Guess that's why He's God

I feel so helpless. We have had a lot of young people in the unit lately. People who shouldn't be there. People with young families. People who have a lot of living left to do, but who manage to thwart our best efforts to save them and die anyway.

So helpless . . . . .

Your breathing can be supported. Drugs can support your heart rate and rhythm. More drugs can pretty much normalize your body chemistry. But we are only swatting flies -- treating symptoms. We can't bring back brain function. We can't bring YOU back to your family. Sometimes we can't even figure out why you are sick, or can't stop the progress of your disease.

God knows, and knows how to stop it. But He doesn't always let us in on the secret. We are left with unanswered questions, the humility of our inadequacy, and grieving young families. Sometimes the only thing we learn is that we don't know the answers. How frustrating it is to be so helpless!

I guess that's why He's the Almighty God, and we're not.

History among the clothespins

When my Mother died, she left behind her 83 years worth of -- history -- for her kids to wade through. My brother and I are in hip boots at this time, trying to decide what to keep and what to sell and what (sorry, Mom) to throw away.

Mom was a proud member of the Generation of Savers.

She saved old obituaries. I guess part of it was her genealogy hobby, but I have to believe part of it was the possibility to look through them, not find her own, and continue living. Knowing that she could find all of this information on the Internet was not enough to let her discard them, but that knowledge has allowed us to do so. Except for hers.

Being wary of throwing something important away, Mom kept all of her old financial records. Not just from the past few years -- we have been finding receipts dating back to the 1950's. After checking with her accountant, we have been able to shred most of those. They may qualify as antiques, but she was not famous, and there are a lot of non-famous pack rats in the world.

She also had a thing for clothespins. Her filing methods included clipping together receipts and unopened mail and other things she wanted to keep and putting the collection in a special place to be dealt with at a later date. Those special places became boxes. These in turn were eventually put in a closet. They are sort of miniature time capsules.

Speaking of unopened mail -- we have been able to put together quite a little cache of pennies and nickles from those foundations who send out "guilt change" in order to elicit a donation to their organization. I guess she thought that if she didn't open it, and didn't spend those nickles or pennies, she would not have the obligation to donate. She couldn't find it in herself to throw it away unopened (it contained MONEY after all), but kept them just in case she had a few unspent dollars to give away. She never did, and we don't either, but we have found the unmitigated gall to take the money off and throw the rest away. It is MONEY, after all.

Mom was one of those thoughtful people who placed crosses decorated with flowers on grave sites. Mostly relatives, a lot of friends, and sometimes just a barren grave site that looked forgotten. All of the miscellaneous rolls of ribbon, silk flowers, florist foam, etc, etc, used to make these are in her storage building. There are also, among other items, canning jars of all shapes and sizes, pictures (we'll get to them later) and frames, newspaper clippings, things too good to throw away, but replaced by better ones, as well as two (count 'em - two) freezers full of food (Mom was a widow and lived alone).

At this point, let me say that my Mother was not by any means eccentric. Quite normal, in fact, for someone of her generation. She just never threw anything out that might be "good stuff" or that she or someone else might need someday.

She had cassette tapes of sermons preached at her last 3 or 4 churches, several tapes (intermingled with the above) of grandchildren reciting Bible verses, cassette tapes of gospel singing (my parents belonged to a gospel singing quartet), pre-recorded tapes of gospel and Christian music -- literally hundreds of tapes. We've even found 8-track tapes, and a couple of reel-to-reel. (If you don't know what those are, look under "stone-age" on the Internet.)

And of course, the pictures. Thousands, and thousands, and thousands of pictures. Who are these people -- and are we related to them? Not having the time at this point to go through them all, we have adopted the practice of putting them in a box (actually about 20 boxes) for later perusal. I believe that when my brother and I die, our children will look into the boxes, say to each other "Who are these people -- and are we related to them?", close the boxes and put them away . . . for later perusal.

History repeats itself, you know.

Friendship

I love my friends.

Especially the ones who make me feel so normal.

You know who you are . . . . . . .

Why can't I do that?

No, these are not my cats.

Yes, they certainly do resemble some of my cats.

This kind of amusement at their response to life is one of the many reasons people have a cat, and the interaction of the personalities is one of the reasons normally sane people have an assortment of the beasts.

OK -- the multiplicity part is explained, but one thing about them is still a mystery --

How do these furry little beings -- with the same basic muscle groups I have (a tidbit I learned in nursing school) -- manage to accomplish the defiance of several basic laws of physics, gravity and dexterity without winding up in body casts? And -- Why can't I do that?

Pave Paradise . . . .

Spring is sprung, the grass is ris . . . . I wonder where the birdies is?

Well, it was Spring a couple of weeks ago, anyway. I guess we've just skipped summer and fall and gone straight back into winter again.

I haven't yet taken the plastic off of the screens on my back porch yet -- partly because I don't trust Spring, and partly because of the condo construction going on across the bay behind my house.

As to the first part (I don't trust Spring), I grew up in Colorado -- 'nuf said.

As to the second part (the cursed condos), it is extremely miffable to me because when I bought this house, it was peaceful and quiet. Good neighbors, huge oak trees and gorgeous flowers and landscaping. Now, due to the greed of the previous owners of the beautiful stone house across the bay, their land (a strip of land extending into the bay -- man made, but that's another story) has been sold to developers. Said developers have torn down the beautiful stone home, stripped the lot of all trees -- large and small --and gorgeous landscaping, flattened the land, surrounded it by "boardwalk" and are now erecting two story behemoths (4 of them!!) designed to attract the up and crusty. "Pave paradise and put up a parking lot."

Having given this matter some consideration over the winter, I have decided to let my backyard lawn become a weed patch this year. Being a resident of the county outside the city limits, I do not have to hold to the higher standards of yard upkeep imposed on the city folk. I can think of several advantages to this action (or series of non-actions), besides the obvious one of hopefully deterring sales of the cursed condos. Think of the gas I will save! The spare time I will have! The wildlife I can attract! Yes, this can only be a good thing. I may even turn my lawnmower into a birdhouse.

He is risen!

This is one of my favorite pictures. I love to study it, thinking about the events that might have gone on before, and marveling at the great love that the Shepherd has for His sheep. Thank you, Jesus. I love you, too.

He is risen indeed.

Happy Easter.

Of practical jokes and Cadbury eggs

When she was in high school, my daughter and I had a history of playing practical jokes on each other. She was clever. Sometimes fiendishly so.

From shaving cream in the shoe (usually an old pair of sneakers, sometimes my favorite house slippers) to the old rubber-band-on-the-spray-nozzle-of-the-sink gag, we both loved trying to better the other on each successive prank.

At Christmas time each year, my family would pass around lists of small things we wanted "Santa" to bring us, and we could then choose from the list presents we could give which were sure to be wanted. On my list one year I jokingly included the item "tiny butt". (That was the year I discovered Cherry Garcia ice cream, I think.)

That year under the tree, I found a small box with my name on it which looked suspiciously like a ring box. Horrified, because most of my gifts were of the modest (translation: inexpensive) variety, I frantically wondered how I would cover my not-so-tiny butt by explaining that "Santa" had not been able to get all of the gifts on his sleigh or some other ridiculous ruse to enable me to go shopping again and buy a more elaborate present for whoever had put me in this predicament.

When my turn came, I warily opened the box. Inside was an item which was unrecognizable upon first inspection. I took it out -- obviously a ring, and examined it. There, glued to an adjustable one-size-fits-all gumball ring, was the skillfully excised hind quarters of a small troll doll. (Did I mention she was "fiendish"?) I did get my tiny butt, after all -- and I didn't have to go shopping again, either. I proudly wore the thing until the cheap metal finally gave up and broke.

When Easter time came around each year, and Cadbury eggs became available on the store shelves, we would both hide the little ones in various places to be found by the other. They were-- like a lot of Easter egg hunts -- never completed, and it was always a pleasure to find a forgotten egg in a pair of winter mittens the following fall or in a coffee mug pushed to the back of the cabinet until a dinner party forced the use of all of them. It always made me smile to remember that she had placed it there, probably grinning, the previous Easter season. Sometimes, being the choc-o-holic that I am, I even ate them. It depended on how flattened it was.

I say all of that to say this: My husband and I divorced about 10 years ago. My daughter is a married college graduate who has graciously gifted me with my grandson, now going on 2 years old. Life has moved on. Not all of my clothes of the prankster era have remained wearable (ok, ok, so I've gained a little weight), but most of my shoes still fit. Snow boots are something rarely needed here in the South, but I have kept them -- for posterity, for the possibility, or probably just because I never throw anything out.

As I write this, beside me is a small, flat, nearly unidentifiable object wrapped in red and blue foil. A modicum of boot fuzz is sticking to it. It seems one Easter time -- I have no idea which one -- a small Cadbury egg was placed in a snowboot by a grinning high school girl. Finding it a few months ago brought back a flood of pleasant, yet bittersweet, memories. Where does time go?

I have started to again hide Cadbury eggs in some of the packages I send to my dear daughter, her wonderful husband and their precious son. She hasn't yet taken up the game -- possibly because as a college graduate, she has a slightly more refined sense of humor that doesn't include Cadbury eggs. I don't want to believe she doesn't remember our game. I haven't mentioned the foundling to her, and if she doesn't remember, she may think I've gone completely senile. That's ok, though -- I remember.

And although I am a confirmed, obvious choc-o-holic, I'm not going to eat this one. I'm even wondering how I could have it made into a necklace.

Proof (x7) that God has a sense of humor

In my profile, I mention the fact that I am a cat hoarder. At least, that's what I would be called if the animal police got hold of me. I wound up with 5 of them through various situations, and then inherited 2 more when my mom died in December. I now have 7 of the beasts. I guess that is one of the reasons I live alone -- no one else would put up with the endless cat-box (4 of them) and vacuuming duties. I am lucky to have a Main Man who is, though allergic, extremely tolerant.

My feline friends are a (mostly) enjoyable source of endless entertainment. The variety of personalities I have living in my house is incredible.

Chronologically, there is Bug, a grey tabby who was left at the vet by a woman giving a false name and address to receive shots while she went shopping. She would be happiest if she could sit in my lap 24/7. Goose is a calico who chose my front door to yowl at -- sopping wet -- on a rainy day. Her favorite spot in the house is next to me. LC showed up on my front tire and refused to be daunted by several attempts at relocation until I took her home with me -- on my birthday. She is the only long hair, and most of my knitting and crocheted items contain her DNA. My two rescue cats are Jack, the sleek black monster who feels it is his mission in life to good-naturedly torture his 6 other species/ house-mates; and Cricket with white feet and white bib, who likes to suck on my earlobes when I am trying to get a few hours sleep between work shifts. Baxter was my Mom's love-bug and is a yellow, blue-eyed adventurer -- the only one of them who is allowed into the great outdoors -- only because Mom allowed this and I cannot dissuade him. Last, and least in size, is Mooch, a sweet and shy tortoise shell (the other of Mom's with a tragic past) who has taken over the spare bedroom.

There is a section in my house appropriately named the "Kitty Korner". It is the spot that has several cat trees and scratching posts (like that does any good) with optimal views of the bird feeders outside. They let me think that I have given them that part of my house -- the truth is, they have infested my entire home! The upside to all of this is that I have virtually no insects or rodents in my house.

I love the time of day when I get out of the shower and see 5 or 6 of them sitting in various places in the bathroom, staring at me as if I were completely insane to willingly subject myself to that type of torment. At that particular time of day, we have our specific personal greetings -- one wants to lick the water out of my hair, one stares sweetly at me until I give her the usual kiss on the head, the black monster likes to rub against my wet legs (I don't know why he actually likes this vicarious contact with water). They are my company -- my family. I thank God for them all -- for the infinite nature of His creativeness and for the daily proof that He has a sense of humor.