Desert Museum: The Fauna

As I've mentioned, we're currently in Arizona for a week. Yesterday Husband and I took my parents with us to visit the Desert Museum, to the west of Tucson. None of us had ever been there before, so it was all new discovery for us. What a wonderful afternoon we had!

The first stop was the snake and wildflower house. Interesting combination, eh? I told my mom I needed the wildflowers to calm my heart after viewing the snakes. The above snake is the "hypomelanistic western diamondback." According to the tag, the light color is due to a lack of pigment in this snake. It also lacks the light and dark banding pattern just before the rattle, which is typical of other rattlesnakes.
A little further on, we came upon a window into the perch of the mountain lion. This one was calmly looking out over the domain, with folk down below looking up at him.
The view from below was lovely; you can see the window behind him through which we were able to look out over the lion's ears.
What a gorgeous animal! This living museum is set up really beautifully so that families can get around easily and get a sense of what the wildlife and plants in Arizona are like.
Prairie dogs! These little guys were so cute. A visitor from Colorado was standing nearby and remarked that the prairie dogs in this exhibit were the fattest he'd ever seen in his life--and he's observed them in Colorado as well. I'd have to agree with him; our Washington prairie dogs are skinnier, too.
Of course, these guys usually have to run pretty fast because of all the predators that are after them. The prairie dogs in the Desert Museum are quite protected from the myriad of animals that are out to get them in their typical habitat.
We saw some ocelots, but they were hidden in a dark crack of the rock where they hang out at the Desert Museum, so they didn't show up too well in my picture taking. But then we turned around and saw several employees working with this Harris hawk. There was one where we were, and two more way down the hill in various spots among the cacti. One would whistle, and the hawk took off, displaying his impressive wingspread and beautiful form as he soared in to perch on a gloved hand.
I think this was the first time I saw a beaver up close. A nice thing about the Desert Museum is that they've set up the habitats so that you can watch the animals from above, and from below as well. This beaver was having a great time swimming around and practically performing for the people looking through the glass into the water where he wheeled and turned in front of them. I love that flat tail. It reminded me of a picture book by Harry Baerg called "Benny the Beaver," a book I loved to read as a child.
The river otter was in quite a different mood from the beaver. He was curled up for a nap, looking quite comfortable.
A little later, from the window into his pool, we watched the otter swim around, seemingly grazing for something on the far side of the pool. He didn't come over and mug for the cameras like the beaver did, though.

Missing Context

The visitor center from the caverns entranceI was so angry at an Asian man today, I went into tunnel vision complete with red prickles up through my neck and scalp, and I nearly beaned him. For those of you who know me well, you'll be shocked and disbelieving, I know. I usually adore and idealize people from Asia, where I was born and grew up. They feel like family to me. So why was I that angry? Here's the story.

We were at Kartchner Caverns state park here in Arizona, waiting for our tour to begin. I had approached a model of the hills and the rooms in the caverns. I briefly noticed a number of loudly chattering Asian kids (speaking Cantonese, as best I could tell) circling the model, banging on the buttons that light up different parts of the model to acquaint the viewer with the layout of the caves. That's a bit rude, I thought. They're more badly behaved than most Asian kids I know. And then I looked for a place where I could get in close to at least one side of the model and get acquainted with the caverns via the buttons.

I reached in and touched a button, seeing where it lit up in the back of the model. Around it other buttons were lighting up wildly as the kids continued to bash on the buttons, but after a couple of pushes I recognized where my button was activating the model.Then one of the kids slapped my hand away and went for the buttons where I'd been exploring. Okay... I moved over to some other buttons, ignoring the rudeness and continuing to look into the 3-D model.

After a minute an Asian man approached me. "You don't touch my child's hand," he said. His accent was either Hong Kong or Taiwan.

I looked up, startled. "Excuse me?"

"You don't touch my child's hand," he repeated, clearly furious. "You are very rude. You don't move children away. You are the adult."

"I did not touch your child's hand, " I said.

"Yes, you did," he said.

"Excuse me," I said, my voice rising. Out of the corner of my eye I could see my husband approaching, alerted by my tone of voice. "I did not touch your child's hand. Your kid slapped my hand away, not the other way around."

"You are the adult," the man said. "You should be considerate of the children."

I was seeing red by now. "Sir. I did not shove your child aside," I insisted with rising voice and gritted teeth. "Your child shoved my hand away, and that's exactly what happened."

I was so angry, I don't even recall how it ended. He didn't back down. I didn't back down. I walked away with my husband, trying hard to breathe deeply and calm myself, and once we were out of earshot I turned to Husband and asked, "What would you have done?"

"I probably would have gone on the attack," he said. "I probably would have told him off for his rude, misbehaving kids."

The incident wrecked my tour. It wrecked my afternoon. I stewed about it for the rest of the day. I tried to figure out why I had become so angry that I'd actually felt one of the most intense physical anger reactions I've ever experienced. So far I can think of several things.

One is that I have always seen myself as respectful of kids--it's a matter of pride with me, an experienced teacher of children, that I treat young ones with respect--and it made me furious to be cast in the light of someone who would mistreat a child. Second, the man didn't ask me if I'd done it; he accused me. And he didn't listen to my explanation or clarification when it was given, but instead lectured me as if I was some worthless abusive trash-woman assaulting his precious little hellion.And finally, I was deeply disappointed and confused at that behavior from an Asian. Asia is still home in my heart, and I know as well as Asians do that you don't confront people aggressively if you perceive some slight has been given in public. If you feel mistreated, you tuck yourself or your kid safely aside and move on. As I told Husband, it was so odd to be publicly verbally attacked by an Asian man who would not let up. It felt as though I was some symbol for him of whatever mistreatment has been done to him or his people by someone who looks like me. I just could not figure it out. I'm sure there's an explanation that makes all the sense in the world from the perspective of the man.

Sometimes a little piece of missing context would help.

Christmas in Arizona

Yesterday we left the snowy Northwest and traveled to Arizona for a week with Husband's mom.

There's something so good about getting away from the usual surroundings, seeing the colors of the desert, and reconnecting with family stories. And then there's the enjoyment of watching the hummingbirds at the feeder, sleeping in in the mornings, and waking up to the delicious prospect of a whole day without someone else controlling one's schedule, crises walking in the office door to be solved, and committee meetings to attend.

This is good.

How Do Ya Like Them Apples?

When the leaves fell, I remarked to Husband, "Ken didn't harvest his apples!" From our window beside the kitchen sink we can see Ken's trees just across the fence, some branches bending low over to our side. They were bare, except for a truly fine unharvested bunch of apples.

Ken had knee surgery on both knees this fall. Friends from church kept his grass mowed during the time he couldn't tend to his yard, and more recently we've shoveled his driveway. But none of us thought to harvest his apples. I envisioned them rotting right there on the tree and dropping onto our side, making a bit of a mess. However, being a rather laid-back sort about our yard--other than wanting it regularly mowed--I didn't spend further thought on it.

Then yesterday I looked out of the window and was completely transfixed. Ken's apple trees, bowed down under a load of snow, were under a full-scale assault by fluffed-out starlings. Not that I know what a starling looks like; I trust my husband's powers of bird identification. The birds were enthusiastically making quick work of the now-frozen apples. Some of the fruit was already half pecked away.

So, in the end, our inattention resulted in a treat for Nature. I kinda like it when things turn out that way.

Winter Sets In

This is the view from our bedroom door onto the deck this morning. The icicles concern me, as that means our roof is not as well-insulated as we understood it would be when we built this house. They are, however, pretty in the sunshine.
Out front, we've been spending some significant time plowing the driveway.

Me: "Husband, why was it again that we wanted our driveway built three cars wide?"
Our chimes look like they've been joined by the many icicles. I wonder, if I used a little hammer could I get different musical notes out of those icicles? I seem to remember a stalactite organ in one of the caverns we visited as tourists when I was a kid.
This is why I don't go out there and try. I'd get snow in my shoes. Some say we have 12 inches, some say fifteen. The web says it's zero degrees Fahrenheit out there this morning. And they're predicting another 4-6 inches of snow tonight.

I'm sort of feeling like I've moved back to Finland for the winter!

Christmasy Coat

Our library dressed in a lovely Christmasy coatWe've had snow and cold temperatures (it was 1 degree Fahrenheit last night as I was leaving the church up the hill) and more is on the way for the next few days. I'm thinking it's going to be a white--and cold--Christmas.

The Do-Over Button

"If you had a 'Do-Over' button, what one event in your life would you like to have a second chance at doing better?"

This question was listed recently at The One-Minute Writer, a blog that gives a daily writing prompt. The catchy subtitle: "You have 1,440 minutes a day. Use one of them to write." I dropped by later to see what people had posted as their one-minute response to the question, and read through the poignant thoughts there.

Lynne said:

For me, it is definitely involving parenting. There are many times while in learning mode, that I wish I could have done differently where my two daughters are concerned. I was not there at times because I was too involved in work or myself. I would give anything to do it over and give back that time to them.

Sherri posted thoughts along the same lines:

I would "do over" the time spent with my young sons ( who are now grown and out of the home). I wish I would have listened closer, held them longer, kissed them more often, given them more WISDOM, less rules, and would have just SLOWED down and enjoyed the moment even more.

Some of the responses were surprising to me. Trudi said:

As morbid as it sounds, my "do-over" would be to have taken a camera with me to my Mom's funeral. She looked like she felt better than she had in a very long time, and I wish I would have captured that.

Sometimes the regrets were not so much about making things right, but were a bit more self-serving in making the writer feel better about himself or herself. For example, Mike wrote:

There's one specific event, which I cannot recount in a minute, that involved an ex-girlfriend and something I said. I would take that back, not to get her back, but just so I didn't feel so awful about it years later.

Ares wanted the Do-Over button to make her life feel better, too:

I would like to undo (or redo, for vengeful purposes) the things I've done to my little nerve-breaking brother. At the first place, I was the one who inspired him to be as monstrous. And now it's backfiring at me.

And then there were the people who regretted letting family or society pressure them into not following their dreams for a once-in-a-lifetime event:

I would do over my wedding day - same guy but completely different setting. I would place much less emphasis on etiquette and more on celebrating my love for him. I would sing him a song. I would make sure there was ice cream along with the cake. I would wear the wedding gown that I liked the best instead of the one my mother liked best. And we would drive away from the casual reception at the lake on jet ski's - not from a hotel ballroom in a fancy car.

One that I found heartbreaking was Devani's:

When my first son was stillborn, I spent hours trying to make a lifetime of memories. I nuzzled his neck, gobbled his little toes, blew raspberries on his belly. But I forgot to open his eyes. If I could do one thing over in my life, I would look into my son's eyes.

Another one that made me sad was this one:

I would have said no. I wouldn't have fallen prey to the ideas and standards that surrounded me... ideas so far below my own. I wouldn't have gone back with him that night. I wouldn't have made the mistake of giving him something he didn't even deserve - something I can never get back. Now I'm not, nor will I ever be the same. & every day is a constant struggle to regain faith in myself - to fill up the void in place of my heart, and to hope someday I'll find someone who will help me right the wrongs... and will love me, mistake and all.

Deb's was sad, too; there are so many of us who are letting significant moments go by when we should be spending time loving people:

If I had a "do over' button: I would have done things differently when my mom had Alzheimer's. I would have visited more often, I would have spent much more time with her. I would have quit my job and taken care of her. I would have told her I loved her more often. I would have hugged her. I would have sat with her and held her hand. I would have tried to show her I loved her more. I have many, many regrets about that time.

Ever since I saw this prompt I've been thinking about the events for which I would like a Do-Over button. Instead of describing those here, I thought that I'd load up this post and invite you to think about it, too. For some situations in my life it's too late because someone has gone beyond my reach or there's too much water under the bridge, so to speak.

But, for all of us--as long as we're still living and breathing--there's an opportunity at least in a situation or two to set some things right, or do something right the first time, before we're left only with regrets. Seems like Christmas is a good time to take care of those.

Edifying Conversations

Ah, the odd things that flow through our conversations at home. Yesterday's example came after I'd been catching up on reading Christmas letters. Husband was sitting at his computer, working on his grad study. Stepson was settled into the other Lazyboy starting to study for his finals this week.

Me: It's hard for me to understand how people can change their names late in life, like after they've gone by a different first name all their lives.

Stepson: Yeah. I thought about doing that when I moved back here. I thought: "Hey! I could say, 'My name's Joey*, but you can call me Tiger Claw.'"

Sharing a Birthday

Forty-ahem years ago this picture was taken. It's one of the few birthdays I ever had in which my brother either wasn't present or wishing me a happy birthday over the phone. As far as I can tell, I was quite happy to celebrate that year with my single gargantuan candle and my pink blow-up giraffe (it was pink, wasn't it?).Eight days after that first birthday picture was taken, my little brother arrived. Being eight days apart in a month that already contained the festivities of Christmas, my parents (read: "my mom") soon decided that there would be one birthday party to celebrate both of us.
So on one year we both blew out the candles on my birthday, and on the next year we blew out the candles on my brother's birthday. As you can see from the pictures, I was the pushy brat who was concerned about the cake and noodling my way closest to it when the time came to blow out the candles. I don't know how my brother was able to stand me.

Well, sometimes he wasn't.These last three pictures were taken on my last birthday in Thailand, the year I turned five. We moved to Malaysia about 7 months later. It looks to me like my brother managed to nudge his way in closer to the cake by then (although I seem to have grabbed the chair perch). Good for him. It was about time. Isn't he cute, peering out from beside my knees? He probably got closer to the cake this time because I was too busy being all puffed up about my pretty new bride doll. Seems to me my doll was more interesting than the wood train. The problem was, as I recall, that I carelessly left it behind on an airplane on our world travels.

By the way, check out the fact that on this year, my mom apparently made TWO cakes! Wow. The sandwiches and banana Jell-o look pretty good.
Bro, I wish you were here to share a cake today. If you were, I'd let you blow out the candles. I'd make you sandwiches and banana Jell-O if you wanted. I miss you a lot today. Happy Birthday early.

The Sauna and the Butterfly Dress

A backyard saunaStepson wandered around the kitchen a week or so ago and launched into a paean to saunas--specifically the one he used to use at the health club in Portland. Having lived in Finland and been back many times to visit, I am as much or more of a fan of saunas than he is. But to me, a sauna located anywhere else than Finland doesn't seem culturally right, so I've never gone to one anywhere else.

As Stepson sang the praises of a good hot sauna, the topic seemed to shift, and eventually it became a full-fledged sales pitch on adding a sauna at our house. "My friend built one in his backyard down in California," he said. "I bet he'd let me have it."

Well now. Let me paint the picture for you as I saw it. Stepson moves back home at the age of 24, going back to school for another degree--this time in nursing--and not only refills the empty nest, but brings two cats that leave long hair all over the place and terrorize my poor kitty cat. And then he puts on the pressure for us to allow him to drag a homemade sauna up from some other part of the country and plonk it down in the backyard for his personal use.

"How would you get water and electricity to it?" I ask.

"It would be a wood sauna," he says.

"How would you get the wood?" his dad asks.

Stepson looks at his dad like he's crazy. "What do you mean?" he asks in the tone of voice that conveys, That was a dumb question.

"I mean, where would you get wood?"

"I'd buy it," says Stepson, who doesn't currently have a job.

By now I'm at the sink, washing dishes and working myself into an emotional lather over the conversation. I know stepson's style. It starts well-meaning, but then we have to take care of whatever is left behind. Let me be clear: I know the sauna would be left behind when all was said and done. It would be the biggest thing we've had to "take care of" after he'd gone on to the rest of his life. Last time there were the personal artifacts, the remnants of ferret pellets, various this-and-that under his bathroom sink, the used oil sitting in cans in the garage.... You get the picture.

"Wouldn't it be cool to have a sauna in the backyard?" he asks.

"No," I say emphatically. "I'm not interested in having a sauna here."

That should do it.

"Why not?" asks stepson.

I ignore the question. I'm not interested should be enough. It's our house. I truly love this guy, but I'm not figuring out how to drag a sauna back up from the backyard and then pawn it off on someone else a few years down the road.

* * * * * * * *

"So what about the butterfly dress?" you ask. "What does that have to do with the sauna?"

Well, let me tell you. My mom may remember this differently, but this is how I remember it:

I think I was 13-ish years old. I was idly flicking through dresses in my mom's cupboard. I was bored, looking for novelty, just being my typically egocentric teenage self. As I pawed through the clothing, trying on various pieces and enjoying the fact that I now fit my mom's clothes, I came across a dress made of white material with a colorful butterfly print.

I loved it. It was cool. It struck me as stylish.

"Mama, can I have this dress?" I asked. "I like it."

"No," she said.

This may not shock you, but it shocked me. My mother--according to my perceptions--was normally generous and giving, and would have handed over anything I expressed an interest in. Why had she said No? I really wasn't asking for that much. I tried again.

"But it looks nice on me," I said.

"And I like it, too," she said. "I had it made for me."

"I'd wear it often," I cajoled.

"No. You have plenty of other clothes," she told me. And she was right.

I remember to this day my surprise at the fact that Mama would deny my request, that she would insist on keeping things the way she'd arranged them for her own enjoyment. I'd run smack dab into a boundary. I wasn't getting whatever I wanted just because I was growing up and refining my persuasive skills.

* * * * * * *

And so, a week or so ago, as I put my foot down about the homemade sauna in the back yard, the image of the butterfly dress came to mind. And I thought wryly to myself that things seem to have come full circle.

This dress looks surprisingly like the one I coveted, as I remember it.

Ode to the Ones Who Stay Put

“Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn’t do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.”

The quote from Mark Twain is seen as inspirational and touted as a reason to strike bravely into the unknown. And while I think there is a place for throwing off the bowlines and sailing away, today I want to honor the people who do not.

There are people who stay in their jobs year after year, doing the same things, at most tweaking something here and there so that it works better. They're dependable. They get the job done. They are solid. They are servants in their approach and encouragers to those who work around them.

I have the great privilege of working with some of these people. While they won't get headlines and probably won't get accolades, they represent a lot of what is good and solid in our society. They continue to do their best to produce excellent quality in the tasks that have been set before them, sometimes even pushing through in spite of difficult people, lack of recognition and tough personal times. And yet they remain faithful. They are my heroes. They have my admiration and thanks.

A Pink Mist of Spirituality

Image can be found hereI found this quote in some reading I was doing yesterday about sermon preaching, and really liked the power of it:

The Gospel does not cover the universal condition, which is sordid, messy and disheveled, with a pink mist of spirituality. Instead, it acts upon the pressure-points of individual lives, challenging attitudes to matters so down to earth as sex, ambition, power, race and money." --Colin Morris, in "The Word and the Words," (London: Epworth Press, 1975. Page 57)

Public Prayer

My church in the early morning sunlight this fall; we made jokes when I was a student that the architect was "Captain Billy Whizbang."The older I get, the less I want to pray publicly.

That may seem like a no-brainer to some readers, but you have to understand: I was brought up at the front of my church. Whether I was singing in a choir, playing the piano, leading a hymn with the organ, telling a story, preaching a sermon, or presiding over a program, I have spent many hours of my life up front in church. I am comfortable there, for the most part. Except now, for praying. And I have been asked to pray twice this fall in front of the congregation.

I sat in church recently and tried to analyze why this is. I should be getting better at it instead of dreading it more and more. I am committed to God. I believe I can say to God whatever is on my heart. I am a verbal person. I am comfortable with personal prayers that are more formal, or that are brief sentences or silent messages sent heaveward throughout the day. So it isn't because I don't want to talk to God. Even as I become less and less sure that I know who God is and how to describe or characterize Him, I still long to be in His presence, communicating in whatever way I best can express myself.

I think my reluctance is because of the people. When I am praying up front, I feel that I am there to express the hearts of the people on whose behalf I am praying. I've become increasingly unsure as to how to do that.

Take the most recent time I prayed in front of the church, for example. That would be this weekend. As I sat on the platform, I looked out and pondered the stories of the congregation. I saw whole families sitting together. One family was gathered from far-flung places for their patriarch's 90th birthday. How lovely it must be for them to rehearse their family stories and traditions together, to hear their granddad expound with his characteristic wit! Another mom had her son and his new wife home from Stanford for Thanksgiving weekend; he's on a free ride for his PhD in Physics there. She must be listening with such pride to his stories and soaking in the radiance and companionship of this young couple in their first year of marriage.

But then there were other people I watched from my seat on the platform. There was a woman who I know has harbored a huge grudge in her heart, twisting the story of her wrongdoing until she now firmly believes the wrong was done to her. And there was a teacher who has used sarcasm and putdowns to make his students' lives miserable, leaving them discouraged and angry. There was the father who has beaten cancer and is now agonizing over his daughter's fight with a life-threatening disease, having to face the question of whether she will be there in the long run for her own children. There was a young father in the back without his wife and children, and I wondered where they were. And there was the pastor sitting near the front who showed up just when I needed someone to listen to me in a very dark time about eighteen months ago.

There were others: There was an alumnus of our university who has let go of the beliefs he grew up with, and yet he was there this week for some reason. And there was the woman whose husband is verbally abusive to her; he was sitting with her in their pew. Over there was a couple whose young daughter died a few years ago, who have prayed and cried and still carry the grief fresh in their hearts. And up there was the elder whose daughter--so I'm told--left home as soon as she possibly could in order to get away from her dysfunctional father. Then there was the aging widow way back on the right whose husband died earlier this year, and the young widower over there on the left who faithfully comes each week by himself. I wonder what goes through his head as he worships with his home congregation, or where his child was this week, five years after losing Mom.

How do I pray on behalf of all these people? What do they need for me to say to God? And how to I pray in such a way that we all respect the holiness of God, the sacredness of this "space in time" with Him? How do I pray in such a way as to acknowledge the practically unthinkable concept that we dare to gather before the God of the universe and attempt to communicate with Him?

I thought of giving up on my own words and just leading the congregation in the Lord's Prayer. Jesus gave us an example, and it's a perfect one. So I thought of beginning by acknowledging God's holiness and our dependence on Him. I considered speaking of our need for forgiveness--our individual needs for a Savior from our wretched, miserable selves and circumstances. But then I sort of got lost, thinking about all these people I know, of all their situations, and of all the commonalities and differences among us.

When I was done and left the platform to slip into our pew, I whispered to Husband, "I don't like praying up front, the older I get."

"Yes," he whispered back. "They should leave the praying to the young people who know the answers to everything."

Surprises Lurk

Sometimes surprises lurk in my morning worship time. Today in Exodus 6:20 I found this one:

Did you know that Moses was the son of his father's aunt? Or to look at it another way, did you know that Moses' mother (Jochebed) married her nephew (Amram) and that this liaison produced Moses? So if you think about it, Moses was his dad's cousin. Or from another angle, his mother was his grand-aunt. Or, you could say he was his own first cousin, once removed. Or... okay, okay, I'll quit.

Seems like this family was a wee bit too close.

Seeing the Beauty

Husband got an orchid as a gift for Boss's Day, and I thought I'd take some photos of the blooms the other day. The orchid is nodding over our fruit basket on the counter; I found myself going into contortions to get good angles on the blooms while not moving the plant.

As I viewed the photos I'd taken with the macro setting, I noticed something really odd. The very first things I saw in the photo were the two flaws in the snow white bloom. I didn't notice the exquisite design in the middle of the orchid, or the lovely colors, or the sweep of the curves of the petals. Instead, my attention zoomed in on the flaws.

What does that say about me?
The more I thought about it, the more I realized the truth in my reflection. When we review our looks or our performance in a situation, we tend to ignore the beauty of what God has done in us, and instead go straight to the flaws in who we are or what we have done. And we assume that everyone else around us is paying close attention to the flaws in us, as well. Occasionally, they are.

How sad that we focus our attention on the flaws.

We need to be more appreciative of what is beautiful. We need to be more gentle in our consideration of the flaws that will inevitably pop up in this world. It is the people who do that for those around them--the ones who look for the beauty in everything--who are the most encouraging.

Our Wopes

I have spent some years observing the family I acquired with my marriage to Husband seven and a half years ago. In watching and listening I have picked up on bits and pieces of their history as they tell stories or refer to things I wasn't there to experience. It feels a bit like when I came to the U.S. at the age of 18 and had to catch up on the movies I'd never seen and the books I'd never read, so that I could understand references in the culture.

So one day someone mentioned Stepson's wope.

"Wope?" I asked.

Stepson had treasured a couple of possessions when he was a little tot, I was told. One was a stuffed tiger he called "Too," and the other was his rope, which he referred to as his "wope."

"Rope?" I was puzzled.

"Yeah, his rope." Apparently his dad had bought a 3-foot rope, a fairly thick one, and Stepson treasured that rope and carried it around. It wasn't used to tie anything, and he didn't wear that Wope in any special way or drag it on the floor like a blankey. There was nothing special about it or its use, but his Wope was special to him.

I was thinking about it this morning. Could it be that I treasure some things that aren't really that valuable? I imagine God seeing me as His little girl with her precious "wopes," and benevolently watching me tend those Wopes until my eyes eventually open to what is really precious and deserves my affections and attentions in His kingdom.

Far Away

When I'm in my office working on my own, I often listen to Libera. In my opinion, there's no more glorious, peaceful, and creativity-enhancing music than this. Here's a sampling for you.

Oh Give Thanks, Part II

The second course was potato-leek soup in this dandy baked pumpkinAll that praise comes pretty easy when your items for giving thanks are like the list in Part I. But search my heart, can I really sing out my refrain if it goes more like the one below (which also speaks of my life circumstance)? If I had the soul and strength of Job, I could. Try your own woeful version and ask yourself if you could do it. It's an interesting and challenging spiritual exercise.

My body is getting older and ever more creaky.
"Oh give Thanks to the Lord, for He is good."

Two of our friends are struggling with advanced cancer.
"Oh give Thanks to the Lord, for He is good."

My family is separated by large distances, and I'm lonely for them.
"Oh give Thanks to the Lord, for He is good."

Not all my family shares my beliefs, and sometimes that makes me sad.
"Oh give Thanks to the Lord, for He is good."

We must make some painful personnel cuts at work.
"Oh give Thanks to the Lord, for He is good."

My retirement fund has lost at least half its value.
"Oh give Thanks to the Lord, for He is good."

I may have no one to look after me when I am old.
"Oh give Thanks to the Lord, for He is good."

My work is never done.
"Oh give Thanks to the Lord, for He is good."

I sometimes feel place-bound.
"Oh give Thanks to the Lord, for He is good."

My feet hurt every day.
"Oh give Thanks to the Lord, for He is good."

For 20 years I've asked to be healed of something, and haven't been.
"Oh give Thanks to the Lord, for He is good."

There are not enough hours in a day, nor years in a life.
"Oh give Thanks to the Lord, for He is good."

Oh Give Thanks, Part I

And this was just the first courseLast night we went to the first Thanksgiving feast of the season, at the home of our university president. For the blessing, he had us speak up as we wished, naming a blessing, and then the rest of us chorused, "Oh give thanks to the Lord, for He is good." I loved it.

Deborah Norville has written a book, Thank You Power. I'm listening to it right now on my iPod on the days I walk to work. She looks into all the recent research that is out there, showing that gratefulness really makes a positive difference in our lives. I have found it apropos especially now, as I have friends fighting cancer, have lost friends and acquaintances (that's plural) to death in the past month, and am facing challenges at work that feel like externals are on the offensive against us. Nevertheless, "Oh give thanks to the Lord, for He is good."

Try it this season. It might look like this:

My family is safe and warm.
"Oh give Thanks to the Lord, for He is good."

I have been one of the privileged few to get a college education.
"Oh give Thanks to the Lord, for He is good."

I have known the sweetness of love.
"Oh give Thanks to the Lord, for He is good."

I can taste food.
"Oh give Thanks to the Lord, for He is good."

I woke up to sunshine this morning.
"Oh give Thanks to the Lord, for He is good."

My children are a joy in my life.
"Oh give Thanks to the Lord, for He is good."

I can have a warm shower whenever I wish.
"Oh give Thanks to the Lord, for He is good."

My church community is a support in my life.
"Oh give Thanks to the Lord, for He is good."

The Word of God is a comfort and a challenge.
"Oh give Thanks to the Lord, for He is good."

I have read a good book in the last year... in fact, I can read!
"Oh give Thanks to the Lord, for He is good."

Music has filled my soul and lifted it up.
"Oh give Thanks to the Lord, for He is good."

We have this hope.
"Oh give Thanks to the Lord, for He is good."

What's Important?

Yesterday a board meeting finished early (it had already been a 9-hour day anyhow), and I decided to give myself a little vacation. Instead of going back to my office, I came home and turned on the television. I happened across the home shopping network, and watched with some fascination for a while. It was like watching a good-looking train wreck.

The host was using the word "important." This design is "important" these days. Notice these "important" metal studs on this purse. The cutouts on these strappy shoes give them an "important" look. Methinks she was protesting a bit much. And it struck me as rather odd.

Who cares if there are metal studs on a purse? People's houses have been burning down in California. And to bring it closer to home, I have two friends fighting with late-stage cancer, the son of another with leukemia, another just had a brain tumor removed, and another one died in the last month. How important are metal studs, did you say?

Who cares if these platforms on the shoes make them more sturdy so you can wear them all day? There are so many people around the world without shoes. A friend of mine, paralyzed by an infection in the spine last year, can't walk at all.

Who cares if the sheen of the handbag changes color as you turn it in the light? More than half the world can't even begin to believe it when you say a $99 purse is bargain basement. They could eat for three months on that cost. More and more children are going hungry right here in America, and you believe that twisty-belted dress that slims you is "important?"

It struck me as watching idolatry. You "have to" love a certain blouse because it's loose enough that people won't see your "love handles." You "can't resist" these shoes because they have buckle ankle straps that show off the skinny model's legs (and of course yours will look that lovely, as well). This purse--trust us, ladies--is the latest style, and of course it's crucial to completing your classy look from the tip of your head all the way down to your toes. Forget Gucci, Anna Sui and Chanel; "Miss Tina" has exactly the style to make you perfect, and all at this special low, low price.

This is ridiculous.

God did not intend, I think, for us to admire Things or to buy, buy, buy with that frantic, hungry glint in our eye.

Be it the Home Shopping Network, Publisher's Clearing House and their alluring promises and order forms, or all those catalogs coming to your house about this time of year, I believe it all preys upon our human penchant for idolatry (I challenge you to identify what the idol is). And if I remember correctly, idolatry was the first thing we are instructed to put away when God said "thou shalt not...."

Guidance

And island near Deception Pass in the Puget Sound At times in our lives we may feel the need for God's guidance. In looking around for His leading and comfort, we may not sense that we're receiving anything we thought we needed. All we hear is silence from above and within; all we see around us is people who are caught up with their own struggles ... or those who would look upon us with darkened expressions, expecting the worst of us and suspicious that we are out to do harm.

At such times it is a temptation to be envious of Bible characters such as Moses, who had a clear calling and was given several clear signs. Not only was the Voice real to him, but the signs were reassuring both to him personally and to those he was called to lead. The signs--the hand turning leprous, the rod becoming a snake and changing back again--not only happened once for him, but happened again for his people and then yet again for the pharaoh.

Why is it that God is not so clear with us today?

One thought that occurs to me regarding the life of Moses: God had been silent in his life for eighty years. There was no voice, no signs, no guidance. For the forty years prior to God's breaking of the silence Moses wandered around in the desert, herding sheep and learning to feel insignificant and incompetent. You'll see that in his response to God's first contact with him. And then consider all the other sincere people in the world at the time of Moses. There's no indication of a sign or a voice for them. What about their need for God to show up in their lives?

Divine guidance is an interesting phenomenon to ponder, and I've been wondering about it on and off throughout my life. In my worship reading this morning, I came across this quotation from Oswald Chambers:

We should be so one with God that we don’t need to ask continually for guidance. Sanctification means that we are made the children of God. A child’s life is normally obedient, until he chooses disobedience. But as soon as he chooses to disobey, an inherent inner conflict is produced. On the spiritual level, inner conflict is the warning of the Spirit of God. When He warns us in this way, we must stop at once and be renewed in the spirit of our mind to discern God’s will (see Romans 12:2). If we are born again by the Spirit of God, our devotion to Him is hindered, or even stopped, by continually asking Him to guide us here and there. ". . . the Lord led me . . ." and on looking back we see the presence of an amazing design. If we are born of God we will see His guiding hand and give Him the credit.... God causes an amazing humbling of our religious conceit when we are faithful to Him.

I don't have a "therefore," as I continue to explore the concept. I'd be interested in what you've believed and/or learned about God's guidance.

What's in a Name?

Have you ever mused on what our names mean to us? One could spend quite a bit of time thinking about it. Our whole identity is often wrapped up in our names.

I've particularly been intrigued by first names. It seems that in the Bible that everyone had names that described their characters or experiences. That has led me to wonder: do we become our names? Or was it that Bible characters didn't get their names for stories until it became clear what their character or life-theme was?

My first name, Ginger, is not the name I was born with. I was born with red hair, and so despite naming me after my two Dutch grandmothers, my dad nicknamed me "Ginger" for my hair color. From that moment on, I was called something other than the name on all my legal documents. I happen to believe that something about that name that I was called by everyone--Ginger--shaped my personality and character. There's plenty of energy and color, and sometimes a bit of bite, to me.
When I got married and legally changed my name, I got rid of those two grandmothers' names, "Rena" and "Maria," that defined me legally for thirty-nine years. They weren't me. Neither of my grandmothers was around anymore, so no one should get their feelings hurt by the name change. As of seven and a half years ago, Ginger is legally my name. It's about time.

At the time I was changing my legal name I struggled with what to do with my family name, a Dutch word that means "chain" or "necklace." It's a name I have been proud of. It's a name that lots and lots of people know because of the various places I've lived and the various things I've done. It's a name that has gone through some rough times and some good times, and it's me. I didn't want to give it up, so I kept it. It's there, solidly legalized as my middle name now, replacing the name of my grandmother Maria, who I never met.
Over years of single life, I fully expected to keep my last name when I got married. But then when I met husband and bonded so surprisingly well with him, I found that I wanted his name. Funny the things love does to you! So there it is now, firmly in my legal "family name" slot. I wouldn't be without it. And for work purposes I hyphenate my new middle and last names so as to meld my older and newer identities. It seems both symbolic and right.

So what do you think? Do you think we are shaped by our names? Does your given name fit you?

Art and the Heart

This piece of art is in our home. It's not on the wall; it's on the floor, leaning up against the wall in the entryway where all our family pictures are. I'm sure the thing is a puzzle to anyone reading this post, as it is to those who enter our house.

If I walked into someone else's home and saw this canvas hanging on the wall, I'd draw back in a shock reflex and turn to look for something more attractive. That was my reaction to it, too, the first time I saw it. But the more I look at it, the more I like it. And now I've become strangely fond of it.

Why? It depicts our son.

While he was in college his friend once took a silly picture of him with the magnifying glass up to his grin. Then another friend, an artist, saw the photo and decided to paint it. So the loud colors went onto the canvas, and the image got repeated in the background. And there we are: this awful, yet strangely attractive, lurid-colored piece depicting the goofiness of our lad. When he moved back in recently to go back to school for a different major--he hasn't been satisfied with the first one--the canvas came with him.

I've mulled over the fact that something (or someone) that at first seems ugly could eventually become something (or someone) that elicits a fond reaction. It's not in the eyes, and it's not in the sense of design or beauty. It's all in the heart.

And no, I'm not quite ready yet to hang it on the wall. But I'm getting close.

As the Leader Changes

I recently met with my peers from our system of colleges and universities. We always begin our meetings with "institutional gossip," a time when we share the joys, disappointments, challenges and new things on the horizons at each of our institutions. It usually takes 2-3 hours to get through everyone's list, sometimes longer when we get sidetracked and do business along the way as a relevant topic comes up.

At the most recent meeting, Ron made a comment that has been rolling around in my head ever since.

"I've been told that the years a person has to spend in leadership is directly correlated with how much God wants to change them."

Is it true that God puts us in challenging spots until we learn what we need to learn? What does that say about God? And what does it say about us? My predecessor stayed in this position for 12 years, and this is my seventh. I'm one of the longest-serving of my peers in this system now. Some have come and gone within a few years. Which of us needed more changing?

In mulling this over I have thought about the things that change us in positions of leadership. It seems to me that they all fall into three categories.

The first thing that changes us is those times in which we fail at navigating a challenge well. Usually we don't see the lessons right away. With a few of those situations it has taken me five years of returning to the incident and reflecting on it, to feel like I've teased out the lessons. And sometimes we learn right away, apologize, change course if that option is still available.

The second thing that changes us is those times in which we meet a gut-wrenching challenge, address it with courage, and succeed. These are the most delightful. In the midst of a difficult situation it feels just as awful when you're going to succeed as it does when you're going to fail. For someone who wants to do everything right and treat everyone well, the anguish of not seeing the end from the beginning is real and sharp. Always, always, we also learn from these times.

The third thing that changes us is those times in which we are criticized. The more painful criticism comes from those who would like to see us gone, since those who want us to stay and succeed are much kinder. Bless them. The less kindly sort will always be present, even if there are only two or three. I've observed that there's often at least one person who would like to see the leader move on, who works in the inner circle with that leader. The leader must consciously choose to not allow the knowledge of that circumstance to unbalance their world.

Whatever the case, we all must make some decision as to what to do with the critics who would discourage us with intention of making us give up. In my opinion, if you know that God has called you to the place in which you serve, there are really only two viable options. One is to learn from the criticism and stay, and the other one is to evaluate the criticism as junk and stay. Either way, it is crucial to stay true to your sense of God's call.

I think we sometimes forget that everyone working in an institution is on a developmental path, even throughout their adulthood. I stand in awe of those who are kind to leaders through the learning curve, keeping them on as long as they are willing to continue learning from their experiences. Great is their reward in heaven...and on earth. They shall reap a seasoned leader who is able, stable, grateful and loyal, and who in turn is willing to be patient with the developmental journeys of those around them.

[This is written with thoughts of appreciation to a group of people interwoven through the fabric of my institution, people who have been open, non-judgmental, honest and encouraging even in my toughest learning moments.]

Over the Pass

Come on a trip with me over the pass? Snoqualmie Pass, that is. I drove back from "the west side" last Tuesday, and it was a beautiful drive. Don't ask me about the safety of how I got these pictures, by the way.
On the west side it was raining. It was lovely, seeing the snow--the first one of this season for me--coating the scenery as I drove over the pass.
This is the lowest pass that I know of through the mountains from Seattle. Snoqualmie tops out at 3022 feet. By contrast, the other three passes from north to south are Stevens Pass at 4061, Chinook Pass at 5430 (and it's the most beautiful one, with a gorgeous view of Mt. Rainier looming over you as you crest from the east), and White Pass at 4500.
On the east side, the foliage was in full autumn glory. The highway essentially follows the rivers all the way home from the pass. It really is a most lovely journey.