Mulling Over Morale

Caught this cheery little guy last spring across the streetI've been reflecting this week on morale.

Merriam-Webster--it's always wise to begin with definitions when thinking conceptually--defines morale as "the mental and emotional condition (as of enthusiasm, confidence, or loyalty) of an individual or group with regard to the function or tasks at hand." That would mean, logically, that when your morale is high, you're enthusiastic, confident and loyal to someone or something. If your morale is low, you're uninspired, distrustful and disconnected.

Over the course of my work life, I've heard people make statements like, "Such and such will cause low morale, so we can't do that," or "There's low morale in our group because so-and-so did such-and-such." It seems like it's always related to the work place. You don't hear people say, "I have low morale in my family," or "My spouse causes me to have low morale."

What has made me somewhat suspicious of such comments is that they seem extrinsically driven. Be it at work or in my home, my morale shouldn't be a leverage to get someone to do what I want done, or to make them "pay" for doing something I don't approve of. My morale should be my chosen approach to life, not a casualty of someone else's actions or lack of them, as though I were some hapless victim. In other words, my morale is my responsibility, not someone else's.

As with most states of mind, your morale says more about you than it says about anything else.

Having said that, there are some personal human needs related to elements of morale, and I think there are things we can do to make it easier for people around us to live with high morale.

I went on a search for information, and found some that spoke with the ring of authenticity. One study of the workplace showed that the top morale buster was a "lack of open, honest communication." The second highest morale buster was "failure to recognize employee achievements," followed by "excessive workloads for extended periods." Hmmm. Turn that around, and you can identify three basic human needs that can need to be met, whether in the workplace or in the family:

Openness and honesty.

Appreciation.

A helping hand.

I remember working for a boss who took some of my cheery, impulsive comments as criticisms even though they weren't meant that way. I eventually found myself tiptoeing around her, being careful what I said and not sharing certain things in order to avoid pained or jealous-sounding responses. I was happy and I loved my job, but it would have been easier if we could have been open and honest.

With another boss, I often went the extra mile without recognition, sometimes not by my own choice. I was single, and my boss or other teachers would say, "Oh, I need to get home to my family; will you lock up?" And there I was, trudging around campus alone late on a Friday afternoon, checking doors. At other times I might do something creative or solve a thorny problem effectively, and there was no comment from the boss. I remember craving some gesture of appreciation, some recognition of the effort I was putting in. When I moved to my next job and a colleague first shared approving words, it felt so good I nearly wept. And yet, I had loved my work at the old school where I'd locked up so often. It just would have been much harder to move away if I'd perceived more recognition and appreciation from my boss.

A helping hand is that third morale-lifter. In my current job I've worked with colleagues who will pitch in and take on a project when my load is overwhelming, or will share willingly in tough decision-making tasks so I don't feel alone with the burden. It makes a world of difference. Or I've invited students over to my home when I'm busy, and they help cook and clean up. It just makes you want to put forth the effort all over again the next day.

Morale. It's your own responsibility, regardless of circumstances. On the other hand, it can make a world of difference for those around you at work or home if you simply tend to those basic human interactive needs: openness and honesty, appreciation, and a helping hand.

And now, friends, we ask you to honor those leaders who work so hard for you, who have been given the responsibility of urging and guiding you along in your obedience. Overwhelm them with appreciation and love! Get along among yourselves, each of you doing your part. Our counsel is that you warn the freeloaders to get a move on. Gently encourage the stragglers, and reach out for the exhausted, pulling them to their feet. Be patient with each person, attentive to individual needs. And be careful that when you get on each other's nerves you don't snap at each other. Look for the best in each other, and always do your best to bring it out. (1 Thess. 5:12-15, Message)

Heralds & Harbingers

Crocuses on Date Street in our little townHerald: one that conveys news or proclaims (Merriam Webster)

I spotted the first heralds of spring on Saturday. First it was the crocuses on Date Street as I was walking over to our church. Then later in the day, I noticed that those lovely pinkish-purple shoots were poking out of the earth near our front door, proclaiming the eventual arrival and blooming of the bleeding hearts.

Hurrah for the heralds of spring, the harbingers of hope!

They Were All I Could Think About

This past Thursday evening I attended a banquet organized by the School of Engineering to celebrate Engineers' Week. The speaker was Leslie Robertson (right), structural engineer for many skyscraper projects, including the World Trade Center in New York City. He showed pictures of his projects all over the world, talking about various aspects and approaches to structural engineering. He also spoke of the ways in which he and his team have dealt with the funny quirks of people involved with these projects, including a city mayor in China who nixed a project because there were large X's in the building design--X is a symbol of death, and it just wouldn't do. Robertson's talk was quite fascinating, and our students gathered around afterwards to get a chance to talk with him.

On Friday morning I left on the first flight for Seattle, where I had a day-long meeting to attend. Checking in at our little airport's counter, I looked over and saw Mr. Robertson on his way through security screening. The TSA agent, a husky white guy with close-cropped hair, had taken Mr. Robertson to the side and had him standing on the padded mat with his arms out while he got the "wand" waved around him and was patted down. He stood quietly and patiently, putting up with the "third degree" even though he'd commented in his talk the night before, "Any idiot can get weapons past the airport security; it's all just a system to make us travelers feel safer."

After I put my stuff in the bins to go through the scanner, I stepped through the walk-through device, got my "all clear" signal from the lady who'd beckoned me forward, and went to pick up my belongings and put myself back together. The TSA guy who'd worked with Mr. Robertson was there.

"Excuse me," I said. I just wanted to let you know something. You know that older man you were scanning a minute ago? He was the lead structural engineer responsible for building the World Trade Center."

The guy's eyes got big. "Really?!" he said. "Wow."

I didn't drive my point home, but I wanted to. "Hey buddy. The reason you're working this job this morning is because the building he created suffered attack. Don't you find it ironic that you were giving him the third degree? Seems like the designer should get a break after somebody torpedoed his design."

The irony has hung with me as I thought of the scenario several times since then.

Last Thursday night, during the question and answer time following the presentation, one of our engineering faculty asked Mr. Robertson, "After the World Trade Center was hit and you were watching the pictures before it fell, what were you thinking would happen?"

Mr. Robertson was very quiet, and I started to wonder if he would answer. I think he was gathering his emotions together, six and half years after the event. Finally, he spoke. "As far I as knew, there were 20,000 to 40,000 people in that building. They were all I could think about." And then he was silent again.

You could have heard a pin drop. That was the end of the answer.

I have thought several times since then of a beautiful little world in this universe that was well-engineered, torpedoed by sin and by our own abuse of each other and of the environment He designed. I've thought of the lack of recognition, questioning and indignities the Designer has suffered since then, in a different and heart- breaking way. And I've thought of how He might answer that question, "What were you thinking?"

"There were people. They were all I could think about."

Out of This World

So. There was an eclipse tonight. As my last committee finished at 6:00, someone noted that the predicted eclipse had begun, so... at peril of people "out there" thinking we were crazy, we turned off the office lights and huddled to look out my office windows at the shadow creeping across the moon poised over the Blue Mountains.

I settled down at my desk and started some follow-up work, and then the phone rang. It was Husband.

"Did you see the eclipse?" he asked.

"Oh yeah." I leaned forward at my desk and looked out the window. Yup. The shadow had grown.

"I'm driving up 4th Street looking at it," Husband said. "It's cool."

Sure, it was cool. I went back to work.

When I got home twenty minutes later, Husband was in the front yard with the neighbor kids and their dad, watching the eclipse. Huh. Too cold for me. And there's not a whole lot of action in an eclipse. Whatever. Seen it a bunch of times.

For the record, I am not jaded. I can get quite excited about out-of-this-world events. For example, on Monday morning a sudden flash of light filled the bedroom just before 5:30 a.m. (I did not take the above picture). It was bright enough that it woke me up. A transformer must have blown, I thought.

I was lying there trying to go back to sleep, when there was a rumble and the house shook. What on earth was that? It almost sounded like something had hit the roof and was rolling down.

The paper--which comes in the afternoon in our town--carried the story. And that's when I got really impressed. A huge meteor (called a "bolide" once it enters earth's atmosphere and starts burning up in earnest) had entered the earth's atmosphere over the Northwest, and the bright flash of it had been seen across eastern Washington and the Idaho panhandle.

Cool!!!

The rumble was the meteor doing something with breaking the sound barrier.

VERY Cool!!!

As far as we heard, it burned up before hitting the earth. Or at least, it didn't fall on anyone.

Parenthetically, the paper quoted one of the valley residents as saying he had just stepped into his hot tub when he saw it come over. Now our question is this: WHO goes out and sits in his hot tub at 5:15 a.m. . . and why?

I was thinking about all this, and wondered why I was so nonchalant about the total eclipse. It's because I've seen them before in my life, several times. They're predictable. They look similar every time you see them.

A bolide, on the other hand, is not something everyone sees in their lifetime. And they probably don't get to hear the sonic boom and feel the house shake. So although each event is amazing, it's the rare unpredictable one that gets the attention.

I thought of what I've been learning in Psalms for the past two days. Psalm 148 tells us to praise. Everyone is supposed to praise him, from the sun and moon to the oceans to the animals to the flowers to the people. Yeah, yeah. So we hear the word "praise" all the time. "I don't even really know how to do that!" I complained in my worship journal. "I don't particularly feel like doing it."

Well, that ought to be my big clue! We were created to give praise to our Creator. I know that.

So I decided to try to fulfill my purpose. The day was filled with deliberate praise, any time I thought of it, any time I prayed. And a good day it was, appreciating something that seemed so ordinary: the simple, everyday fact that God created me.

Then this morning I read in Psalm 149:5: "Let the saints rejoice in this honor and sing for joy on their beds." And I laughed, right there in my worship time, at the picture of all the saints sitting up on their beds and singing, la-la-la!

What am I saying? I'm saying that we usually become so accustomed to the daily event of waking up to a new day of life, so accustomed to God giving us one breath after another, that it's like me with the lunar eclipse this evening: we become nonchalant about the miracle, and the wonder is elusive.

What am I saying? I'm saying there is a miracle in the very fact that we're created. It's a miracle so big and awe-inspiring that we should wake up every day singing for joy on our beds in praise to the One who made us. If we have lost joy in the simple, specific fact of being created by God, we are missing spiritual life-in-color.

What am I saying? If that kind of wonder and praise doesn't make itself immediately apparent in your life, it's time to go in search of it, and to find your way back to Praise as you freshly comprehend this amazing, out-of-this-world event: the joy of being a living creation.

The Art of Virginia Peacock

Art by Virginia Peacock; click on the picture to see a larger viewLast Friday afternoon I was sitting in the Colville St. Patisserie chatting with one of our university students over a cup of chai and a scoop of chocolate gelato, when Virginia Peacock approached our table (Doesn't she have the greatest name?).

"Wanna buy my art?" she asked, with no other introduction.

I turned to look. The first thing I noticed was the evidence in her face of Downs Syndrome. She had placed a stack of art works on the table, all a bit bent up from the warping effects of watercolor paints. The prices were penned on the back of each picture. Whether large or small, the prices were constant: $5.00 per picture, with the point-zero-zero carefully included in each notation.

It was happy art. There's just no other way to describe it. There were butterflies and birds and trees and turtles and tigers, all in vivid colors with crayon details added. It looked like what my first graders used to produce when I was an elementary teacher, and it evoked warm, peaceful emotions in me.

In that moment a string of thoughts went through my head. First, I thought of the fact that I didn't have much cash left in my pocketbook. Then I thought of the fact that I had just spend five dollars on chai and gelato, and wondered why that would be of higher priority than buying a Virgina Peacock original. Finally, I thought of my Thai brother, Montree, a doctor who gave some little coin to every single beggar we passed on the streets of Bangkok when we visited him the summer I finished college. And I thought of how I had admired a watercolor of orchids done by a street artist in Bangkok, and how he immediately bought it for me. It hangs on my wall to this day, a symbol of beauty and generosity in our home.

And so, I am now the proud owner of a Virginia Peacock original crayon art masterpiece, the one with lurid purple butterflies and a cheery colorful bird perched among trees floating around over green grass. And Virginia has five more dollars in her pocket, as she put it in answer to my query, "to buy more art supplies." Long may she work with her magical, happy colors.

The Thai orchid picture

Never a Companion, Just an Old Friend

When I was a kid we had this program sort of like scouting, at both school and church, in which we mastered various tasks, memorized Bible verses, earned honor badges, and so on. The first level, corresponding to first grade, was labeled "Busy Bee." Second graders earned their "Sunbeam" level badge, and the next year was "Builder," then "Helping Hand," then "Friend."

In fifth grade the level was titled "Companion." This is when I met my nemesis: the shuttle run. In order to pass the physical tasks to earn my Companion designation, as I recall, I had to do the shuttle run in 11.7 seconds. My teacher marked out the course, and we brought out the blackboard erasers to serve as the pieces we were to carry back to the baseline.

Recess after recess I tried to make the shuttle run in time to earn my checkoff on the card. "Run, Ginger, don't jog!" my teacher called as I was running flat out as fast as I could. I'd try to push myself that little bit further and faster, but it just didn't work. I couldn't make it.

And I never did. It was just beyond my ability to run that shuttle run in the required time. It was then and there that I lost my interest in continuing with the requirements of the program. Without the shuttle run I couldn't advance, and since I was unable to meet the requirements of the shuttle run, why should I try to finish any of the other requirements? And thus my dream of achieving the highest level in the system, "Master Guide," never came to be. I remain an old Friend.

It was a strong message to me about my own physical competence.

I was meditation on spiritual competence this morning as I read in Psalm 147. His pleasure is not in the strength of the horse, the psalm goes, nor his delight in the legs of a man; the Lord delights in those who fear him, who put their hope in his unfailing love. (Ps. 147:10-11)

What I treasure is the fact that spiritual competence is not out of the reach of anyone. Not anyone! God's request of us is something we all have the capability of doing: fear him, and put our hope in his love.

Fearing God, according to my study Bible notes, means an effort to trust and obey Him. I personally believe that obedience refers to our intent or effort. God is pictured in the Bible as a father; a father who really loves his kid is going to see the effort to obey as being the fulfillment of obedience. In fact, trusting perfectly is about as far beyond our ability as is obeying perfectly. But to a parent, a child's sincere intent and effort does the trick.

Then there's hope. The verse in Psalm 147 says that God delights in those who fear him, and who put their hope in his unfailing love. Hope doesn't mean we're sure; it means hope. As in, "I don't really understand this world, but I hope it works in a particular way, and I will proceed on the assumption that my hope is correct."

Do we all have the ability to be competent in fear and hope? I believe so. While I may have stalled a being a successful "Friend" but not a "Companion," the more important competencies in life are within reach. And because of that, I never have to give up on "pressing on toward the prize."

Grudges

A colleague once visited with me and brought up the topic of holding grudges. I perceive him to be a deeply sensitive and kindly person, one who wants life to be gentle and beautiful but carries deep hurts connected to various experiences in his life.

It was he who brought up the grudge-holding issue. We were having a follow-up conversation to an e-mail he'd sent me mentioning his awareness of the upcoming anniversary of an incident that had been very painful for him.

"I just don't want to hold grudges," he said. And then he started spilling. "My mother used to hold grudges, and I don't want to be like her. I used to tell her--kindly, of course--, 'Mom, just let it go! What good does it do for you to hold grudges? It only hurts you.' And she would say, 'Well... I don't know. I guess I should.' But then she would just go back to nursing her hurts, even when she was old. I don't want to be like that. There's no good to be gotten in holding onto grudges."

I could see him struggling, struggling so hard against his upbringing, against his tendencies, against the personality he may have inherited from his mother. He was trying so hard to be resolute, to deliberately let things go that he felt to be unjust, unkind, or ugly. But he remembers each one. He started to recount some, but stopped himself. I could almost see the pictures of them flit across his face as he referred obliquely to the many instances over the years that have caused grief.

My colleague was trying so hard to cut the bindings to the burdens that piled, invisible, on his back. Although I don't know this for sure, I think they may still be there despite his war against repeating generational tendencies.

Heredity is so strong, family dynamics so powerful. I think there are a lot of people who can name things in their family DNA that they'd like to leave behind. There are a lot of people who, as they get older, come to realize that the family DNA is more powerful and controlling than they could ever have imagined in their earlier idealism, when they thought they could pick and choose what they'd take from their heritage.

I talked with Husband about this. "What do you think?" I asked. I knew from previous conversations that he'd thought quite a bit about the issue.

"I don't think psychology helps," he said. He explained that when you look at yourself until you understand where certain things come from and how they have affected your life, you get the idea that you can then tinker with them and make a change. But understanding doesn't necessarily bring the power to make a change. In some ways, it deepens the sense of being trapped.

"I think the only hope is the gospel," he said. He went on to expand on that (Husband is rarely cryptic when it comes to conceptual things). Matthew 6 records Jesus' statements about how God takes care of all our daily needs, and that we are to "seek first His kingdom and his righteousness." So if we'll fix our eyes on Jesus instead of ourselves, seeking His grace and seeking to know Him, the other things will fall into line over time, just as when you pick up the first link of a chain off a table, the other attached links fall into a straight line below it. We are flawed, but we have been told where to fix our gaze for salvation. Everything can fall into place behind that, because that salvation is from not only our sins, but from the effects of all the other influences in our lives, including the unjust, the unkind and the ugly.

How can you continue to hold a grudge against anyone else if your eyes are fixed unwaveringly on the compassionate face of Jesus?

Keep your eyes on Jesus, who both began and finished this race we're in. Study how he did it. Because he never lost sight of where he was headed—that exhilarating finish in and with God. Heb. 12:2 (Message)

When the Wind Gets Knocked Out of You

Photo found on the internet Sometimes in life something blindsides you, and you feel like the breath has been knocked right out of you. You're gasping for emotional air, feeling like the walls are caving in, most of all feeling wronged, unappreciated, unwanted, ... or worst of all, abandoned or tricked by God.

I felt that way when my friend and confidante started dating the guy I'd fallen head over heels for, during the time I was out of the country on a service project.

I felt that way to a smaller degree--but it still hurts to think of it--when I was let go from a church music job "for budget reasons," and I was depending on the income and fellowship there.

I felt that way when I once didn't get a job I really wanted.

I felt that way when one of my direct reports verbally ripped me to shreds--anonymously--on an evaluation.

As time has passed and I've thought about the big disappointments and hurts in life, I've realized that none of them were actually about me.

In fact, one can actually generalize that the hurts and disappointments in life are rarely about us. They are more likely to be the effects of living in whatever circumstances create our hurtful situations. When we suffer loss--jobs, love, status, money, the approval of others--there's often a "rest of the story" which reveals no smirch on your personal worth or capability. Sure, you may see some faint connection, but you also have to give yourself the room to be human.

I repeat: It's rarely about your personal worth. It's usually about the circumstances created by life on a sinful earth that has limited resources and people with limited vision.

And too often it's because we are casualties of others who are wrestling with their own deep flaws.

So, at such times when deep disappointments and hurt come, how do we deal with it? I'm no expert. But I think we have to look for what we can learn and discard the rest, including the resentments or blame that tend to build up toward others and/or God when we feel let down.

Once you and I realize that it's really "not all about me," once we drop all the self-centered talk, once we quit tending our own fragile egos and our perceptions of our "rights" in life, perhaps we can begin to effectively live out the poem by Teresa of Avila (1515–1582), quoted by one of our mathematicians at Senior Recognition yesterday:

Christ has no body but yours,
No hands, no feet on earth but yours,
Yours are the eyes with which he looks
Compassion on this world,
Yours are the feet with which he walks to do good,
Yours are the hands, with which he blesses all the world.
Yours are the hands, yours are the feet,
Yours are the eyes, you are his body.
Christ has no body now but yours,
No hands, no feet on earth but yours,
Yours are the eyes with which he looks
compassion on this world.
Christ has no body now on earth but yours.

Sometimes I suspect we can only truly embody Christ as we, too, are broken, rejected, unwanted, treated unjustly and criticized as He was. The glory is that the goal of this life experience is more than just being broken; it's that we can, in the midst of pain, dwell in His presence and be sure of His plan for our lives.

I know what I'm doing. I have it all planned out—plans to take care of you, not abandon you, plans to give you the future you hope for. Jer. 29:11 (Message)

When Mr. Bean Shows Up at My Home

I find that I've somehow managed to marry a man with Bean-like qualities. Like Mr. Bean of the English comedies, Husband can display that delight and mischief that is charming and childlike and whimsical and playful. Thankfully, unlike Mr. Bean, Husband doesn't seem to possess a dark side that borders on cruel or sadistic.

The whole competition thing, though? It's there. Definitely.

For example, as I started this post, Husband knew I was listening to a variety of music on our cable TV channel. Carole King was on. Not to be outdone, Husband put on his own Carole King album and cranked it up louder than the TV--on the same song. "It's coordinated!" he said. I gave up and hit the "mute" button on the TV.

A little later I saw that Phil Collins was playing on TV, and pointed it out to Husband, turning the sound back on the TV. Husband knows I enjoy listening to Phil Collins. But you know who has to win tonight. We are now listening to Phil Collins belting out a tune--chosen from Husband's collection--at top volume on the stereo.

When Mr. Bean shows up at my home, it's time to give up and give in.

That Beanish competition thing is strong. Because of our various schedules, Husband and I sometimes end up at the same locale, each of us with our own car. If we leave at the same time, Mr. Bean shows up and it's suddenly competition time. Husband makes it a point to be back at home, parked in the garage, looking nonchalant as I drive in.

And then there's the play. Go to a store, and likely as not Husband will find something to play with. Although nothing will ever be as funny as Mr. Bean's Christmas escapade with the nativity scene, I'll never forget the time I spotted Husband dragging an 8-foot green stuffed animal crocodile around Costco. And yes, the crocodile went home with us. "For the grandkids," Husband said. Now you tell me: Did The Grands ever get the crocodile? Nope.Like Mr. Bean, my husband finds food entertaining. One time I cooked tomato macaroni for a Saturday lunch. Next thing I knew, Husband had his own plate artfully arranged as a landscape, ready for a slow dismantling while he chit-chatted his way through the meal. I do believe he is completely incapable of eating simple food servings. There must be additives, or some specific way of arranging it, or a new ingredient added for his latest "taste test." Note the green olives as additives to the macaroni I fixed for him. Luckily I don't take this as any indication that I'm thought to be less than perfect!

Like Mr. Bean, Husband pays attention to detail. On our honeymoon in Maine, he gave me one new thing each day, some little symbol of each promise in a set of promises he was making to me. It was all planned out and savored ahead of time. Frankly, I think he remembers the promises better than I do; what I remember is all the time and the careful thought he put into it--a harbinger of the way I'd be treated in the years to come.

If you've watched episodes of Mr. Bean, you know that he dearly loves his little Teddy, buying him gifts for Christmas and replacing his missing eyes. I'd say that I've felt even more blessed than Teddy, being loved by Husband and loving those moments when he gives me eyes to see something I would have otherwise missed.

Happy Valentines to my own funny, sweet Husband this week. I love you. I'm so glad you showed up at my home.

Reader's Tip: The Shack

Husband never reads fiction. I used to read quite a bit of fiction--generally Christian fiction--but since I got married and life filled up with conversations at home, my reading has diminished and has been mostly focused on books that I thought would bolster my spiritual or work life.

Then a couple of weeks ago, Lori Ann, a parent at Husband's school, gave him a book to read called The Shack. I was shocked when Husband, as a gesture of respect to her, set aside his usual overfull schedule and began reading the book ... and couldn't seem to put it down.

The plot looked depressing: young Missy is kidnapped and killed while her family is on a camping trip at Wallowa Lake (a location just three hours' drive from where we live). The book begins with her father, Mack, getting a typed note from God, directing him to go back to the shack where his daughter was killed to meet with Him (God).

It seems like an unpromising and contrived beginning, and not at all like something my husband would read. That's why his dedication to finishing the book surprised me so much.

Husband and I had a road trip together through the Columbia Gorge this past week, and he suggested that although he had just finished reading the book, I do a read-aloud of it to him as he drove. So I read during the 4-hour trip through the gorge, and then every evening before we went to sleep, and then all the rest of the way back once I finished attending a meeting by phone while we drove. There were just a few chapters left when we got home, and I polished those off in the next couple of evenings.

The concepts about God as depicted in The Shack have been rolling around in my head ever since. My first jolt of pleasure came as God (referred to as "Papa") showed up in the book as an African-American mama. The Holy Spirit has taken on a completely different meaning for me. You'll have to read the book to find out why--I'm not going to spoil everything for you! And I had never thought about how God communicates internally. But the character of God depicted in the book affected me so deeply and positively that, several times in the events of my days this week, I've wanted to give a nod and a wink in God's direction over some interchange or situation. I'm not yet done thinking about it.

I've been wondering for three or four days about how to tell my blog readers about The Shack. Then I found this review, and it does much better than I could with the conceptual stuff. So read the review. Beyond that, I would just recommend you go out of your way to read The Shack. It's like nothing else you've read thus far, I'll wager.

And once you've read it, you might find yourself regularly sending a nod and a wink God's direction, too, and talking to Jesus more often than usual.

Breaking News

Husband and I both have to attend a particular education meeting each year for our work, so we actually get to travel together down the Columbia River Gorge to that meeting. It's very nice. We stay at a Holiday Inn Express we like on the north side of Vancouver, Washington.

So we were sitting there in the breakfast room this last Monday morning, and I started bellyaching about the television blaring over in the corner. "The news is always bad," I complained.

"Yeah," was Husband's rejoinder. "And it's poor quality, too."

"Huh?" I asked.

"It's poor quality. You know! It's always breaking."

Winky

Besides being Chinese New Year today, it's Winky's birthday.

When I was eleven, a new family moved to our mission compound. I had been praying for missionaries to come who had daughters. For a year or two my only classmates had been boys, ever since my friend Julia had left for the United States with her parents. Now the news was good. The incoming missionaries had four children, three of whom were girls. I could hardly wait!

The new family were Canadians, but they had spent all of the children's lives as missionaries in Jamaica and Nicaragua, so the kids all spoke Spanish. And they all had nicknames which they used regularly with each other. The oldest girl was Chicky, and then came BeeBoo, and then Winky, who was just two months younger than I.

Finally there was the boy, whose name was Bruce. He was quite capable of holding his own with his sisters or anyone else, thank you very much. Following the lead of his older sisters, we referred to him as "Bruce the Bomber." I'll leave the rationale for that to your imagination.

Because the new kids had been studying in Spanish-speaking school, our teacher placed them all below grade level for their age. Winky had some intriguing singularities to her: she often stuck her little finger in her mouth and chewed on it, she spoke with a nasal quality to her voice, and she possessed a funny little sense of humor. I still remember the funny curl to her lip as she would listen to her siblings and parents joshing each other back and forth, letting her own comments fly among the others. She was just...different.

Winky's real problem was her temper. She could fly off the handle at whatever provocation came along. Angered in an instant, she would yell or shriek, slam doors or stomp, slap or bite, call names or sling invective. The provocation didn't have to be serious, either. My most vivid memory of Winky is of the time I tagged her at recess, and she responded by biting me--hard--on the arm.

Winky and I attended the same schools for six years. She finished high school and a few college classes, but she never held a job for long. She now lives in an apartment in a midwestern state, near where her sister BeeBoo once lived. When BeeBoo and her husband moved away years ago, Winky stayed in that town. She preferred stability, and wouldn't give it up to follow her pastor's wife sister around. So there she is, living on disability income, watching TV all day and hanging out with her stuffed animals. Woe betide her family members if they call her when she's busy with one of her favorite shows! They get yelled at just before she slams down the phone.

Sometimes Winky just doesn't have the time for people, regardless of who they are. Chicky once told me that she drove her parents across the country to see Winky. When they knocked on the door and called out to her, she refused to let them in. She was grumpy and didn't want to see them. They tried again, but still no luck. They finally left and drove all the way home without seeing her.

I haven't seen Winky for nearly thirty years, yet every February 7 I remember that it's her birthday. I don't know why. I guess it's because she is so close to my age, and despite the fact that we were never close as I was to BeeBoo and Chicky, in some odd way I feel like she's a long-lost relative. And I wonder what she thinks about this birthday, and how it's going for her.