Sunday, March 11, 2012
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
New Old Psalm
I first read through the Psalms when I was in highschool. It started out as a curiosity thing. I had noticed that many Bibles came in just a New Testament and Psalms. I also carried around a stereotype of older people getting all sentimental about the Psalms. I'm not sure if it was based in any kind of reality, or if it was a Hollywood thing. I think I had also been told that during times when, and for people for whom, books were not readily available, the Psalms had been used as a summary of all the truths of the Bible.
So I was curious. I read through all the Psalms and kept a little notebook to summarize each one. I was astounded at the violence depicted in some of them. I was also confused by the fact that in many places they seemed to encourage animosity and revenge. But I kept plugging along. I think I might still have that notebook packed away with some highschool memorabilia. It might be interesting to see my interpretations. But probably it would just be embarrassing.
We've tried to make a point of including readings form the Psalms in our family devotion time. Even if the kids don't always understand what they read, they are still hearing God's Word. But besides that, it's important to lay a groundwork of familiarity with the more difficult portions of Scripture.
As an aside, Joe has also tried to do this for our family with the prophetical books. He periodically includes them in our family devotional readings, both to teach, and to build a familiarity. But I must confess to still being totally clueless and even sometimes irritable about these readings. I grit my teeth and tell myself it's for our own good. But they are so difficult for me to wrap my brain around that I get a bit squirrelly about it. I suspect it comes from my own vanity. Since I am so unfamiliar with them, I feel inadequate to pass the wisdom from such portions of God's Word on to my children. I confess it is hard for me to humble myself to sit and learn along with the children. Thankfully God's Word works in our hearts, and in the hearts of our children, in spite of our lack of familiarity, understanding, and even through a peevish attitude.
Throughout the years I've picked up a few things that make reading the Psalms easier. I've been taught some of the literary devices common in Hebrew poetry. I'm more familiar now with the cadences and the vocabulary that I used to be. I do still encounter some sections that are difficult. But for the most part, I've come to very much appreciate reading the Psalms.
This morning, I discovered a new Psalm. Yes, I do realize it's been there all along, but it's new to me. Psalm 65 does not seem to be as familiar as are some other Psalm, but there are many things to enjoy in it.
In verse three the Psalmist clearly speaks of our sin and God's salvation through Christ.
This is followed immediately in the next verse, 4, with an acknowledgement of God's election. We cannot choose God, He chooses us. Later in the same verse, we see an allusion to the Means of Grace. Where do we go to hear God's truth? Where do we find message of His goodness? In His house and His courts.
The middles verses, 5-7, speak of God's might. We read of His power over the natural world, with references to creation, the flood, and the many times He miraculously calmed (and Jesu
s would later calm) the seas.
Verse 8 is a kind of transition. It starts with more of God's almighty power, but finishes by talking about how such things affect us, humanity, here on earth.
And the rest of the Psalm, continuing through to the end is a testimony to God's providential care. The imagery in this last section is profoundly rich. I was planning to highlight my favorite word pictures, but they are all too good. I find I cannot choose.
So I was curious. I read through all the Psalms and kept a little notebook to summarize each one. I was astounded at the violence depicted in some of them. I was also confused by the fact that in many places they seemed to encourage animosity and revenge. But I kept plugging along. I think I might still have that notebook packed away with some highschool memorabilia. It might be interesting to see my interpretations. But probably it would just be embarrassing.
We've tried to make a point of including readings form the Psalms in our family devotion time. Even if the kids don't always understand what they read, they are still hearing God's Word. But besides that, it's important to lay a groundwork of familiarity with the more difficult portions of Scripture.
As an aside, Joe has also tried to do this for our family with the prophetical books. He periodically includes them in our family devotional readings, both to teach, and to build a familiarity. But I must confess to still being totally clueless and even sometimes irritable about these readings. I grit my teeth and tell myself it's for our own good. But they are so difficult for me to wrap my brain around that I get a bit squirrelly about it. I suspect it comes from my own vanity. Since I am so unfamiliar with them, I feel inadequate to pass the wisdom from such portions of God's Word on to my children. I confess it is hard for me to humble myself to sit and learn along with the children. Thankfully God's Word works in our hearts, and in the hearts of our children, in spite of our lack of familiarity, understanding, and even through a peevish attitude.
Throughout the years I've picked up a few things that make reading the Psalms easier. I've been taught some of the literary devices common in Hebrew poetry. I'm more familiar now with the cadences and the vocabulary that I used to be. I do still encounter some sections that are difficult. But for the most part, I've come to very much appreciate reading the Psalms.
This morning, I discovered a new Psalm. Yes, I do realize it's been there all along, but it's new to me. Psalm 65 does not seem to be as familiar as are some other Psalm, but there are many things to enjoy in it.
In verse three the Psalmist clearly speaks of our sin and God's salvation through Christ.
This is followed immediately in the next verse, 4, with an acknowledgement of God's election. We cannot choose God, He chooses us. Later in the same verse, we see an allusion to the Means of Grace. Where do we go to hear God's truth? Where do we find message of His goodness? In His house and His courts.
The middles verses, 5-7, speak of God's might. We read of His power over the natural world, with references to creation, the flood, and the many times He miraculously calmed (and Jesu
s would later calm) the seas.
Verse 8 is a kind of transition. It starts with more of God's almighty power, but finishes by talking about how such things affect us, humanity, here on earth.
And the rest of the Psalm, continuing through to the end is a testimony to God's providential care. The imagery in this last section is profoundly rich. I was planning to highlight my favorite word pictures, but they are all too good. I find I cannot choose.
Psalm 65
1 Praise is awaiting You, O God, in Zion;
And to You the vow shall be performed.
2 O You who hear prayer,
To You all flesh will come.
3 Iniquities prevail against me;
As for our transgressions,
You will provide atonement for them.
4 Blessed is the man You choose,
And cause to approach You,
That he may dwell in Your courts.
We shall be satisfied with the goodness of Your house,
Of Your holy temple.
5 By awesome deeds in righteousness You will answer us,
O God of our salvation,
You who are the confidence of all the ends of the earth,
And of the far-off seas;
6 Who established the mountains by His strength,
Being clothed with power;
7 You who still the noise of the seas,
The noise of their waves,
And the tumult of the peoples.
8 They also who dwell in the farthest parts are afraid of Your signs;
You make the outgoings of the morning and evening rejoice.
9 You visit the earth and water it,
You greatly enrich it;
The river of God is full of water;
You provide their grain,
For so You have prepared it.
10 You water its ridges abundantly,
You settle its furrows;
You make it soft with showers,
You bless its growth.
11 You crown the year with Your goodness,
And Your paths drip with abundance.
12 They drop on the pastures of the wilderness,
And the little hills rejoice on every side.
13 The pastures are clothed with flocks;
The valleys also are covered with grain;
They shout for joy, they also sing.
Friday, March 2, 2012
We have lost a husband, a father, a son, a brother, a dear friend, a patriot and a happy warrior.
Michelle Malkin, in her memorial piece, included the following video from of Breitbart's CPAC speech last month. I have read things written by Andrew Breitbart, but I had never seen him speak. I found his speech inspiring. Refreshing. Fun. Not too dry. Not too brutal. This is definitely a speech, however, aimed at those who are already Conservatives. It is not going to educate or convince anyone who is unsure of where they stand politically, or those who are consciously of a different mindset. If you want to learn more about the issues Breitbart addresses in his speech, you will have to go elsewhere. But if you want to get a little flavor of Andrew Breitbart, his personality, his charisma, please watch the video.
"There are two paths. One is America and the other one is Occupy. " (12:49)
Earlier this week, Mitt Romney solidified his Republican primary season standing, with victories in both Michigan and Arizona. And yet, there are still four candidates in the battle for the Republican nomination. The various polls show that any of the four candidates still have a chance to win. We will perhaps know more after next week's Super Tuesday races.
Most conservatives do not prefer Romney. But I think most conservatives would agree whole-heartedly with the sentiment expressed by Andrew Breitbart in the above quote. Sure we'd all prefer a candidate whose views are closest to those we espouse. But we will stand behind whatever Republican candidate gets the nomination. Our country is sliding further into chaos. And this chaos is exactly what the Progressive leaders want to see.
There area some in the Progressive movement, I have no doubt, who believe in the agenda. They believe in making the world a better place through the intervention of world governments. The problem is, it never works. It has been tried and tried and tried; and it has always let to more oppression. More poverty. More fear.
At the heart of any of the Marxist style socialist movements is a power grab. Read Marx. Read Hitler. Read Alinsky. For an comprehensive analysis of the history of the various modern socialist traditions, read Jonah Goldberg's Liberal Fascism. Goldberg includes a very extensive bibliography; so after you are done with his book, if you still have your doubts, you can read even further on the subject.
The sad thing is that history shows after any socialist regime has succeeded, after those who opposed the movement have been silenced (and yes, it's usually the permanent kind of silencing) it is always the foot soldiers who suffer. Those who have valiantly and from the heart supported the movement, recruited new followers, and rallied the troops, those are the first to be thrown under the bus.
It doesn't matter whether it's Franco in Spain, Stalin in Russia (and the entire history of the USSR during the cold war), Hitler, Mussolini, Tito, Castro, Mao...it has always been the same. The movement needs numbers. The speech is pleasant to the ear. The energy is contagious. But the end result is betrayal and oppression.
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Words and Feelings, in Writ and Melody
After the Grammys the other week, all the news was of singer and songwriter, Adele. Adele had vocal chord hemorrhage last fall, had laser surgery for her condition in November, and gave her comeback performance the night of the Grammys singing "Rolling in the Deep." Not only that, Adele won awards in all of the six categories for which her work was nominated.
Wow! What a voice. I've heard a number of her songs on my Jar of Hearts station on Pandora, and am always captivated.
After the Grammys, during all the Adele publicity, my friend, Tom R. posted on facebook a Wall Street Journal article called "Anatomy of a Tear-Jerker." The author of the article attempted to explain, in a scientific way, why some songs are more likely than others to pull at our heartstrings.
I was reminded of this this morning on my way home from my morning exercise excursion at a neighbor's house.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. I had to exercise alone today, because of a transportation mix-up getting the kids to school this morning. I was approaching Lana's from the west just as Connie's vehicle was leaving, pulling out of her driveway to the east. The other ladies were done and I was just arriving, so I knew I would not have any company this morning.
As I was spending time on the treadmill, I began to be plagued by the boredom that generally sets in for me during solitary indoor exercise. "Time to use that imagination, Mary. Find something with which to occupy your brain." Hmmm. Various ideas flitted through my head. I wished I had my mp3 player. Or a radio. Or my laptop with a wi-fi connection so I could finish listening to that lecture in the free Hillsdale College class I signed up for.
Since the treadmill I was using faces the window, which looks out upon a little bit of snow-covered yard between the house and the woods, I decided to engage in a writing exercise, while the treadmill demanded exertion of a different sort from my body. I've occasionally bemoaned the fact that I am not a good photographer. I often see things that are visually rich or emotionally compelling. But when I try to capture such an image, or the feeling it draws forth, with a photo, it always falls short. I usually find I have better success painting pictures with words and phrases. But it takes practice and work. So it's not unusual for me to see something during my daily life, and spend some time thinking about how best to capture such an image with words.
With this challenge of capturing images with words in the front of my mind, I looked out the window at the snowy and blustery landscape. I made myself notice the details. I concentrated on all those little things that we don't generally have time to think about consciously, but which get into the periphery of our minds. I made myself think of ways to describe what I saw, using engaging turns of phrase and descriptive language to paint a picture with words.
Most of what I pondered today as I treaded and watched, is not worthy of remembering. Just images and ideas. But there was one scene that challenged me. I couldn't find just the right words while I was there, but I'm going to try to work it out here.
I may play around with words. I may try to be interesting and compelling and vivid. I may even imagine I succeed a little bit. But I will probably never be able to make my words work like the poetry in this song spins its magic in combination with the musical strains.
My favorite line, by the way, "Remember when the sound of little feet was the music we danced to week to week."
Wow! What a voice. I've heard a number of her songs on my Jar of Hearts station on Pandora, and am always captivated.
After the Grammys, during all the Adele publicity, my friend, Tom R. posted on facebook a Wall Street Journal article called "Anatomy of a Tear-Jerker." The author of the article attempted to explain, in a scientific way, why some songs are more likely than others to pull at our heartstrings.
I was reminded of this this morning on my way home from my morning exercise excursion at a neighbor's house.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. I had to exercise alone today, because of a transportation mix-up getting the kids to school this morning. I was approaching Lana's from the west just as Connie's vehicle was leaving, pulling out of her driveway to the east. The other ladies were done and I was just arriving, so I knew I would not have any company this morning.
As I was spending time on the treadmill, I began to be plagued by the boredom that generally sets in for me during solitary indoor exercise. "Time to use that imagination, Mary. Find something with which to occupy your brain." Hmmm. Various ideas flitted through my head. I wished I had my mp3 player. Or a radio. Or my laptop with a wi-fi connection so I could finish listening to that lecture in the free Hillsdale College class I signed up for.
Since the treadmill I was using faces the window, which looks out upon a little bit of snow-covered yard between the house and the woods, I decided to engage in a writing exercise, while the treadmill demanded exertion of a different sort from my body. I've occasionally bemoaned the fact that I am not a good photographer. I often see things that are visually rich or emotionally compelling. But when I try to capture such an image, or the feeling it draws forth, with a photo, it always falls short. I usually find I have better success painting pictures with words and phrases. But it takes practice and work. So it's not unusual for me to see something during my daily life, and spend some time thinking about how best to capture such an image with words.
With this challenge of capturing images with words in the front of my mind, I looked out the window at the snowy and blustery landscape. I made myself notice the details. I concentrated on all those little things that we don't generally have time to think about consciously, but which get into the periphery of our minds. I made myself think of ways to describe what I saw, using engaging turns of phrase and descriptive language to paint a picture with words.
Most of what I pondered today as I treaded and watched, is not worthy of remembering. Just images and ideas. But there was one scene that challenged me. I couldn't find just the right words while I was there, but I'm going to try to work it out here.
As I gazed upon the snowy woods, I caught a stir of movement out of the corner of my eye. A patch of deep golden color skittered into the whiteness of the scene. A dry leaf caught up in the winter wind. The wind had not yet captured the leaf completely. It traveled across my view in a hesitant manner, sliding forward a few inches at a time, only to get hung up on something that forced its stop. The snowfield that looked smooth and glossy apparently held obstacles that remained undetected to my eye.As I drove home, I was still lost in my world of words. Vocabulary and phrases. Word pictures. How to breathe life into mere words, to portray a scene as visually rich and constantly changing as life itself?
I continued to watch as the leaf made its way across the snow.
Slide and stop. Slide a little. And then stop again. Hesitant. Fluttering slightly in the wind. Tipping upward in a teasing sort of manner, only to settle back down against the snow. Then slowly sliding forward again.
Until suddenly, with a jolt and a tumble, as quickly as it had entered my line of sight, the leaf was gone in a rush of wind. Up into the air, end over end. It floated into the trees, and was lost to sight among the gray trunks of the poplars.
The black line of the winter road led me forward into the vast whiteness that is winter here in Northern Minnesota. The view seemed to stretch forever. The blackness of the highway was broken here and there. Unsettled. A blur of whiteness above the black. When the lay of the adjacent land allowed, the whipping winds lifted the loose snow from the fields. It hovered along the ground, in a swiftly moving cloud.I was plucked suddenly from my world of words. A haunting strain of music trickled from the car radio. I heard the opening cadences of the song and instantly felt a beautiful sort of melancholy pull at my heart. I don't know that I've ever heard Alan Jackson's "Remember When," before. But as the combination of music and lyrics toyed with my emotions, I recalled that article about music and emotions, Anatomy of a Tear-Jerker. I don't have the musical skills to easily analyze "Remember When," according to the tear-jerker rubric described in the article. But I do know that whatever combination of musical techniques that song employs, it works for me. It got me...right...right...right there.
As I passed the woods which surround Glen V's farm, I approached a ford. A snow ford. One of those spots where the writhing cloud of snow had found a suitable place to cross the highway. Just as travelers in the old days sought out the best place to cross a river, so too the blowing snow finds its favorite places to ford the impasse which we call a roadway.
The drifting snow seemed to rise up to threaten me as I passed. It billowed across the road in a thick whirl. A drift was growing at the side of the road, building a ridge along the highway that would soon stretch across the road, first in little fingers, and then finally, in a thickened mound.
I may play around with words. I may try to be interesting and compelling and vivid. I may even imagine I succeed a little bit. But I will probably never be able to make my words work like the poetry in this song spins its magic in combination with the musical strains.
My favorite line, by the way, "Remember when the sound of little feet was the music we danced to week to week."
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
Those Increasingly Frequent Rare Occasions
Over the weekend, I told Joe about my sudden inclination to drink pop. I only drink pop on rare occasions. Really. It's just that suddenly, those rare occasions are coming with increasing frequency. Joe thought that was a very funny ways of saying it, but it's true. I don't consider myself a pop drinker, but lately I just can't help myself.
Eek! I am embarrassed to say that I've bought a Coke at a gas station about seven times in the last month. What a waste of money! And, my poor pancreas! "I'm really sorry, Mr. Pancreas, please don't stop working." I'm sure this won't be a long term inclination. But for some reason, I am just craving Coke.
And chips. I've probably eaten more Doritos and potato chips (I'm so totally hooked on all those flavored kettle chips) in the last three months than I have in my entire life put together. What's up with that? I feel like Carol Cantell. And just for the record, the answer is, "No, I am not pregnant!" I know some of my readers well enough. I can hear your little brains ticking, see you biting your tongues, just waiting for an opportune time to ask. But no. That is not the reason for these snack attacks.
But this post is not about chips. It's about caffeine, and more particularly my sudden need for Coke.
I never used to enjoy caffeine. Really, it's true. It made me sick to my stomach. During my college years, for instance, if we had a big test to study for, or a paper to write, all my cohorts would keep themselves up all night with a Mountain Dew or Dr. Pepper. I would occasionally try it, but I always regretted it later. Instead of staying up all night studying, I'd be hunched up in bed wondering if I would make it to the bathroom when I needed to get there.
I don't know what changed. I rarely get sick to my stomach from caffeine now. Occasionally, if I have a sugary coffee drink on an empty stomach I might feel icky, so I mostly avoid sugary coffee drinks. But for the most part, I find caffeine a great boon in my life. Almost a life jacket of sorts.
This change came upon me about the time I had a mere four kids. Only four! Just imagine. It's a bit hard for me to remember back that far, to what life was like. I remember feeling overwhelmed. I remember feeling like I was always behind. And always a little bit crazy. (I guess some things don't change, huh?) But it was different then. I felt more need to try to keep up. God had not yet taught me that He does, in fact, fill in where we can't do it. I still thought I needed to do it ALL.
Joe was very busy in those days. He worked at Bethany College, in Mankato, MN. His official title was Associate Director of Library, but under that mantle, his main job was to maintain the computers in the library, including the student computer lab. He also coordinated technology things with the other techy guys around campus, and cared for various other media needs around the college. Besides his full time library job, though, he also served as an adjunct faculty member, teaching variously religion, archaeology, anthropology, linguistics, self-defense, or any other classes for which he was qualified, if the need arose. These teaching responsibilities were over and above his full time library position.
So while I was busy taking care of an ever increasing number of babies, Joe was working between 50 and 60 hours a week. I didn't see much of him. But while he often had to be gone into the evenings or work during the weekends, we lived near enough to Bethany that he could come home for many meals. There were many times, however, when he'd arrive home for lunch, and I would be at my wit's end. We came up with a little survival mechanism that we would employ on such days. Joe would do lunch with the kids. And I'd get to run down to the Citgo and pick up my usual: an individual pizza, a Coke, and an Almond Joy. Mmmm.
I'd park the car alongside some prettily tree lined avenue, or adjacent to one of the city parks. I'd tune the radio to whatever I wanted. I'd indulge in my junkie lunch. Besides the junk food, though, there were the social bonuses, too. I had quiet or noise, according to my own preference. No pinching, pulling, yelling, fighting, or other form of altercation to resolve. No disasters to avert or worse yet to clean up. No responsibilities for that 30-45 minutes. For me, at that busy time of my life, it was a little nugget of peace on earth.
Another thing I found though, that I totally didn't expect, is that the caffeine in the pop did not bother me. Not at all. It gave me a little energy boost in the midday. And in fact, it seemed to lend me a touch of something else. I noticed a bit of mental clarity, a focus that was new. A definite improvement to my typically chaotic thought process.
In short order I was making coffee to enjoy at home every morning. I felt as though I had attained some sort of landmark in growing up. I had joined the ranks of coffee drinkers. I could now engage in the pleasure of a cup of coffee shared with a friend. But more than that, I was also a part of the general coffee drinker community. I could appreciate and contribute to the coffee drinker conversation, the shared experiences of spilling on a new shirt or missing my first cup of the day; or the crisis of running out of grounds or having a coffee maker break-down. I was finally part of the coffee world. It was as though I had finally come of age.
I still enjoyed a periodic bottle of Coke, but not as often. Part of the boon of caffeine, as I said before was the energy. Because I was using coffee to start my day, I enjoyed a little boost to get me going on the day's tasks. But the other and almost more pertinent aspect was the increased mental acuity, the clarity and focus. And this is what changed my life as a young mother. Although I still needed a periodic rescue by my dear husband, most often when he came home for lunch, I was not in any dire need of escape. There was still a little bit left of me, to stay and help Joe do the lunch-with-little-ones thing, or to visit with him about his day. What a blessed change!
Coffee is still my primary caffeine source. Until recently, I've never been much of a pop drinker. It's a treat for rare occasions. I'll buy a pop for a road trip, or very occasionally on a hot summer day. Normally, when I'm thirsty I drink water; when I need caffeine, it's coffee. I just can't justify spending money on pop. It's a hugely expensive habit that is rife with the potential for ill effects.
But suddenly, lately, the last month or so, I... Want... Pop.
I can't fill the car with gas, without hearing the pop call from the coolers inside the station. That little whisper inside my head, coaxing me to indulge. And when I pick up groceries, I can't get through the checkout aisle without raiding those coolers strategically placed to tempt impulse buyers. And much to my chagrin, contrary to everything I would like to think of myself, an impulse buyer I have become. At least regarding Coke. Last Friday, while checking out at Wal-mart, I bought two Cokes. Two! One for the trip home and one for later in the weekend.
I've been trying to figure this out. What's with this sudden urge to drink pop? Is it some latent self-destructive leaning that is needing to squeak out suddenly? Maybe after ten years of being a pastor's wife, is the pressure of always being good is finally getting to me?
Is it a nutritional imbalance? Is there some component of Coke that supplies some micro-nutrient of which I'm running low?
Or is it simply that in this season of my life, my particular brand of busyness is taxing my mental faculties?
I suspect that it's this last one. I often find myself in short supply of mental clarity. Real short. I mean, really, really short.
Of late I am most often overwrought with the mass of those things of which I need to keep track. I'm told this can be normal at my age. That certain chemical changes that are likely beginning to occur in my body can bring on a confused and distracted state. Combine that with the escalating outside activities to which the older kids are obligated, and the increase in younger children activities, too, now that they are in public school.
At least one of my daughters thinks I accomplish nothing all day. I've tried to explain to her how mentally exhausting I find just keeping track of everything that needs to be kept track of. A friend of mine who has ADD has described his mental state, prior to learning he had ADD, as continually circling the block trying to pull into the driveway, but never quite being able to pull in. Building on that metaphor, I find my mental state most of the time as not even being able to tell whether I am arriving by boat or plane, train, bus or car. And where is it I'm trying to get, anyway? Remind me one more time, please.
And so, the pop. Ah, yes, the pop. Aaaaah, yesssss. Mmm. Just take a sip and feel the clarity return. Coke particularly is just so good. It brings back to me a little hint of the acuity I remember feeling when I first discovered the pleasures of caffeine. For some reason, the coffee alone must not be quite cutting it any more. I must need that evil high fructose corn syrup along with the caffeine.
I may never know why this works, or why I'm craving pop. But I don't really care about the reason, anyway. It makes me curious, but it doesn't really matter. And I sincerely hope my pancreas suffers no long term ill effects from these sudden lapses of self-control. I also hope that because of our very limited income my indulgent habit doesn't send us to the poor house.
But for now, I'm just going to enjoy the ride. I just can't seem to resist these increasingly frequent rare occasions when I need a Coke. And I guess I'm OK with it.
Eek! I am embarrassed to say that I've bought a Coke at a gas station about seven times in the last month. What a waste of money! And, my poor pancreas! "I'm really sorry, Mr. Pancreas, please don't stop working." I'm sure this won't be a long term inclination. But for some reason, I am just craving Coke.
And chips. I've probably eaten more Doritos and potato chips (I'm so totally hooked on all those flavored kettle chips) in the last three months than I have in my entire life put together. What's up with that? I feel like Carol Cantell. And just for the record, the answer is, "No, I am not pregnant!" I know some of my readers well enough. I can hear your little brains ticking, see you biting your tongues, just waiting for an opportune time to ask. But no. That is not the reason for these snack attacks.
But this post is not about chips. It's about caffeine, and more particularly my sudden need for Coke.
I never used to enjoy caffeine. Really, it's true. It made me sick to my stomach. During my college years, for instance, if we had a big test to study for, or a paper to write, all my cohorts would keep themselves up all night with a Mountain Dew or Dr. Pepper. I would occasionally try it, but I always regretted it later. Instead of staying up all night studying, I'd be hunched up in bed wondering if I would make it to the bathroom when I needed to get there.
I don't know what changed. I rarely get sick to my stomach from caffeine now. Occasionally, if I have a sugary coffee drink on an empty stomach I might feel icky, so I mostly avoid sugary coffee drinks. But for the most part, I find caffeine a great boon in my life. Almost a life jacket of sorts.
This change came upon me about the time I had a mere four kids. Only four! Just imagine. It's a bit hard for me to remember back that far, to what life was like. I remember feeling overwhelmed. I remember feeling like I was always behind. And always a little bit crazy. (I guess some things don't change, huh?) But it was different then. I felt more need to try to keep up. God had not yet taught me that He does, in fact, fill in where we can't do it. I still thought I needed to do it ALL.
Joe was very busy in those days. He worked at Bethany College, in Mankato, MN. His official title was Associate Director of Library, but under that mantle, his main job was to maintain the computers in the library, including the student computer lab. He also coordinated technology things with the other techy guys around campus, and cared for various other media needs around the college. Besides his full time library job, though, he also served as an adjunct faculty member, teaching variously religion, archaeology, anthropology, linguistics, self-defense, or any other classes for which he was qualified, if the need arose. These teaching responsibilities were over and above his full time library position.
So while I was busy taking care of an ever increasing number of babies, Joe was working between 50 and 60 hours a week. I didn't see much of him. But while he often had to be gone into the evenings or work during the weekends, we lived near enough to Bethany that he could come home for many meals. There were many times, however, when he'd arrive home for lunch, and I would be at my wit's end. We came up with a little survival mechanism that we would employ on such days. Joe would do lunch with the kids. And I'd get to run down to the Citgo and pick up my usual: an individual pizza, a Coke, and an Almond Joy. Mmmm.
I'd park the car alongside some prettily tree lined avenue, or adjacent to one of the city parks. I'd tune the radio to whatever I wanted. I'd indulge in my junkie lunch. Besides the junk food, though, there were the social bonuses, too. I had quiet or noise, according to my own preference. No pinching, pulling, yelling, fighting, or other form of altercation to resolve. No disasters to avert or worse yet to clean up. No responsibilities for that 30-45 minutes. For me, at that busy time of my life, it was a little nugget of peace on earth.
Another thing I found though, that I totally didn't expect, is that the caffeine in the pop did not bother me. Not at all. It gave me a little energy boost in the midday. And in fact, it seemed to lend me a touch of something else. I noticed a bit of mental clarity, a focus that was new. A definite improvement to my typically chaotic thought process.
In short order I was making coffee to enjoy at home every morning. I felt as though I had attained some sort of landmark in growing up. I had joined the ranks of coffee drinkers. I could now engage in the pleasure of a cup of coffee shared with a friend. But more than that, I was also a part of the general coffee drinker community. I could appreciate and contribute to the coffee drinker conversation, the shared experiences of spilling on a new shirt or missing my first cup of the day; or the crisis of running out of grounds or having a coffee maker break-down. I was finally part of the coffee world. It was as though I had finally come of age.
I still enjoyed a periodic bottle of Coke, but not as often. Part of the boon of caffeine, as I said before was the energy. Because I was using coffee to start my day, I enjoyed a little boost to get me going on the day's tasks. But the other and almost more pertinent aspect was the increased mental acuity, the clarity and focus. And this is what changed my life as a young mother. Although I still needed a periodic rescue by my dear husband, most often when he came home for lunch, I was not in any dire need of escape. There was still a little bit left of me, to stay and help Joe do the lunch-with-little-ones thing, or to visit with him about his day. What a blessed change!
Coffee is still my primary caffeine source. Until recently, I've never been much of a pop drinker. It's a treat for rare occasions. I'll buy a pop for a road trip, or very occasionally on a hot summer day. Normally, when I'm thirsty I drink water; when I need caffeine, it's coffee. I just can't justify spending money on pop. It's a hugely expensive habit that is rife with the potential for ill effects.
But suddenly, lately, the last month or so, I... Want... Pop.
I can't fill the car with gas, without hearing the pop call from the coolers inside the station. That little whisper inside my head, coaxing me to indulge. And when I pick up groceries, I can't get through the checkout aisle without raiding those coolers strategically placed to tempt impulse buyers. And much to my chagrin, contrary to everything I would like to think of myself, an impulse buyer I have become. At least regarding Coke. Last Friday, while checking out at Wal-mart, I bought two Cokes. Two! One for the trip home and one for later in the weekend.
I've been trying to figure this out. What's with this sudden urge to drink pop? Is it some latent self-destructive leaning that is needing to squeak out suddenly? Maybe after ten years of being a pastor's wife, is the pressure of always being good is finally getting to me?
Is it a nutritional imbalance? Is there some component of Coke that supplies some micro-nutrient of which I'm running low?
Or is it simply that in this season of my life, my particular brand of busyness is taxing my mental faculties?
I suspect that it's this last one. I often find myself in short supply of mental clarity. Real short. I mean, really, really short.
Of late I am most often overwrought with the mass of those things of which I need to keep track. I'm told this can be normal at my age. That certain chemical changes that are likely beginning to occur in my body can bring on a confused and distracted state. Combine that with the escalating outside activities to which the older kids are obligated, and the increase in younger children activities, too, now that they are in public school.
At least one of my daughters thinks I accomplish nothing all day. I've tried to explain to her how mentally exhausting I find just keeping track of everything that needs to be kept track of. A friend of mine who has ADD has described his mental state, prior to learning he had ADD, as continually circling the block trying to pull into the driveway, but never quite being able to pull in. Building on that metaphor, I find my mental state most of the time as not even being able to tell whether I am arriving by boat or plane, train, bus or car. And where is it I'm trying to get, anyway? Remind me one more time, please.
And so, the pop. Ah, yes, the pop. Aaaaah, yesssss. Mmm. Just take a sip and feel the clarity return. Coke particularly is just so good. It brings back to me a little hint of the acuity I remember feeling when I first discovered the pleasures of caffeine. For some reason, the coffee alone must not be quite cutting it any more. I must need that evil high fructose corn syrup along with the caffeine.
I may never know why this works, or why I'm craving pop. But I don't really care about the reason, anyway. It makes me curious, but it doesn't really matter. And I sincerely hope my pancreas suffers no long term ill effects from these sudden lapses of self-control. I also hope that because of our very limited income my indulgent habit doesn't send us to the poor house.
But for now, I'm just going to enjoy the ride. I just can't seem to resist these increasingly frequent rare occasions when I need a Coke. And I guess I'm OK with it.
Monday, February 20, 2012
Vince Flynn
Several years ago, I believe it was in the spring of '09, I discovered Minnesota author, Vince Flynn. I've been trying to recall how I stumbled upon his books. I think it was a mention on Kelly the Kitchen Kop's website, about a new book coming out, maybe with a link to her favorite reads page. I followed Kelly's link to Flynn's first book, Term Limits, and was intrigued. I quickly requested it through the library. I liked it well enough to immediately request the next one, Transfer of Power, also. It was after Transfer of Power, the first of the Mitch Rapp books, that I was really hooked. I haven't read them all yet, but I look forward to such an indulgence. (As a little aside, if you are interested in learning to cook with more nutritive ingredients and methods, Kelly's website is a great place to start.)
From a fan perspective, Vince Flynn is an all around great author to admire. He writes excellent political thrillers. He researches his material well. He's one of those authors who writes about things that might be, and later we find out they were in fact true all along. His book, Memorial Day, was so accurate that Flynn fell under the watchful eye of the Department of Energy.
Mr. Flynn is from Minnesota, from the Twin Cities area. He self-published his first book, which is very cool from a writing standpoint. It is not easy to gain enough of a following in the self-publishing world to garner the attention of a major publishing house. Mr. Flynn is a family man with fairly traditional values.
Mr. Flynn has a new book out just recently. The new book, Kill Shot, is the second prequel in the Mitch Rapp series. I heard in one interview I've listened to that Flynn has a third prequel in his mind that he hopes to write one day, but that his next book will continue the later Mitch Rapp story.
Mr. Flynn's new books are usually released in the fall, October, I think. Kill Shot was released several months late, but it's quite amazing that Mr. Flynn was able to finish the book at all. He was diagnosed with stage three metastatic prostate cancer in November of 2010, in the middle of the book tour for what was at that time his latest book, American Assassin. The cancer had moved into his hip bone and he at first thought he might have only months to live. After consultation with his specialists, however, Mr. Flynn was assured that, although his prognosis was certainly serious, it was not as dire as it would have been even a few years ago. Treatments for his type of cancer have progressed to the point that they gave him a likelihood of living at least five years, but that depending upon how his system handled the treatments, he could very well live a long and full life.
What great news for him and his family! But also for us fans. I've really enjoyed reading about his experience, and listening to some interviews. It's always heartening to hear of someone joining the ranks of cancer survivors. He is not out of the woods yet, but his treatments seem to be progressing well, and the cancer is diminishing in a predictable fashion, as they hoped. But Mr. Flynn's story is very inspirational. He talks openly in interviews about his Catholic faith, his writing career, the importance of his family. Mr. Flynn has a 16 year old step-son, and two daughters, ages 11 and 9. He projects such an over-all great attitude that it has reminded me to make better use of my own time here on earth.
Minnesota blogger, Caryn Sullivan, wrote a nice piece on Mr. Flynn and his struggle to produce this recent book while undergoing his cancer treatments.
The most extensive interview that I came across is this one from the Dan Barreiro Show out of the Twin Cities, on KFAN, 100.3. The interview is an hour long, so I wasn't able to listen very carefully to the whole thing, but it was really fun to listen to as much as I did. Mr. Flynn talks about writing during this cancer battle, about his fear of prescription pain medications, and the frustration of undergoing hormone treatments. Mr. Barreiro asks about Mr. Flynn's writing career and where he plans to go from here. And they talk about national security and the very real threats to such security.
I can't wait to read Kill Shot. If you've never read any of Mr. Flynn's Mitch Rapp books, you'll have to give one a try. They are a pretty fast read, with excellent characters, and lots of suspense. I do suggest reading them in order, starting with Transfer of Power. The characters really develop as the stories unfold. And although someone could make the argument that one could start with the prequels, I think the mystery about Rapp's background might be less interesting when read in that order. It's like getting to know a friend. One doesn't generally gush everything out at the first meeting, right?
Happy reading!
From a fan perspective, Vince Flynn is an all around great author to admire. He writes excellent political thrillers. He researches his material well. He's one of those authors who writes about things that might be, and later we find out they were in fact true all along. His book, Memorial Day, was so accurate that Flynn fell under the watchful eye of the Department of Energy.
Mr. Flynn is from Minnesota, from the Twin Cities area. He self-published his first book, which is very cool from a writing standpoint. It is not easy to gain enough of a following in the self-publishing world to garner the attention of a major publishing house. Mr. Flynn is a family man with fairly traditional values.
Mr. Flynn has a new book out just recently. The new book, Kill Shot, is the second prequel in the Mitch Rapp series. I heard in one interview I've listened to that Flynn has a third prequel in his mind that he hopes to write one day, but that his next book will continue the later Mitch Rapp story.
Mr. Flynn's new books are usually released in the fall, October, I think. Kill Shot was released several months late, but it's quite amazing that Mr. Flynn was able to finish the book at all. He was diagnosed with stage three metastatic prostate cancer in November of 2010, in the middle of the book tour for what was at that time his latest book, American Assassin. The cancer had moved into his hip bone and he at first thought he might have only months to live. After consultation with his specialists, however, Mr. Flynn was assured that, although his prognosis was certainly serious, it was not as dire as it would have been even a few years ago. Treatments for his type of cancer have progressed to the point that they gave him a likelihood of living at least five years, but that depending upon how his system handled the treatments, he could very well live a long and full life.
What great news for him and his family! But also for us fans. I've really enjoyed reading about his experience, and listening to some interviews. It's always heartening to hear of someone joining the ranks of cancer survivors. He is not out of the woods yet, but his treatments seem to be progressing well, and the cancer is diminishing in a predictable fashion, as they hoped. But Mr. Flynn's story is very inspirational. He talks openly in interviews about his Catholic faith, his writing career, the importance of his family. Mr. Flynn has a 16 year old step-son, and two daughters, ages 11 and 9. He projects such an over-all great attitude that it has reminded me to make better use of my own time here on earth.
Minnesota blogger, Caryn Sullivan, wrote a nice piece on Mr. Flynn and his struggle to produce this recent book while undergoing his cancer treatments.
The most extensive interview that I came across is this one from the Dan Barreiro Show out of the Twin Cities, on KFAN, 100.3. The interview is an hour long, so I wasn't able to listen very carefully to the whole thing, but it was really fun to listen to as much as I did. Mr. Flynn talks about writing during this cancer battle, about his fear of prescription pain medications, and the frustration of undergoing hormone treatments. Mr. Barreiro asks about Mr. Flynn's writing career and where he plans to go from here. And they talk about national security and the very real threats to such security.
I can't wait to read Kill Shot. If you've never read any of Mr. Flynn's Mitch Rapp books, you'll have to give one a try. They are a pretty fast read, with excellent characters, and lots of suspense. I do suggest reading them in order, starting with Transfer of Power. The characters really develop as the stories unfold. And although someone could make the argument that one could start with the prequels, I think the mystery about Rapp's background might be less interesting when read in that order. It's like getting to know a friend. One doesn't generally gush everything out at the first meeting, right?
Happy reading!
Monday, February 13, 2012
Rattlesnakes and Temper Tantrums
I got lost again this morning. On the internet, that is. I shared a photo earlier today on Facebook that my cousin's son, Tanner, had shared. It's of another cousin's barn that sits just up over the rim of Pine Canyon along the Sunset Highway between Wenatchee and Waterville.
That little Facebook post led to an unstoppable urge to see some pictures of Pine Canyon. I have a different blog post rattling around my head, that will maybe feature a funny story or two, and would include a detailed description of driving up Pine Canyon in a lemon of a Buick Regal. But the post is simply not forthcoming today.
What started out as a really good post in my mind, turned into a lengthy stream of consciousness with too many thoughts squished into a single paragraph with hugely ran-on sentences. (Is a run-on sentence written in the past a ran-on sentence I suppose not, since all sentences one reads are written in the past and if this were the case they would all be ran-on sentences instead of run-on sentences so I suppose there is no such thing as a ran-on sentence what to you think?)
But one thing I did find warranted its own smaller blog post.
Joe often dreams of us being able to buy property in Washington that we could use when we visit the relatives. It's just a dream, really, because we don't get there often enough to want to maintain a property there.
When I stumbled upon this ad for a couple of lots for sale in the Rimrock Meadows neighborhood, it made me feel nostalgic. And it called to mind two somewhat poignant memories.
Rimrock Meadows appears to be some sort of resort association where members can go to camp and swim and play tennis or Foosball. But what I associate with Rimrock Meadows is the rodeo. There was the Omak Stampede, too. Rimrock Meadows and the Omak Stampede. Those two names, in my little girl's mind, meant rodeo.
I have two memories that I think happened at Rimrock Meadows. I have no idea if they really did; but I'm pretty sure they happened somewhere. And I'm pretty sure it was at some sort of rodeo or horse and cowboy thing. I think I was probably three or four years old at the time.
We were walking along the dusty pathway, in some facility that was was set amidst the sage hills and rocky terrain of Eastern Washington. Prime rattlesnake country. There was a large group of us there, friends and relatives. I believe I was walking with either my aunt Elinor or my mom's best friend, Mary Ann, who is also kind of my aunt. It just might have been Mary Ann's daughter, Peggy, too. She's mixed up with this memory somewhere, in that crazy way memories get jumbled up. I remember that whoever I was with had strappy seventies sandals on. Probably Wrangler jeans, too. But the jeans are not important to this memory, as the sandals are. Probably my small size at the time made the visual impact of what happened next more lasting.
Suddenly a rattlesnake slithered over the open toe of my companion's sandal. With a wisk and a whisper, the snake was gone as quickly as it had appeared, seemingly in a hurry to escape the meandering crowds. No harm was done, but I remember it being talked about throughout the day. I'm pretty sure I asked both ladies about this episode at one time or another later, and nobody remembered it. But it's a very real memory for me.
The other memory I have is of a possibly more humorous and slightly embarrassing nature. I threw a temper tantrum. A raging temper tantrum. Apparently I liked the flavor of onion rings. Apparently I didn't know they sometimes had discernible onions within them. Again, there was a group of us. We were in one of those outdoor eating pavilions that one finds at a county fair or festival. I remember the wall going about half way up. We were able to look out above the wall at all the passers by. The group of us were sitting at several tables. The menu items were the type of fare that came in a plastic basket with red checked tissue paper to soak up the grease.
I had ordered onion rings and was really looking forward to them. The fragrance on the air screamed out grease and salt, and I couldn't wait for my food to come. But as I took the first bite of my much anticipated onion rings, imagine my youthful chagrin when I pulled that bite away from the crispy salty edges, and a string of onion dangled from my chin. Horror of horrors! An onion in my onion rings! Who put that there? I don't want them! I don't want onion rings with onions! Take them back and get me some different ones! Waaaaaah! Waaaaaah! Sob and wracking sob.
I don't know how long I carried on, and I really don't know if it was as much of a production as it is in my memory. But I remember first my mom, then my dad, then a variety of other friends and relations all trying in futility to calm me down. I remember my dad, particularly, trying to explain to me that all onion rings had onions. But I was having none of it! You can't fool me! I was absolutely convinced that they were all lying to me, in that grown-up sort of way, in order to pacify me in my anger. What did they take me for, anyway? I'm not as gullible as all that. Hmmph.
I did a little search on google to see if I could find anything about the Rimrock Meadows of my memory. I didn't find much. But this little news article from the June 7, 1972 edition of the Spokane Daily Chronicle was kind of fun. I would have been five that summer, and it appears that Rimrock Meadows was being dedicated that year.
What this tells me, though, is that if my memory has any basis in reality, I'm ashamed to realize I behaved in such manner at the ripe old age of five. I had really hoped it was a mere three or four.
That little Facebook post led to an unstoppable urge to see some pictures of Pine Canyon. I have a different blog post rattling around my head, that will maybe feature a funny story or two, and would include a detailed description of driving up Pine Canyon in a lemon of a Buick Regal. But the post is simply not forthcoming today.
What started out as a really good post in my mind, turned into a lengthy stream of consciousness with too many thoughts squished into a single paragraph with hugely ran-on sentences. (Is a run-on sentence written in the past a ran-on sentence I suppose not, since all sentences one reads are written in the past and if this were the case they would all be ran-on sentences instead of run-on sentences so I suppose there is no such thing as a ran-on sentence what to you think?)
But one thing I did find warranted its own smaller blog post.
Joe often dreams of us being able to buy property in Washington that we could use when we visit the relatives. It's just a dream, really, because we don't get there often enough to want to maintain a property there.
When I stumbled upon this ad for a couple of lots for sale in the Rimrock Meadows neighborhood, it made me feel nostalgic. And it called to mind two somewhat poignant memories.Rimrock Meadows appears to be some sort of resort association where members can go to camp and swim and play tennis or Foosball. But what I associate with Rimrock Meadows is the rodeo. There was the Omak Stampede, too. Rimrock Meadows and the Omak Stampede. Those two names, in my little girl's mind, meant rodeo.
I have two memories that I think happened at Rimrock Meadows. I have no idea if they really did; but I'm pretty sure they happened somewhere. And I'm pretty sure it was at some sort of rodeo or horse and cowboy thing. I think I was probably three or four years old at the time.
We were walking along the dusty pathway, in some facility that was was set amidst the sage hills and rocky terrain of Eastern Washington. Prime rattlesnake country. There was a large group of us there, friends and relatives. I believe I was walking with either my aunt Elinor or my mom's best friend, Mary Ann, who is also kind of my aunt. It just might have been Mary Ann's daughter, Peggy, too. She's mixed up with this memory somewhere, in that crazy way memories get jumbled up. I remember that whoever I was with had strappy seventies sandals on. Probably Wrangler jeans, too. But the jeans are not important to this memory, as the sandals are. Probably my small size at the time made the visual impact of what happened next more lasting.
Suddenly a rattlesnake slithered over the open toe of my companion's sandal. With a wisk and a whisper, the snake was gone as quickly as it had appeared, seemingly in a hurry to escape the meandering crowds. No harm was done, but I remember it being talked about throughout the day. I'm pretty sure I asked both ladies about this episode at one time or another later, and nobody remembered it. But it's a very real memory for me.
The other memory I have is of a possibly more humorous and slightly embarrassing nature. I threw a temper tantrum. A raging temper tantrum. Apparently I liked the flavor of onion rings. Apparently I didn't know they sometimes had discernible onions within them. Again, there was a group of us. We were in one of those outdoor eating pavilions that one finds at a county fair or festival. I remember the wall going about half way up. We were able to look out above the wall at all the passers by. The group of us were sitting at several tables. The menu items were the type of fare that came in a plastic basket with red checked tissue paper to soak up the grease.
I had ordered onion rings and was really looking forward to them. The fragrance on the air screamed out grease and salt, and I couldn't wait for my food to come. But as I took the first bite of my much anticipated onion rings, imagine my youthful chagrin when I pulled that bite away from the crispy salty edges, and a string of onion dangled from my chin. Horror of horrors! An onion in my onion rings! Who put that there? I don't want them! I don't want onion rings with onions! Take them back and get me some different ones! Waaaaaah! Waaaaaah! Sob and wracking sob.
I don't know how long I carried on, and I really don't know if it was as much of a production as it is in my memory. But I remember first my mom, then my dad, then a variety of other friends and relations all trying in futility to calm me down. I remember my dad, particularly, trying to explain to me that all onion rings had onions. But I was having none of it! You can't fool me! I was absolutely convinced that they were all lying to me, in that grown-up sort of way, in order to pacify me in my anger. What did they take me for, anyway? I'm not as gullible as all that. Hmmph.
I did a little search on google to see if I could find anything about the Rimrock Meadows of my memory. I didn't find much. But this little news article from the June 7, 1972 edition of the Spokane Daily Chronicle was kind of fun. I would have been five that summer, and it appears that Rimrock Meadows was being dedicated that year.
What this tells me, though, is that if my memory has any basis in reality, I'm ashamed to realize I behaved in such manner at the ripe old age of five. I had really hoped it was a mere three or four.
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