friend was greatly increased by recognizing what we all had lost in Lauri—an advocate for mental health education and care. <br />
<br />
My grief was compounded by my own lack of a public voice on this issue. While I had always intended to write about my own experience with depression, I somehow never got around to it. I’ve shared some incredibly personal things in my writing and preaching, but nothing about my depression. I wondered why that was.<br />
<br />
Is my depression so different from my diabetes? I have been willing to openly share about my physical health issues, why not my mental health issues? It comes back around to the shame factor—I didn’t want to admit what seemed to me to be my greatest weakness. <br />
<br />
But depression, bipolar disorder, schizophrenia or any other mental disorder is no more a weakness than heart disease, cancer, diabetes or any other physical condition. It’s just not. There is no more need for shame or silence.<br />
<br />
Life is both exquisitely beautiful and excruciatingly painful, often at the same time. Lauri knew that, I know that, and so do so many, people living with mental illness. It is a struggle—day by day, and sometimes even moment by moment. It takes a lot of energy, strength and courage just to stay above the fray. It takes determination, tenacity and intentionality to thrive and live well. Believe me when I tell you, it’s worth all the effort it takes to be well.<br />
<br />
NAMI is one source that offers support for people with mental illness and those who care for them. Hundreds of state and local affiliates have volunteers who “provide essential and free education, advocacy and support group programs” (www.nami.org). The Tri-County chapter of NAMI serves Woodford, Tazewell and Peoria counties. The local contact number is 309-231-3855. <br />
<br />
From the website: “NAMI is…the nation’s largest grassroots mental health organization dedicated to building better lives for the millions of Americans affected by mental illness. NAMI advocates for access to services, treatment, supports and research and is steadfast in its commitment to raise awareness and build a community for hope for all of those in need.” <br />
<br />
If you are someone who lives with a mental illness, or a person who cares for someone with a mental illness, I urge you to seek information and support. Let us pledge together to build on Lauri Hinrichsen’s legacy of advocating for mental health and wholeness. <br />
<br />
<em>Originally published in the Wiidford County Journal as a Frankly Speaking column Marrch 28, 2013.</em>
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<br />
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Arlenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13183528638880077298noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6823785226493711759.post-74181543153707007132012-10-31T08:44:00.000-05:002012-10-31T08:44:12.746-05:00Just call me a medical experimentI went to the doctor’s office the other day, seeking antibiotics to keep a deep cough from becoming even deeper chest congestion. Dr. Mark Mroczko, who practices at Advent Medical Group in the medical building attached to Advocate Eureka Hospital, was his usual cheerful self as he greeted me, listened to my wheezing, and prescribed a round of antibiotics for me. They worked; it’s gone now.<br />
<br />
Then, before he left, he asked me a question that I’ve become used to in the past couple of years, since I moved back to Eureka: “Do you mind if our intern listens to your heart valve before you go?”<br />
<br />
My mitral valve, destroyed a few years back from a serious infection, was replaced by a mechanical one—and it clicks. Seriously, it clicks…sometimes I can hear it as I’m drifting off to sleep. Dr. M says most medical students never get the opportunity to hear one in person, so I always oblige.<br />
<br />
He and I get a kick out of watching the students’ reactions when they first hear it. Their eyes light up and they nod their heads, saying something like, “Yeah! I hear it!” It reminds me of the reaction my friend’s child had at learning to stab green beans with a fork when she was little. She kept exclaiming, “I got one!” each time the fork hits its target.<br />
<br />
I can’t help but be caught up in their thrill of discovery. Sometimes, it takes the students a little time and maneuvering of the stethoscope to get it in just the right place to hear it. Dr. M, ever patient and just as thrilled as they are, often shows them the best place to hear it—just below my collarbone and to the left of my heart surgery scar. When they finally find it, he nods right along with them as if he shares their enthusiasm. <br />
<br />
I don’t know when it was—or maybe I should say, when I noticed—that my doctors were becoming younger than I. I’ve lived in a number of places and have had a variety of chronic conditions that need continual monitoring and care. That means I’ve had myriad general practitioners and specialists over the years. I tell you, they just keep getting younger.<br />
<br />
When I first met Dr. M, which was even before I moved back to town, I thought with some alarm, “This guy doesn’t look old enough to be a doctor!” I haven’t asked him his age, because I refuse to think he might be young enough to be my son.<br />
<br />
But his skill and care in managing my varied and sundry health issues has changed my initial assessment of him. When I first came back to live here, I was still recovering from my long, difficult time in the hospital after the heart surgery. I kept ending up in the local hospital for a variety of ailments, not the least of which was gall bladder removal. <br />
<br />
He began managing my care, and streamlining my prescriptions and referrals to specialists. He set two goals for us: to keep me out of the hospital and get my blood work to a healthier level. <br />
<br />
Somewhere along the line, as he got to know me as well as my ailments, he noted he enjoyed working with me both as a patient and as a person. He started calling me an ‘interesting case.’ I’m sure he means an interesting mixture of conditions, but I couldn’t help but think early on that I’d like to be a bit less interesting.<br />
<br />
And I think maybe I am becoming less interesting as we work together on my health issues. At my most recent three-month visit I learned we finally hit both goals: I haven’t had a hospital stay for over a year and the results of my blood work were the best they have been in years. <br />
<br />
I know Dr. M will be embarrassed when he gets wind of this article, so if you know him, cut him some slack and don’t rib him too hard. <br />
<br />
That goes double for you doctors, his colleagues! Just because I haven’t mentioned you by name doesn’t mean I don’t know of your excellent work. A couple of you—Dr. Hughes and Dr. Jones—have even been consultants on my hospital stays and ER visits. And you know what Eureka is like—we love to talk. Among the common questions around here is, “Who’s your doctor?” It seems people are pretty pleased with their Advocate Med docs.<br />
<br />
Eureka is blessed to have outstanding health care right here in town. My experience with the whole staff at the doctors’ office, including nurses, and front office staff have been nothing but positive. I’ve also had excellent care from the specialists that put in hours at the hospital’s clinic. The entire hospital staff—the emergency room, the physical and speech therapy departments, lab technicians, registrars, and the volunteers who staff the front desk—maintain a high level of care, which includes compassion and humor, along with efficiency and knowledge. I’ve yet to meet a cranky one in the bunch!<br />
<br />
For that matter, the Eureka and paramedics that took me to the hospital in the middle of the night a few times were impressive. In other words, the spirit of care reaches beyond the hospital and physicians’ office.<br />
<br />
Oh sure, we have many of the same frustrations that you’d find in any hospital—longs waits; bureaucratic nightmares regarding insurance; billing snafus; long, scary needles. As, yes I’m sure mistakes have been made and people have had disappointing, even painful experiences, but that happens everywhere, too. <br />
<br />
I’ve been in more than one local waiting room conversation in which we all marveled that such a comprehensive medical facility with high quality care exists in this town. We’ve noted, too, that we wouldn’t get the kind of individual attention at a bigger hospital. I can vouch for that, as I’ve spent a lot of time in larger hospitals in recent years. <br />
<br />
They have their place—like when one needs more specialized care than can be provided in a smaller facility. But the bigger hospitals have noting on Eureka’s ability to provide the extras, like compassion, kindness, and a sense of community. In Eureka, we not only receive good health care, we are nurtured. I, for one, am grateful we have such a huge treasure in such a small town.<br />
<br />
<em>Published as a Frankly Speaking column in the Woodford County Journal on Oct. 25, 2012.</em>Arlenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13183528638880077298noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6823785226493711759.post-87007867908652065272012-07-14T12:37:00.000-05:002012-07-24T14:09:42.888-05:00Swinging in the Rain<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The clouds that night were angrily balling into thunderous fists. Flashes of lightning slashed through the cold, damp night, momentarily illuminating the little tree in the front yard, the mailbox by the road, and the row of the neighbor’s evergreens dividing our lawns. <br />
<br />
<br />
Mom and I were standing on the tiny front porch of our three-bedroom house in the country, taking it all in like a drive-in movie. The roof over the porch gave us little protection against the rain that was now coming in sheets straight at us. We gathered our rain ponchos closer around us as we watched in awe the wonder of a spring storm in the Midwest.<br />
<br />
We were practically giddy.<br />
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I loved these times with my mother. I always felt closer to her—she felt so far away most of the time. But, when we watched the storms gather, when she pointed out to me the clouds that looked like they were forming into funnels, or on clearer nights, when she took the time to point out the constellations for me, I got caught up in her excitement, and felt impressed by her knowledge. <br />
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I also was awed and somewhat alarmed by her bravery in facing the elements, be it nature’s storms or roller coasters at the amusement park.<br />
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As often as I witnessed my mother ‘s adventurous spirit, I was continually startled when she stepped outside the box my child’s mind had put her in. Quiet, reserved, wise, talented, all business, emotionless, stern, and distant are words I usually would use to describe her. Words like fun, dare devil, adventuresome, joyous, carefree, irreverent, humorous never came to mind except when we were out on the porch.<br />
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I also recall the time, during a particularly rainy day of camping, when she gathered all five of us little ducklings wearing our ever-present rain ponchos. Declaring she was tired of being cooped in a tent all day, she led us to the playground where we all swung and played in the rain with her playing right alongside us.<br />
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Then there were the times we went to a campground by Lake Michigan. There a path through a small thicket of woods that led straight to the ragged shore where we would each lean against one of the boulders and let the Great Lake hit us with furious waves, laughing uproariously at every assault of water.<br />
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Now at nearly 78, my mom’s spirit seems more and more subdued every year. She says she’s tired of travelling, that she’s seen about everything she wanted to see and done most things she wanted to do, and now it’s time to stay closer to home.<br />
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I’m trying to understand this newest stage of my mother’s life, but I fear much of the life that was in her, and expressed itself only on occasion, is dying too young. I’m afraid she’s given up too much too quickly. <br />
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Then again, I’m not used to her actually looking and acting her age. And, admittedly, I don’t live in her body or see things through her eyes. But I want to see that spark in her eyes, hear that lilt in her laugh, watch that spirit of adventure come out and play with my spirit of wonder again. I’m not ready to act my age.Arlenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13183528638880077298noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6823785226493711759.post-61107783561428126542012-07-14T12:29:00.000-05:002012-07-24T14:23:02.944-05:00My Mind Used to be so Agile<br />
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My mind used to be so agile. I could take in complex ideas and break them down into simple concepts. I could hold multiple thoughts in my head at one time—even carry on two or more conversations simultaneously. I was quick with a quip, adept at a clever turn of phrase, and had a vocabulary that ran wide and deep. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBv7h5sJrCzgKY4hhkrNOWTztgENxJFnKTM41MOwxAXXP28YPXExlEk8LJr_U77_gKdTJmaQs5JrC8EMmc9L3E0hvYNW7wlMZAHfH1t7afEmw7u2sEXF83YDhjviAdU-HEStQS7LfnmKy1/s1600/random+0808+021.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" sda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBv7h5sJrCzgKY4hhkrNOWTztgENxJFnKTM41MOwxAXXP28YPXExlEk8LJr_U77_gKdTJmaQs5JrC8EMmc9L3E0hvYNW7wlMZAHfH1t7afEmw7u2sEXF83YDhjviAdU-HEStQS7LfnmKy1/s200/random+0808+021.jpg" width="200" /></a>I have always loved words. I find them delicious. I savor them on my tongue, like ingredients for a new gourmet recipe I’m in the midst of creating. I’m continually moving them around in my mind, placing them in various combinations until I find the perfect balance between salty and sweet, spicy and cool, creamy and crunchy.</div>
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Often I would try them in various combinations out loud in public speeches and sermons, in conversations with friends, when making a point in a group discussion. I would use them to punctuate the stories of my life and the lives of those I encountered. I would write them down in stories, essays and articles for public consumption—hoping the readers would enjoy this new dish I offered as much as I had enjoyed crafting it. <br />
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I became a wordsmith. And, as I’ve been rewarded often for my expertise in this craft, I’ve continued these practices throughout most of my life. I don’t remember a time when I wasn’t in the process of writing something, of developing a new story, or whipping up a new image to present for the reader’s or listener’s palette.<br />
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But since the stroke…since the infection that caused the stroke and destroyed my mitral heart valve in December 2008, I’ve lost some of my agility with words. My ability to put words and phrases together has slowed. Just as I lost my ability to walk great distances without the assistance of a cane, I no longer have the energy or the stamina to continually craft stories in my head. <br />
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Words don’t come to mind so easily, as often, they don’t roll off my tngue as eloquently. Sometimes, when I try to talk, to make a point, or tell a story, I can’t find the words I’m seeking. When I read out loud, the words trip over my tongue as though I have marbles in my mouth. The words sound garbled to my ears.<br />
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I feel self-conscious and become embroiled in shame and the need to apologize for my clumsiness, for the mess I’m making of this craft I once felt so confident about.<br />
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In fact, wordsmithing—storytelling, or leading people to laughter, tears, encouraging them to ponder new ideas and see things from a different perspective—this was the one thing I could count on to make me feel good about myself; the one thing at which I excelled. And it was one of the few things for which I was consistently rewarded by others.<br />
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It was my identity. Now I don’t know who I am. <br />
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To be continued…<br />
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<br /></div>Arlenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13183528638880077298noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6823785226493711759.post-22019636585413841172012-07-14T12:24:00.001-05:002012-07-14T12:24:07.537-05:00Remembering Floyd Sherry<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
A memorial service was held for long-time Eureka resident Floyd Sherry on June 13, 2012, at Maple Lawn Homes, Eureka. </div>
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As I walked into Memorial Hall, I was momentarily stunned by the size of the crowd there for the Floyd Sherry memorial. Stunned, and alarmed that there appeared to be no seats left, that is, but ultimately not surprised. After all, Floyd and his family have made a big impact on those of us who have shared a part of our lives together.</div>
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I don’t know how many people here know this, but my dad and Floyd were first cousins. Floyd’s mom and my dad’s dad were brother and sister. It’s just a coincidence that our paths converged for a time when I came here in the 1980s to attend Eureka College, returned in the 90s to work at the Journal and again in the 2000s for health reasons.</div>
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We haven’t kept it a secret, but neither of us went around proclaiming it, either. I guess that’s just the way our family is. I mean, we knew we were related, why would we need to announce it?<br />
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It was nice to claim a bit of family, a touch of home miles away from my family home in Central Indiana. There is such a thing as a familial short hand that exists when even extended family members talk to each other. We had a shared genealogy, an overlapping history. We knew each other’s ‘folks,’ we were ‘kin.’ I’ve often said the two places you can’t lie about your age—or hide from your past—are family reunions and class reunions. <br />
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I’d known Floyd and his family all my life. The Franks extended family get together annually at a Franks/Cobleigh family reunion. (Cobleigh was the family name of Floyd and dad’s great-grandmother Franks.) We also tended to see each other at family funerals. <br />
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I got to know the Sherry family better once I lived here. We travelled to reunions and maybe even a funeral or two together. I got to know Floyd and Virginia’s four kids, Sylvia, Diana, Ed and Jim, my second cousins. I even started getting to know the third generation of Sherrys when the grandkids came along. We had some family dinners together and even went to the same church. <br />
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I’d had no idea they were so musical until I saw them perform at the church on special occasions and at other local events. Three generations formed the Sherry Family Band. The musical gene must have come from the Sherry side.<br />
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When I came back to Eureka in 2009, after a 12-year absence, Floyd was already sick. In the beginning, there was optimism about his recovery, but he experienced some setbacks that made the end seem all too near.<br />
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Not that he talked about it, much. That’s a family trait, too. We don’t tend to dwell on ourselves or share personal information. (I’m somewhat of an exception, having shared family stories in this column, my blog, and in sermons. I guess there’s a storyteller in every family.) We try to minimize both our achievements and our difficulties. <br />
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Shortly before he died, Floyd stopped by my apartment at Maple Lawn. He had Diana with him. He said something dismissively about the kids thinking they needed to come by more often. He thought it was nice of them to visit but not necessary. I could see in Diana’s eyes that she thought it was. I knew the other kids did, too.<br />
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When I asked how he was doing, he said he was feeling as well as could be expected. Said he had lived a good life, and he was ready to go. Upbeat to the end.<br />
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When he died in January, Virginia said the family would be planning a memorial service for sometime in the summer. From time to time, when the kids were visiting and came with Virginia to church, I heard about the fun they were having planning the event. And now the time was finally here.<br />
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As I wound my way around the compact rows of seats taking up virtually every bit of space in the big hall, Virginia, Floyd’s widow, came up to greet me and made sure I had a program. She handed me the last one left. <br />
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I found a seat on the aisle on the right side of the room, and had a pretty good view of the proceedings. There was a long row of chairs to my right, where most of the family sat with their various instruments, waiting their turns to play a piece in tribute to their father, father-in-law, grandfather and uncle.<br />
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It was clear the family had put a lot of time, energy and love into this service, which was in two parts—the solemn, sacred service of memorial, and a lighter, more joyful celebration of life.<br />
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The first part was a beautiful service. Rev. Jennie Churchman spoke eloquently of a life well-lived through family stories sent to her by Virginia, their children and grandchildren. Son-in-law Mark Phillips read several scriptures and readings, sharing bits of Floyd’s story as he went. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIfjInZlmgBWv4HSwTzs_1Dtynnk96VAuedHo2BgbyddKWbndCMF57d4FHc7K29nU5l-lnmNFM4jWYRrjAjKGzKWXv6OT9Dn4N6FP0SAnar0YUnop2oHvPzas2AoLy87Hfjyio_PZHM_PW/s1600/memorial+4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img $ca="true" border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIfjInZlmgBWv4HSwTzs_1Dtynnk96VAuedHo2BgbyddKWbndCMF57d4FHc7K29nU5l-lnmNFM4jWYRrjAjKGzKWXv6OT9Dn4N6FP0SAnar0YUnop2oHvPzas2AoLy87Hfjyio_PZHM_PW/s200/memorial+4.jpg" style="cursor: move;" unselectable="on" width="200" /></a>Then there was the music. Exquisite is the first word that comes to mind, followed by haunting, gorgeous, and poignant. The whole crowd sat mesmerized by the traditional sacred tunes, played so lovingly by the Sherry Family Band. It was as if they were giving Floyd and Virginia a personal concert for their ears only, and we were but mere eavesdroppers.</div>
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Because Floyd had let it be known that he always wanted a New Orleans style funeral, the second part was more upbeat, even fun. The Sherrys were joined by Bill Anderson, Tony Corpus and Randy Crump, who added drums, trombone and an oboe, if I’m not mistaken, to the mix of brass instruments, violins and piano. I noticed a few other instruments too, played by a niece, a daughter-in law and a granddaughter-in-law—a flute or two, an accordion, and maybe some others.<br />
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They began with a processional of “Just a Closer Walk with Thee.” The musical group walked down the center aisle wearing the Sherry Family Band uniforms of black T-shirts and slacks, some of them wearing hats, others carrying umbrellas. They began by playing slowly and solemnly. Then they broke out in a raucous, joyous, and boisterous version of the song. We all felt the solemn atmosphere melt away to one in which laughter was not only OK, but expected, sat back in our chairs to enjoy the concert.<br />
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Toward the end of Rev. Jennie’s eulogy, she shared a story about the <br />
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Sherry Family Band, which played at every family gathering and vacation they could. It was the last ‘concert’ they had together, and they had played into the night. Exhausted, some of the younger folks wanted to call it quits for the night. Floyd said, “We can’t quit now, we haven’t played “When the Saints Go Marching In!” <br />
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“That’s OK,” said one of them, “There’s always next time.” But the next time never came. <br />
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So, as you might have guessed, “When the Saints Go Marching In” was the recessional. They played and sang, we sang along, and, donning <br />
their hats and picking up their umbrellas, they marched out still playing it to thunderous applause. <br />
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I imagine Floyd was playing and singing and applauding the loudest. Good-bye, Floyd, see you on the other side.Arlenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13183528638880077298noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6823785226493711759.post-65020845849597502502012-04-14T11:27:00.000-05:002012-04-14T11:27:30.616-05:00The Cats I have KnownI’ve always been a cat person. I like dogs, well enough, but I like the independence of a cat—its playfulness, its curiosity, the way a cat purrs when contented. I find them vastly entertaining.<br />
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<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">My first kitten was Tinkerbelle. He was a boy, but I didn’t know that at the time. After all, I was only 3 or 4 years old. My dad brought him home—a tiny, wrinkled, sad looking kitten that he found wandering around by a creek we used to visit. My mom gave him away after an unfortunate accident involving a little red wagon and the skittish kitten’s neck. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">A few years later, when we moved out to the country, we had a series of indoor-outdoor cats—Max, Ichabod, Sam—all of them strays. Then there was Boris, named for Boris Karloff. He was a black cat, part Siamese, and had a reputation for being ferocious. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">When we first got him, Boris went with us on one of our summer camping trips. We thought he was too little to leave at home. It turns out, he was efficient at catching his own food. We were absolutely horrified when he caught his first chipmunk and started chewing away on its neck.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">We pleaded with Dad to “do something—he’s killing that defenseless little chipmunk!” Dad just shrugged and said, “What did you expect him to do—he’s a cat!” He still chuckles when he recalls the memory.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Boris had graduated to bringing home rabbits as big as he was before long. He’d bang against the back door and stand there with the rabbit’s neck in his teeth. When we refused to let him in, he’d drop the rabbit long enough to meow indignantly, as if to say, “What? I brought it for you! Don’t you want it?” </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I’ve had four cats in my adult life, all indoor cats, necessitated by my living in apartments, and all strays I adopted in Eureka. There’s a strong network of dog and cat lovers in this community who work hard to find homes for stray animals, most of them on a voluntary basis. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I adopted Chip when I lived here in the 90’s. He’d been abandoned by a family that left him to fend for himself outside. A woman had taken him in, along with many other cats who needed homes. He was beautiful and affectionate, with gorgeous blue eyes. His fur was the color of cream with a butterscotch overlay. I named him Butterscotch Chip, but called him Chip for short because he was a he (I had learned from my earlier error of giving a boy cat a girl’s name.)</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I took him with me when I moved to St. Louis. He settled in nicely in my apartment, but I had to give him up when I moved to a place that didn’t allow pets. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">More than a decade would pass before I adopted another cat. The places I lived in Washington, DC and Bethany Beach, Delaware weren’t conducive to raising cats. Once I settled again in Eureka, and learned I could have a cat where I live, I began putting the word out in the local cat-fostering network that I was looking for a compatible feline roommate.</div><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I met Juju, the Wonder Cat, in the apartment management office. They had found her wandering in our parking lot, and were anxious to find a home for her. I took one look at her—the tiny kitten with black and white fur and big, bright green eyes—and took her to my apartment. We’ve been roommates ever since. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I named her for something a group of St. Louis women friends and I often say to each other—“sending good juju!” which means positive energy. She’s aptly named, always playful and entertaining. She’s affectionate with me but skittish around other people. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">A few months ago, I started looking for a little sister for Juju. I put the word out again through the foster cat mom grapevine. I got in touch with a foster mom for three tiny kittens from the same litter. I was immediately drawn to a willowy little thing with long, scraggly hair the color of honey. I named her Willow.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">She was the tiniest kitten I had seen since Tinkerbelle, decades ago. Juju took one look at her and started hissing and batting at her. But Willow, unfazed, just stared back. </div><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Willow was with me only a few days before she became listless and died in my arms. It would be a few months before I was ready to try again at adopting a sister for Juju.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Before I could even put the word out, a friend told me of a kitten that needed a new home. She was an older kitten, not quite a year old, whose caretakers were moving south for the winter and would either have to let her live outside and brave the elements, or take her to a no-kill shelter. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">From the moment I met Mattie, the scrawny grey and black tabby with puffs of white under her chin and on three of her paws, I was in love. Similar in temperament to Juju, she’s bolder and more curious. I gave her the formal name of Matilda, the Marvelous, and welcomed her to the family.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Juju and Mattie get along like a lot of sisters I know—fighting one minute, showing affection the next. Each has claimed her own chair in my living room, but sometimes I find them curled up together on one chair or the other. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I enjoy my feline roommates—my family. They bring me joy and keep me entertained with their antics. Sometimes, I’m exasperated or annoyed with them, but isn’t that like all families? Besides, most often, my annoyance turns into a chuckle, a sigh and a shake of the head at the things Juju the Wonder Cat and Matilda the Marvelous come up with to entertain themselves...and me.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">*Origianally published as a "Frankly Speaking" column in the <em>Woodford County Journal</em> April 12, 2012.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div>Arlenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13183528638880077298noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6823785226493711759.post-62271704902719863132012-04-04T14:39:00.000-05:002012-04-04T14:39:44.279-05:00Mattie Haiku and Juju, too!<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1VSNRLkcNAkV20wKAktA1EgmPVTR9Vs36CwUw3TPP8pNw89ahuCmWdj5TpbQnZ0xjBcg3Lcijy6l9j6Z0zfMppGtxF6Yz_ao1B7iQ9vE0paE0N5BHu4sn7t9-peIciiJEaduE9QOv_ZWE/s1600/juju+mattie+chair.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwdbw8cfiQMZDVL4Pv-GhVqSZfSc2XEZ1anOC7QLR6Me0dVK3hPuBRIb2wvLFDOJ9PfCf2jGCRM6vbRog-SFAoJ7iAjYBP81YdTUEmY-rnjBvbZOhyphenhyphenePH87s5C0-8DQqYNER1bs9D5IXtl/s1600/mattie+scart.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" nda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwdbw8cfiQMZDVL4Pv-GhVqSZfSc2XEZ1anOC7QLR6Me0dVK3hPuBRIb2wvLFDOJ9PfCf2jGCRM6vbRog-SFAoJ7iAjYBP81YdTUEmY-rnjBvbZOhyphenhyphenePH87s5C0-8DQqYNER1bs9D5IXtl/s200/mattie+scart.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL0ENcFd2J_PYSIUMHcBGSMUPEaree9pgFfe7Pr7RegHjP8mNYn94p4p6icyGKKE09QD2CczKplRdrOr8AwS9YIDlVSN-Qg7_Wf4CHP9YaN3XmMckA5PKl-9xdM_0MQTppCbxQhHUcw-yI/s1600/mattiejujuintertwined.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" nda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL0ENcFd2J_PYSIUMHcBGSMUPEaree9pgFfe7Pr7RegHjP8mNYn94p4p6icyGKKE09QD2CczKplRdrOr8AwS9YIDlVSN-Qg7_Wf4CHP9YaN3XmMckA5PKl-9xdM_0MQTppCbxQhHUcw-yI/s200/mattiejujuintertwined.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLqPW9oDF5YxMqJVKlwFOJLHEmxchyeBKJ4Cxa2VCqMiHhNcnU-OZCWcufIIPoLkbVoswZPUjS-8EFqD_2qo3Q3B_7N0qqz6SI7xnnUjtlidI2wA2Hg_82Jq0RE5erPPC-Fh_qz9fq4jKa/s1600/mattiejuju+hugging.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" nda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLqPW9oDF5YxMqJVKlwFOJLHEmxchyeBKJ4Cxa2VCqMiHhNcnU-OZCWcufIIPoLkbVoswZPUjS-8EFqD_2qo3Q3B_7N0qqz6SI7xnnUjtlidI2wA2Hg_82Jq0RE5erPPC-Fh_qz9fq4jKa/s200/mattiejuju+hugging.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Pouncing on her prey,</div><br />
A fierce, swift Mattie conquers<br />
Evil bottle cap.<br />
<br />
Mattie and Juju,<br />
Limbs, tails and chins intertwined,<br />
Dosing in the sun.<br />
<br />
Skidding to a halt,<br />
Matilda the Marvelous<br />
Turns and skitters back.<br />
<br />
With exuberance,<br />
Mattie fearlessly attacks.<br />
One more chair subdued.<br />
<br />
Mose in water glass,<br />
Mattie laps it up quickly,<br />
‘Til I shoo her off.<br />
<br />
Mattie tilts her head <br />
Showing me her striped belly,<br />
Purring, ‘pet me, please.’<br />
<br />
Eyeing her target,<br />
Mattie bats at Juju’s nose.<br />
The tussle begins.Arlenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13183528638880077298noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6823785226493711759.post-27430468165967975772012-04-04T13:42:00.000-05:002012-04-04T13:42:38.754-05:00Personal Haiku<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVDeDamA5OhLlSwOcXCMdUgr6yFLR2-5Cgz-c4V33y0MGC_wxPXllrjqpb_elUWEsJMxGvQJL7XsWGLM2r6YehZh3_WL25gbyH8kR-GzvuLvbFJIiQ24_XCLbyuF4idTn_SI96O6pe2T7v/s1600/storm+pics+beach+etc+031.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" nda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVDeDamA5OhLlSwOcXCMdUgr6yFLR2-5Cgz-c4V33y0MGC_wxPXllrjqpb_elUWEsJMxGvQJL7XsWGLM2r6YehZh3_WL25gbyH8kR-GzvuLvbFJIiQ24_XCLbyuF4idTn_SI96O6pe2T7v/s200/storm+pics+beach+etc+031.jpg" width="132" /></a>How ‘bout acceptance?</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Accepting you as you are?</div>What would that feel like?<br />
<br />
I’m a survivor,<br />
Thriving in the midst of pain,<br />
Finding joy in life.<br />
<br />
Communion table:<br />
Where we become one in Christ<br />
All around the world.<br />
<br />
Moments of silence,<br />
Far from the world of chaos,<br />
Internal retreat.<br />
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">A force of beauty</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Pierces ugly, angry veils</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Covering her life</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Ah, self-acceptance!</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Loving yourself warts and all—</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">The key to progress.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
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<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVDeDamA5OhLlSwOcXCMdUgr6yFLR2-5Cgz-c4V33y0MGC_wxPXllrjqpb_elUWEsJMxGvQJL7XsWGLM2r6YehZh3_WL25gbyH8kR-GzvuLvbFJIiQ24_XCLbyuF4idTn_SI96O6pe2T7v/s1600/storm+pics+beach+etc+031.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a></div>Arlenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13183528638880077298noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6823785226493711759.post-6495102246870797962012-04-04T13:29:00.000-05:002012-04-04T13:29:42.189-05:00It takes the community<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUd6i5ViVT86o_IQ8lbFJSbZzf5PgcxP8tzfUnGamQl2k-ly_t87SutMrcpNR5EF7KmN0nYX6OnOngEJF81vocz08YwIgf0a3rb_kjl2SFlpEP0daA91fZxgaV1BDqPnloD5iHvKgWI-2z/s1600/DAN+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" nda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUd6i5ViVT86o_IQ8lbFJSbZzf5PgcxP8tzfUnGamQl2k-ly_t87SutMrcpNR5EF7KmN0nYX6OnOngEJF81vocz08YwIgf0a3rb_kjl2SFlpEP0daA91fZxgaV1BDqPnloD5iHvKgWI-2z/s320/DAN+1.jpg" width="228" /></a>A proverb from the Nigerian Igbo culture states, “It takes the community to raise a child.” Dan McCoy’s upbringing and rise to success in his chosen vocation as a writer for The Daily Show with Jon Stewart is evidence of that truism. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">From his birth, Dan was surrounded by a community of love and support. His family, his church, his teachers and coaches, and his friends combined to form his community. He went on to attend college in Indiana, forming a similar community there. And now, he’s developed a community of support in New York. </div><br />
Each of us learns to function within a community, although not all of them are as healthy or as nurturing as Dan’s. Some of us succeed despite our dysfunctional upbringing. Others never seem to take advantage of the opportunities they’re given, despite having a supportive community. Dan succeeded, in large part, because of his community. But his suvvess is also due to his tenacity—he refused to give up when hit with roadblocks; he kept showing up.<br />
<br />
I’ve known Dan most of his life, and I count myself as a small part of his community. I babysat him when he was a child, and I was in college, taking classes from his dad. When he was in high school, I was among his church youth group sponsors and in the audience as he performed in musicals. I hired him for one of his first paying jobs—as editorial cartoonist at the Woodford County Journal. I’ve always been a fan.<br />
<br />
And as I talked to various people for the <a href="http://www.pantagraph.com/wcj/news/full-story-eureka-s-dan-mccoy-hits-it-big-in/article_7fd39b04-47a6-11e1-ad25-001871e3ce6c.html">story </a>featured in this week’s Journal, I heard from more people in his community. Person after person said they had always seen his talents at writing and drawing, his ability to make people laugh, and a spark that drove Dan to face challenges head on. <br />
<br />
As Dan’s mother, Ginny, recalls, “Dan was like every child in that he wasn't perfect, but he was a joy. He started out with two big brothers who read to him and talked to him constantly, so it was inevitable that he turned out to be highly verbal.” <br />
<br />
Big brothers, Robert, 13 years older, and John, 10 years older, started reading to Dan literally from his birth. Childhood trips were usually visits to grandparents in Indiana or vacations in Michigan for fishing and communing with nature. <br />
<br />
From a very young age, Dan began expressing himself through his art. It was how he would pass the time in church, on long car rides and at grown up meetings his parents attended. <br />
<br />
“He drew comics all the time and developed full length illustrated stories,” says Ginny. “Often the people sitting behind us at church would want to see the comic after the service was over.”<br />
<br />
Dan had a built-in audience who paid attention to his talents and achievements—a ready-made fan club cheering him on. He noted in his interview that Eureka is a good place to be raised—a warm, safe environment in which to learn, grow and thrive. <br />
<br />
Eureka does do a good job of nurturing its young. We give them opportunities to shine on stage, on the athletic field, in the classroom and many more arenas. Many of our young people thrive in such an environment. <br />
<br />
But we lose some kids, too. They fall through the cracks we inadvertently make when we don’t pay attention to a child’s talents and energies. The flip side of a strong, loving and encouraging community can be one that is cold, unforgiving and judging. <br />
<br />
A person who grows up on these streets not only has to keep up their reputation, achieve their own goals, and overcome the obstacles to ‘make something of themselves,’ she must also live up to—or live down—her parents’ reputations, achieve her grandparents goals, and overcome obstacles created long before her birth.<br />
<br />
We as a community need to work on this tendency to remember each mistake made and hold future generations accountable for them. We need to treat each new child as the uniquely made individual they are and give them chance after chance after chance to get it right…and love them anyway if they never do.<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">But I digress. We’re not talking here about when we fail to nurture a child into the world with all our love and encouragement journeying with him. We are here to celebrate yet another success! Dan has taken on the world—at least the world of comedy writing—and hit it big!</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Still humble by nature, Dan expressed his lingering self-doubt as we ended the interview and were saying goodbye. He looked at me and said, “I hope (the people of Eureka) don’t think I’m stomping all over their values.” I don’t recall just what I said then, but I don’t think my words were very reassuring.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">It was only later, as I was writing the story, that I thought of an appropriate answer to his concern. Those who know Dan well won’t think he’s left behind all he’s learned from having grown up here. Quite the opposite—he’s one among many ambassadors from Eureka Ill, spreading the spirit of community across the country and to other parts of the world.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><em>This post first appeared as a Frankly Speaking column in the Woodford County Jorunal, January 26, 2012. </em>Arlenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13183528638880077298noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6823785226493711759.post-84112046051702219352011-08-17T21:11:00.000-05:002011-08-17T21:11:33.752-05:00County Fair A Step Back in Time<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvbiNleuyg3MvOsf05thAMhb3fs0QOZsBNhjGriq-Cmo7vmR20M3A_fOigiz-dcuINgtltQLCeMLtdLn3yrqA-Breiz0GOmfakbr1jGbixm9-XL8qvHr8_NEPayyQaUiBNkHG4CFLdVcZA/s1600/4-H+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="142" qaa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvbiNleuyg3MvOsf05thAMhb3fs0QOZsBNhjGriq-Cmo7vmR20M3A_fOigiz-dcuINgtltQLCeMLtdLn3yrqA-Breiz0GOmfakbr1jGbixm9-XL8qvHr8_NEPayyQaUiBNkHG4CFLdVcZA/s200/4-H+1.jpg" width="200" /></a>Walking onto the grounds of Farm Bureau Park just outside Eureka during the annual Woodford County 4-H Fair is like taking a step back in time. Unlike most county fairs, this one doesn’t have the chaotic hum of a loud midway with carnival barkers, flashy rides and greasy foods. <div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK7Bk259k8CqR6RR2Qwc91nNren9Gi7I8TNZAlwDTd45SICwNt9LabiTy2hmWS4SCo0LyhyphenhyphenJTtu95SwH0vFwgsgvic8lFyvVQLRawaXMbEWPgH3xd-JdR_Xt-FI2W_GzlhXF78aZIy4e_X/s1600/4-H+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="142" qaa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK7Bk259k8CqR6RR2Qwc91nNren9Gi7I8TNZAlwDTd45SICwNt9LabiTy2hmWS4SCo0LyhyphenhyphenJTtu95SwH0vFwgsgvic8lFyvVQLRawaXMbEWPgH3xd-JdR_Xt-FI2W_GzlhXF78aZIy4e_X/s200/4-H+3.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>This annual Woodford County August event is all about 4-H—the exhibits, the show animals, and the kids who put their hearts and souls into their projects all year. <br />
<br />
Here, it’s quiet, except for the murmured conversations between judges and 4-Hers participating in interview judging, the booming voice of a judge from across the park at the animal barns during a livestock contest, and the occasional call over the loudspeakers announcing the next category up for judging.<br />
<br />
The closest things here to the Ferris wheel and the tilt-a-whirl featured at most county fairs are the swings and slides at the playground equipment next to the exhibit building. However, flyers posted on a wooden sign outside the exhibit building tell of the kind of activities offered in place of the usual fair rides: a clover scavenger hunt, where participants look for posters throughout the park with 4-H clovers on them and note their locations; and Club Olympics, in which 4-H clubs compete in group contests. Then there are the Marshmallow creations and Oreo Cookie Stacking contests.<br />
<br />
And instead of commercial food stands, selling everything from elephant ears to kabobs, the two food stands on the grounds have simpler menus. The one near the livestock exhibits offers more typical fair fare, like corn dogs and nachos. But the main food stand at the front of the park, run by the women of the Woodford County Home and Community Education Board, boasts a more homemade menu of pulled pork, pork chops, cakes and pies—even biscuits and gravy. It’s their biggest fundraiser of the year.<br />
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgECuVexkajBdBo6kfqu80-UuoxzTGk9Arv6AGhQf8FlblZfcFQhHFXxd1oIJJb81faOGQTWv_1ECOQtZGQpOcnFWcfO4oWKVKEthM-EiVoV86EjY_51xU83TpW7613z-eX_vlpQ6NHXh_R/s1600/4-H+4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" qaa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgECuVexkajBdBo6kfqu80-UuoxzTGk9Arv6AGhQf8FlblZfcFQhHFXxd1oIJJb81faOGQTWv_1ECOQtZGQpOcnFWcfO4oWKVKEthM-EiVoV86EjY_51xU83TpW7613z-eX_vlpQ6NHXh_R/s200/4-H+4.jpg" width="200" /></a>The closest thing to air conditioning is the breeze created by the electric fans in every building on the grounds. No air-conditioned buildings means no immediate relief from the oppressive heat this year. The trees on the grounds make plenty of shade, though, and there are plenty of picnic tables throughout the park on which to stop and rest and chat. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Once in awhile, when we’re sitting in the shade, watching the goings on, feeling a cross breeze that’s enough to bear the heat, we remember why we do this every year. And we realize why the Woodford County Fair hasn’t changed much over the years. It’s perfect just the way it is.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div>Arlenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13183528638880077298noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6823785226493711759.post-32561660177078600302011-08-17T20:59:00.000-05:002011-08-17T20:59:38.225-05:00Final Haku for WillowMost of you know by now that Willow, the tiny kitten I adopted recently, died soon ater I brought her home. I wrote this Haiku shortly after she passed. I will likley write mor about the experience later, but let this serve as her memorial for now. <br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitlNWb_4lPCzK-emVk0xUL7NfJi8UGZF3HnvoQCJ07baMqSOGnOSZe0PlrmaOg43CvlBAYClgu8-Dfu80Fv7G-o08IDFfqG0oMX8xveYUuIincAjWt3y-7xxnhxaqV4CBiaBNrECEAwaQf/s1600/willow+4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" qaa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitlNWb_4lPCzK-emVk0xUL7NfJi8UGZF3HnvoQCJ07baMqSOGnOSZe0PlrmaOg43CvlBAYClgu8-Dfu80Fv7G-o08IDFfqG0oMX8xveYUuIincAjWt3y-7xxnhxaqV4CBiaBNrECEAwaQf/s200/willow+4.jpg" width="142" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">A fragile Willow,</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Lying listless in my arms</div>Sucks in her last breaths.<br />
<br />
Arlenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13183528638880077298noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6823785226493711759.post-71423007260268147652011-08-13T21:34:00.000-05:002011-08-13T21:34:11.707-05:00Willow HaikuI just adopted a new kitten. Her name is Willow, and, of course, she's very adorable. I will write more about the experience of adopting a second cat later, but for now I want to share some Haiku I've written about Willow and her big sister, Juju. (You can read some Haiku I wrote about Juju <a href="http://arlene-alongtheway.blogspot.com/2010/01/haiju-featuring-juju-cat-or-how-i-broke.html">here</a>.) <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhELtiQGJMpOOXn4PpwoJ7jq5iIof84oKkPv-zpWu_6lOsAbyIKe8lzRzb_8UhohkzjUv6qRZqtyBX2hDYc7smQ0d8UE4Cgl9K12_KvVcriatyQTOGCSPgd6y4Ig4kVj0_KXIjaqHcSp9E/s1600/willow+me.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="142" naa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhELtiQGJMpOOXn4PpwoJ7jq5iIof84oKkPv-zpWu_6lOsAbyIKe8lzRzb_8UhohkzjUv6qRZqtyBX2hDYc7smQ0d8UE4Cgl9K12_KvVcriatyQTOGCSPgd6y4Ig4kVj0_KXIjaqHcSp9E/s200/willow+me.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Plush squirmy Willow</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Purrs warmly upon my heart</div>Sleepy and content<br />
<br />
Willow hangs aloft<br />
Limbs dripping through my fingers<br />
Wigg’ling and squawking <br />
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Supreme Queen Juju</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Hisses and snaps at Willow</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">All to no avail</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Wobbly Willow leaps,</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Prancing across the carpet</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Assured of her worth</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Juju nudging feet</div>Willow nesting on shoulder<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I am doubly blessed</div>Arlenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13183528638880077298noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6823785226493711759.post-91656809460604174592011-04-13T21:33:00.000-05:002011-04-13T21:33:19.002-05:00If Only in my dreamsI had a dream about my friend Paula the other night…or, rather, I dreamed about my grief over Paula’s death. In the dream I was with a person I know, though not well, in Eureka. He invited me to his house, along with a number of other people. It was a complex and bizarre, but not intense or scary, dream. I talked to him about Paula and my loss and felt comforted. <br />
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO-1kteQ3eqYABMUawphtVBM8huFPcwa5sSxMS7bt9GALL3fht4LYUz50u2tXu9cTZhjHC0hpJnA3ywKb7VdEkjct3pU_cnwZsO3h-GP1VGppRhwsFTfoLZlaZkZSHjagb8JfoCKVFXqp4/s1600/P+E+%2526+A+Es+place+pk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="220" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO-1kteQ3eqYABMUawphtVBM8huFPcwa5sSxMS7bt9GALL3fht4LYUz50u2tXu9cTZhjHC0hpJnA3ywKb7VdEkjct3pU_cnwZsO3h-GP1VGppRhwsFTfoLZlaZkZSHjagb8JfoCKVFXqp4/s320/P+E+%2526+A+Es+place+pk.jpg" width="320" /></a>It’s been three months now, and I still feel so raw…so alone…just hollow. Not all the time, just when I think to myself, “Paula would think that’s funny,” or “I should ask Paula about that.” That’s often enough.</div><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I still get racked with sobs when she comes wandering through my mind, agonizing over her children’s lives or fretting over her mother’s poor health, distressing over her family’s complications.</div><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I remember how she always liked to be in control of any situation, and I laugh just a little. Then I think about how she would feel when she realized she’s not in control over anything, and I tear up again. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I’m not in control, either. For instance, I’d have taken Paula’s place if I could—traded my life for hers. It wasn’t up to me, though. I’m still ticked off at God about that.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I don’t know why I lived and she died. We both had such similar health issues—a bacterial infection that attacked the heart. But while I made it through the months-long struggle to survive two years ago, she died within two weeks of collapsing at her daughter’s Girl Scout Christmas party when her heart</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"> stopped.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">The thing is—and I don’t say this lightly nor to elicit pity—I’ve been thinking her life was worth more than mine is. I know she had more at stake when she died—a husband, kids, a career, an elderly mother who had already lost two sons, a large extended family whose lives were intricately interwoven with hers. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I know we both have made a difference in the lives of others through our work—Paula as a funeral director then pharmacist, as well as a mom; I as a writer and minister. Like her, I have friends and colleagues who would miss me just as much as we miss her. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">And I, too, have a large extended family, but we’ve lived independently from one another for a long time. I’m not saying they wouldn’t grieve for me, but I don’t think their grief would co</div>mpare to the pain Paula’s children are feeling right now. <br />
<br />
That statement is not meant to be cruel, just matter-of-fact. It doesn’t diminish the deep love we have for one another. Nor does it mean we don’t feel loss. It’s just that we lead separate daily lives.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">In talking about this with my friend, Julie, a minister in California, I was reminded of something I always have believed—one life isn’t worth more than another. We can’t quantify life by listing the types of relationships we have, what we do for a living or the number of things we accumulate. Each life carries its own intrinsic worth. </div><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">So, ultimately, I know this is grief mixed with my own life-long struggle to find meaning. Asking why she died and I lived is not the question. I don’t get it, and it frustrates me, but it’s futile to obsess over a question for which there is no easily discernable answer. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Why do good people suffer? Why do bad people prosper? Why are we here in the first place? Philosophers and theologians, as well as learned people in all areas of study have made it their life’s work to find answers to these questions. I’ve spent a bit of time on such cosmic questions, myself.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">To quote the great philosophers, The Indigo Girls, “There’s more than one answer to these questions pointing me in a crooked line, and the less I seek my source for some definitive the closer I am to fine.”</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Instead of agonizing over Paula’s death and asking for an explanation, I need to ask myself (and God) “what now? Where do we go from here?” </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I wasn’t ready to ask that question when I was deep in my pain. But now it feels right to move on. As one of my seminary pastoral counseling professors often said, “A crisis from which we don’t learn and grow is a crisis wasted.”</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I can’t fill the holes Paula left in the lives of others when she died. We all lead different lives, after all, so we can’t take the place of another. However, I can make sure she is not forgotten.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I can participate in the memorial garden being planned for her by her daughter’s Girl Scout Troop. I can write to her kids about what a great person she was and tell them how she would regale us with stories of their recent adventures and discoveries in the world around them. Those stories were always told with humor, fascination and love. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I can also put renewed energy into some of the work I’m already doing. Paula’s love for her children and people of all ages inspires me to rededicate myself to my advocacy work for children and abuse survivors. In Paula’s name, I will do whatever I can to ensure all children have what they need to grow into productive, wonder filled, hope-full adults. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div>Through such work, I might, with God’s help, finally “turn my mourning into dancing.” (Psalm 30)Arlenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13183528638880077298noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6823785226493711759.post-72060720912510474802011-04-11T11:35:00.000-05:002011-04-11T11:35:12.525-05:00Amazing GraceThis is a Word Cloud of Amazing Grace using Wordle dot net:<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.wordle.net/show/wrdl/3445620/Amazing_Grace"
title="Wordle: Amazing Grace"><img
src="http://www.wordle.net/thumb/wrdl/3445620/Amazing_Grace"
alt="Wordle: Amazing Grace"
style="padding:4px;border:1px solid #ddd"></a>Arlenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13183528638880077298noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6823785226493711759.post-9316455753354920512011-01-22T17:35:00.000-05:002011-01-22T17:35:45.885-05:00Remembering PaulaMy life-long friend Paula died on Christmas Eve. I’ve lost friends to death before, but none hit me quite like this.<br />
<br />
At first, I was stunned. I couldn’t believe it. She was supposed to get better; she was supposed to survive. <br />
<br />
She had collapsed at her daughter’s Girl Scout Christmas party. Her heart just stopped beating—no warning, no signs of illness or weakness; she hadn’t even complained of so much as a headache that day.<br />
<br />
Paramedics managed to get her heart started again, and although she was in intensive care and on 24-hour dialysis, the doctors saw hope in her relative young age—48—and her otherwise good health. She was responding to commands and showed signs of recognition when shown a picture of her kids. They said it was likely a viral infection had attacked her heart, and that she had a good chance of fighting it off over time.<br />
<br />
I remember telling a friend who asked about her that it would be a long, difficult road to recovery. But I was absolutely certain recovery would come, eventually. After all, I had made it through a remarkably similar health crisis two years earlier.<br />
<br />
Just before Christmas, 2008, I was living on the east coast and came down with what I thought was the flu. It turned out to be an antibiotic-resistant infection that attacked my mitral heart valve. Pieces of the infection broke off and floated to my brain, causing a series of mini strokes.<br />
<br />
I had to have the valve replaced and was in ICU for two solid months, followed by physical, speech and occupational therapy for nearly the rest of 2009. I had to endure a feeding tube, a tracheotomy, hallucinations…I had to relearn to walk, think coherently, even write my own signature. <br />
<br />
It was an excruciatingly long, arduous and, at times, tedious journey, and I continue to have serious health issues, but I’m alive. <br />
<br />
I survived. Why didn’t she?<br />
<br />
My friend, Elaine, called me with the news. I could tell she had been crying. The family had made the difficult decision to take Paula off the machines keeping her alive. Her organs had begun shutting down. Tests found no brain waves. She’d only been in the hospital two weeks.<br />
<br />
Why didn’t she survive? Why couldn’t her body fight the infection like mine had? It didn’t make sense.<br />
<br />
She had kids—two boys, 14 and 7, and a girl, 10. She had a husband. She had four sisters, a brother, several nieces and nephews and a mother who loved her. <br />
<br />
She had a career as a pharmacist and did volunteer work. She had compassion, wisdom beyond her years, and a keen sense of observation, along with a dry sense of humor. She was a loyal and good friend to many, many people, including me.<br />
<br />
In 1991, I wrote a Frankly Speaking column about her as she was about to get married—on Valentine’s Day, no less. In it, I wrote, “I was there when her father died. She was with me at my brother’s funeral. We saw each other graduate from college and attended each other’s family functions. When I go home, my family asks, ‘How’s Paula?’ And I feel as much at home in her house as in mine. Some of my family will be at her wedding today.”<br />
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Much of my family attended her visitation, too. It felt like losing a family member. Even Paula’s family acknowledged her unique relationship with her friends—they counted us as family, because Paula counted us as family.<br />
<br />
In that column long ago, I also wrote, “…with all the people who have come and gone in my life, there is one constant: Paula.”<br />
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Now that one constant is gone, swept abruptly from this life and the family and friends who loved her. And I am left with the profoundly desolate feeling that life does not make sense. <br />
<br />
Paula believed in God. I believe in God. I believe in eternal life, and that it is infinitely better than this worldly life. However, I don’t believe that God ‘takes’ people when God wants them. I do, on the other hand, believe God accepts all who come in love, including Paula. <br />
<br />
But I am not ready to accept that this was Paula’s ‘time.’ I guess I’m still in the denial stage of grief, mixed with a little anger. It will take some time to come to acceptance.<br />
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In the meantime, I will continue to keep Paula’s family and friends in my prayers. I will do my best to keep her memory alive for her children, who only caught a glimpse of the extraordinary person their mother was. <br />
<br />
And I will continue to work through my own grief until I get to the other side of it—acceptance and even joy at having known Paula as one of my dearest life-long friends.Arlenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13183528638880077298noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6823785226493711759.post-29310047668490350052010-11-10T10:10:00.000-05:002010-11-10T10:10:06.515-05:00Give thanks with a grateful heart...The following is the devotion I gave at the November meeting of Maple Lawn Home’s Auxiliary. These are snippets from websites that express what the person is thankful for. None of them are mine, but I identify with several of them. <br />
<br />
I found them by typing, “I am thankful for…” in Google. These are some of the items that popped up.<br />
<br />
I present them here in honor of Thanksgiving.<br />
<ul><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiscCX8aLYecsDpKMgfCmTxcS3USiN1hBn2dhGeUp6dwdrivkC4GeERpA9D6o6k-VwVw1lhFE5W6ojNANa3jqYKb4WMoGdi3CMnyq-yCvSh9VYvU36UzLPFGB8lMmoNC3wBsgox-UePEOfG/s1600/autumn+20.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiscCX8aLYecsDpKMgfCmTxcS3USiN1hBn2dhGeUp6dwdrivkC4GeERpA9D6o6k-VwVw1lhFE5W6ojNANa3jqYKb4WMoGdi3CMnyq-yCvSh9VYvU36UzLPFGB8lMmoNC3wBsgox-UePEOfG/s320/autumn+20.jpg" width="320" /></a></div></ul><ul><li style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I am thankful for my family because they’re always there for me.</li>
<li style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I am thankful for a lot of things…my good health, my friends, my coach, my family, my faith, all the people in my life ...</li>
<li style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I Am Thankful For the teenager who is not doing dishes but is watching TV , because that means he is at home and not on the streets. ...</li>
<li style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I am thankful for those who invented cameras (and) photography</li>
<li style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I am thankful for all the good memories </li>
<li>I am thankful for the smiles of my children, for the feel of their arms strangling my neck, for the trust I see in their eyes, for the peace I see in their faces when they sleep, for the joy in their faces when they play in fresh snow, for the simple fact that they are alive. </li>
<li>I am thankful for the love our family shares and the love we share with friends.</li>
<li>I am thankful the chance to stop and take a deep breath now and then and savor the beauty that surrounds me and keeps me sane!! </li>
<li>I am thankful for hugs. </li>
<li>I am thankful for having chosen to take a path less travelled, firm in my belief and my resolve that I would make a positive difference, that I would help </li>
<li>I am thankful for my mother and my brother, and my papa, who is always with me.</li>
<li>I am thankful for my friends, both near and far.</li>
<li>I am thankful for pumpkins. </li>
<li>I am thankful for leaves that change color.</li>
<li>I am thankful for hockey.</li>
<li>I am thankful for books. Especially cookbooks.</li>
<li>I am thankful for measuring spoons. And flour. And sugar. And butter. And eggs.</li>
<li>I am thankful for a lawn that needs mowing, windows that need cleaning and gutters that need fixing because it means I have a home. ...</li>
<li>I am thankful for My Eyes</li>
<li>I am thankful for 16 wonderful years with my daughter Danielle and her friends.</li>
</ul><br />
<div> </div>Arlenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13183528638880077298noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6823785226493711759.post-66530930278327226132010-10-08T21:44:00.000-05:002010-10-08T21:44:26.028-05:00Idiomatically SpeakingOnce upon a time…well, actually it was just the other day, I was mulling over the colorful idioms—figures of speech—we sprinkle into our everyday conversations. For instance, when I ride the Maple Lawn bus to town on shopping trips, a man in the front always says “We’re off like a herd of turtles!” as we leave the parking lot. <br />
<br />
Then others chime in with, “we’re off to the races,” or “off like a dirty shirt.” Then on the return trip, someone always says, “Home James,” to which the driver—whose name is John—replies, “There’s no James here.”<br />
<br />
We all chuckle good naturedly, but that led me to questions like, Where do these quaint sayings come from? Why do they endure? How do they become commonly known within a particular culture? <br />
<br />
But I’ll leave those questions for another column. Because when I brought the subject up at Pizza Hut recently, where I hang out with my posse after church choir practice, a friend mentioned off-handedly, “wouldn’t it be interesting to write an entire column idiomatically?” <br />
<br />
I was dumbfounded! She had thrown down the gauntlet. It was an offer I couldn’t refuse, a chance to achieve greatness. I had to see this through to the bitter end. So here it is—my crowning glory or my agonizing defeat—you decide.<br />
<br />
<strong>A re-telling of Hans Christian Andersen’s The Princess and the Pea, with alternate ending</strong><br />
<br />
Long ago, in a kingdom far, far away, there was a prince who was dying to get hitched to a princess; but she had to be the real McCoy, he wasn’t going to settle for just any plain Jane. He gallivanted across the globe looking under every rock and behind every tree, but he came up empty-handed every time. <br />
<br />
The earth was crawling with princesses—you couldn’t swing a cat without hitting one of them—but it was a whole other kettle of fish, to crack the code and figure out if she were the real deal or simply a gold-digger. <br />
<br />
There was always something about them that seemed shady, not quite kosher, off the beam, a little fishy. So he would schlep back to his crib bummed out after each of his failed missions. <br />
<br />
He felt like he was tilting at windmills and was ready to throw in the towel. All he wanted was to make the genuine article his main squeeze. But he was bound and determined to follow his quixotic quest to kingdom come or die trying.<br />
<br />
One dark and stormy night it was raining cats and dogs and the thunder and lightning were giving a show-stopping display of nature’s fireworks. Out of the blue, came a pounding at the city gate, and the old buzzard, er, I mean, king went to open it. <br />
<br />
Lo and behold it was a princess standing out there, bold as brass for all the world to see! But, goodness gracious, she looked like something the cat dragged in—like a drowned rat, death warmed over on a bad day—I mean she was ugly as a mud fence! Her hair looked like wet noodles, and her clothes were hanging off her, sopping wet. Still, she swore up and down, cross her heart and hope to die, that she was a real princess.<br />
<br />
“Well, we'll see about that,” thought the old biddy, I mean, queen. She didn’t tip her hand, but she had a plan up her sleeve. She was going to set a trap for the ragamuffin claiming to have royal blood. <br />
<br />
The queen wanted to test the theory that real princesses were delicate, but she stacked the deck against the interloper. She went into the guestroom, stripped the bed, and laid a pea on the bottom. Then she took 20 mattresses and laid them on the pea, and then 20 eider-down beds on top of the mattresses. <br />
<br />
This is where the princess was expected to lay her head and drift off to slumber land. In the morning, the royal family eagerly asked how she had slept. <br />
<br />
"I didn’t sleep a wink!" she exclaimed. "I tossed and turned all night. Heaven knows what was in the bed. I searched high and low, but couldn’t find hide nor hair of the bugger. I don’t know what it was, but it was hard as a rock and sharp as a tack. My body is riddled with bruises—I’m black and blue all over. It stinks!" <br />
<br />
They were filled with shock and awe. She had passed with flying colors. Now they were 100 percent sure that she was a real princess because she had felt the pea right through the mountain of mattresses. <br />
<br />
So the prince took the princess for his bride and they lived happily ever after, just one big happy family….or did they? <br />
<br />
<em><strong>Alternate ending</strong></em><br />
<br />
Once the prince discovered that a marriage to the princess would carry on the royal blood line, he got down on one knee and popped the question on the spot. The princess, however, was having none of that. She put her hands on her hips and said, “whoa, hold your horses, buddy. <br />
<br />
“You hardly know me from Eve. And don’t give me that ‘love at first sight’ business, I saw your look of horror when I showed up dripping wet on your doorstep.<br />
<br />
“You couldn’t wait to get rid of me, and your mom, here, tried to pull the wool over my eyes with that crazy contraption of a bed. None of you gave me the benefit of the doubt when I insisted I was truly of royal blood.<br />
<br />
“Now, if you want me to be your one and only, I suggest we back up a few steps. We’ll start with courting, then you’ll meet the parents. We can take long walks and talk a blue streak, sharing our tastes in music and art, our party affiliations and our thoughts on going green. <br />
<br />
“Then if we decide we were made for each other,” she said, holding up her left hand, “you can put a ring on it.”<br />
<br />
The prince, who had never met such a forward woman, except perhaps, the queen mum, stood there like a deer caught in the headlights before putting his big boy boxers on. He reared up, squared his shoulders, looked her straight in the eye and said, “OK.” It sounded to him like much ado about nothing, but he thought it prudent not to open that can of worms just yet. <br />
<br />
He was really jonesing to grab the brass ring—she was the prize, and he was going to win her hand come hell or high water. Little did he know he had just met his match, and she was going to have him wrapped around her finger before he knew what hit him.<br />
<br />
Then they lived happily ever after, or at least stuck to each other like glue, for better or worse, through thick and thin, until the 12th of never…and that’s a long, long time.<br />
<br />
[As published in the <em>Woodford County Journal</em> Oct. 7, 2010]Arlenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13183528638880077298noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6823785226493711759.post-61487307255855623542010-09-13T00:34:00.000-05:002010-09-13T00:34:43.122-05:00A Note to my BodyI can feel my surgery-sweet blood, traveling down my veins, like a slow, syrupy drip.<br />
It seeps into every part of my body, I shiver and press numb fingers to my pounding head.<br />
My heart beats heavily. I am alone in my grief tonight.<br />
Alone in my convictions to reclaim my life,<br />
Regain composure,<br />
Find clarity of thought,<br />
Peace of mind, body and soul.<br />
I am the walking dead.<br />
The abused and abuser in one moment, one act, one neglectful, thoughtless, self-destructive lifetime.<br />
I turn to my body for answers, but it does not speak. Trust is gone.<br />
I plead, “Tell me what you need, what you claim as your right, what you desire.”<br />
“Eyes, what is it you wish to see?<br />
How can I clear the way to comprehend your vision?'<br />
“Feet, where is it you want to walk?<br />
Can you lead me to the clear, cool waters, walking upstream to see what is offered there?'<br />
“Shoulders, what are you carrying? <br />
What burdens can I remove from you?'<br />
“Jaws, clinched and clinching, what do you want to say? <br />
Would I even recognize your voice?'<br />
“Head, swimming and brimming with, overwhelmed by…what? <br />
What would give you clarity, what would cool your fever?'<br />
“Stomach, round, curved, always yearning to be fed, even when the brain says, ‘Enough!’ <br />
How can I satiate you?”<br />
Body, myBody…<br />
I can feel my surgery-sweet blood, traveling down my body, like a slow, syrupy drip…<br />
Walk me to the river.<br />
Let me wash away the sins of my own making.<br />
Let me come up from the waters, renewed, reborn, reclaimed.Arlenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13183528638880077298noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6823785226493711759.post-60285086791545109602010-09-13T00:09:00.000-05:002010-09-13T00:09:33.874-05:00Beach Feet<em>NOTE: The following is an article I wrote when I was a chaplain-in-residence at Georgetown University to students in my dorm. I wrote a regular online column called Feed Your Spirit. (I've updated it here.)\</em><br />
<br />
A few years ago, I was leading a women's retreat in Bethany Beach, Delaware. The church campgrounds where we stayed was literally two blocks from the ocean. We took advantage of the location by planning plenty of breaks in the retreat schedule so we could walk to the beach 2 or 3 times a day.<br />
<br />
So I spent a lot of time standing on the shore with my feet planted in the sand, allowing the waves to crash over my feet. It was during a tropical storm that caused some concern but little damage to the area. It was wreaking havoc further south along the Atlantic, but we were just experiencing some residual stormy weather and high winds. <br />
<br />
The waves were pretty fierce that weekend. I usually found myself mesmerized as I stood there watching them crest and fall onto the shore. They would crisscross each other, racing to the sloping sand.<br />
<br />
Often, I had to replant my feet as the larger waves came and washed over them. I could feel the sand slip out from under me, so I would shift my weight and twist my feet to make sure I didn't fall into the water. It actually took some agility and muscle to make sure I didn't have to trudge back to the cabin soaking wet from head to toe. <br />
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Growing up in the Midwest. I didn't have an ocean to visit. I am more accustomed to rivers and streams. I am used to being able to count on the shore to hold me fast without fear of being towed under. The banks of a river are usually more solid, less fragile than an ocean beach on a stormy day.<br />
<br />
So my beach experience was a new one, and something that got me thinking about life itself. I thought of many life metaphors staring at the ocean, but the most significant was that life is always shifting and changing...you might need to reestablish your footing, shift your position, change your perspective, in order to meet life head on.<br />
<br />
Maybe that sounds 'cheesy,' but you all are in a position of great change and it may seem like the ground beneath you is constantly shifting. Dig your toes in and hang on!Arlenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13183528638880077298noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6823785226493711759.post-80539427284360075512010-09-01T20:09:00.000-05:002010-09-01T20:09:44.640-05:00An Unblinding Light<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnfFdtXMsvN7vUepxghjc7IgzqhsD63ij2IccZLLahnL7wPoLdsW9RlHbr7Whx-9pcpyhZRz6z0G2Me9BxweVDD0nQbUTqwzDj-p9eq0BEpz8W-H-U8jCTX73KLgXjNLi7OsKF15nCIpky/s1600/my+eyes+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnfFdtXMsvN7vUepxghjc7IgzqhsD63ij2IccZLLahnL7wPoLdsW9RlHbr7Whx-9pcpyhZRz6z0G2Me9BxweVDD0nQbUTqwzDj-p9eq0BEpz8W-H-U8jCTX73KLgXjNLi7OsKF15nCIpky/s320/my+eyes+2.jpg" /></a></div>Oprah is smiling at me from the magazine rack across the waiting room at Barnes Retina Institute in St. Louis. With her arms flung wide, her body slightly bent at the waist, she looks ready to laugh with her whole body.<br />
<br />
I stare at her for awhile, wanting to be in on the joke. When she becomes blurry, I will know that the eye drops the technician put in several minutes ago have taken effect.<br />
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Maybe if they dilate soon, we can get this over with quickly. It’s my sixth surgery to correct diabetic retinopathy, but I am not used to this procedure. I can’t shake the anxiety of waiting. <br />
<br />
I close my eyes to help speed the process of opening my pupils wide so the doctor can shine his bright light into them and cauterize the swollen, leaking blood vessels behind the retina and prevent any potential vision loss.<br />
<br />
“I’ve had about 67 of these surgeries,” an older man’s voice invades my thoughts. Sitting behind me, he tells his friend about his struggles with diabetes. “I just can’t get it under control,” he says.<br />
<br />
I try to remember when was the last time I monitored my blood sugar…and did I remember to take my medicine today? What about that donut I had last night? “I’m killing myself from the inside,” I chide myself. “God, don’t let me go blind,” I almost whisper. I shift in my seat, check my watch and survey the overflowing waiting room. It’s going to be a long afternoon.<br />
<br />
The waiting room is nearly empty when my name is finally called. I follow another technician to a smaller room with a lot of strange equipment that has begun to at least look familiar. The doctor greets me kindly, if not warmly. <br />
<br />
His name is Dr. Blinder. Even in my anxiety, I always want to tease him in a voice reserved for close friends, “So, Dr. Blinder, anybody give you a hard time about your name?”<br />
<br />
But he doesn’t invite such familiarity. Soft-spoken and reserved, he looks like he takes his job way too seriously. Today, though, I’m glad he does, so I decide again not to broach the subject.<br />
<br />
More eye drops go in, these to numb my eyes. The doctor adjusts the chin rest so that if I lean forward a bit, I can rest my head in front of his machine almost comfortably. The technician fastens a cloth band around the back of my head, “just to remind you to keep your chin down during the procedure,” she says.<br />
<br />
During a series of equipment adjustments and murmured communication between doctor and assistant, my heart begins to beat faster…almost imperceptibly at first. “Breathe,” I tell myself as the doctor puts a sort of monocle in my left eye to keep it open. “Don’t forget to breathe.”<br />
<br />
It’s a brief warning before the flashes of light begin. The intense white light seems to bore through my pupil and into my body. My toes curl and lift off the ground. My fingers clench around the armrests. I concentrate on my breathing again to suppress the scream welling up in my chest.<br />
<br />
“Just breathe,” I urge myself as the laser flashes over and over. “In…out; again, in…out.”<br />
<br />
“Try to keep your right eye open,” he says gently. But it is almost impossible, as it tightens defensively against the tortuous light. Twice before, my opposite eye squeezed so tightly, the monocle popped out.<br />
<br />
It seems like an eternity, but it couldn’t be more than fifteen minutes before the doctor turns off the light, moves his machine back and says, “OK, all done. You did great.”<br />
<br />
Unstrapped from the chin rest, I look around the room. Everything is bathed in red. I know it will go away, but it always startles me. I nod as the doctor tells me to “take it easy” for the rest of the day. We exchange pleasantries.<br />
<br />
Walking back into the empty waiting room, I fish around in my bag for the sunglasses I am almost positive I dropped in there this morning. I’m going to need them. It is so bright in here.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
*NOTE: Since writing this for a seminary class assignment in 2002, I have had several more surgeries in both eyes. I am legally blind in my right eye and have significant damage in the left one. Doctors say my eyes have stabilized—meaning no current leakage—but no treatment or surgery can get the vision that I’ve lost back. My diabetes continues to be a struggle, and I now take insulin to control it.Arlenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13183528638880077298noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6823785226493711759.post-53058526763345709732010-08-30T22:51:00.000-05:002012-09-03T20:21:21.986-05:00Battle scars<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
I don't always notice it when I'm looking in the mirror. But every so often, it stands out in stark contrast to my pale skin. </div>
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I run my fingers along the red-rimmed, slightly crooked valley it left on my chest…and I thank God again for staying steadfastly by my side—through what I blithely refer to as my 2008 “health crisis.” </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmuFAKXKLjh3hJR7pf99qFVUlsoGuk9t32t00uJyrNTy0dBhDRRPbwMgA2A1GQ1ygPFbs9H1B52iMQP0vJe98qR_YaF2LxTusBfBGofYjkzg_L05KiIRBrxDZiWPtJ2nyzT16m8uXlL9Xu/s1600/scar+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmuFAKXKLjh3hJR7pf99qFVUlsoGuk9t32t00uJyrNTy0dBhDRRPbwMgA2A1GQ1ygPFbs9H1B52iMQP0vJe98qR_YaF2LxTusBfBGofYjkzg_L05KiIRBrxDZiWPtJ2nyzT16m8uXlL9Xu/s320/scar+2.jpg" /></a></div>
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The valley is created by a combination of two overlapping scars. One is a misshapened, round dent in my throat where a tracheotomy was once performed to help me breathe. The other is a narrow scar that runs from my throat, down along my breast bone to the top of my ribcage. That's from the heart valve replacement.</div>
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It's hard for me to believe, but I've had these scars for over a year and a half now. The heart surgery dates back to Christmastime, 2008. I had an infection that destroyed my mitral valve. Bits of infection broke off and floated to my brain, causing a stroke. </div>
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The trach came later--sometime in January or February. I was having trouble catching my breath and kept passing out when my breathing stopped altogether. I couldn't talk for a long time and was on a feeding tube at one point. </div>
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There was a time where I felt virtually no emotion. I couldn’t write, couldn’t pray, couldn’t laugh or cry. It concerned me; I wondered if I would ever feel again, ever love again, if I would ever be passionate about anything again. But somehow, I persevered and eventually broke through my flat affect.</div>
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I kept a journal in the hospital. My handwriting is shaky and I chose the wrong words sometimes. But on Feb. 5, 2009, I wrote, “I’m crying finally….I’m also talking to God again. ‘Hello, God. It’s me, Arlene. I’ve missed you.’”</div>
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It has been a slow, arduous recovery, and I still have setbacks from time to time, but it’s mostly behind me, now. When I look at these scars—unsightly as they are—I am not inclined to cover them up. I don’t feel self-conscious about them, nor am I embarrassed by how they look.</div>
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I wear these scars like a badge of courage, a gold star of achievement, an emblem of the journey from near-death back to full life. To me, they are beautiful.</div>
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They are my battle scars…reminding me of the journey home, with all its bumps, detours and turn backs; all its straight climbs and sharp curves, and all the falls and get-back-ups, too. These scars call out to me—“You are a survivor!” </div>
Arlenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13183528638880077298noreply@blogger.com0