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.

Sundown Friday

The sundown last Friday over the Puget SoundFriday sundown has always started a day of rest for me. Whether or not I actually managed to physically rest has been a matter of varying success, but all my life the sunset on Friday night has signaled a time at least of mental rest--a break from the activities of the week.

I've tried to explain the preciousness of this before, but I'm not sure people understand it unless they've experienced it over a span of time. It's hard for me to consider life without a sabbath. It would feel to me like a light had gone out, like I had no access to the resources to deal with the challenges and discouragements of life.

I was taught, from the time I was a small child, that at sundown Friday the work and regular activities of the week cease and we enter holy time, as in obedience to a command, "Remember the Sabbath day to keep it holy." It was not just our own choice to cease work, but we knew as surely as there was a command to not kill and to honor our parents, there was also the directive about the seventh day: "In it, thou shalt not do any work."

How paradoxical that a boundary around this holy time has had such power to set me free.

I am free of work--I'm simply not allowed to do it. No budgets, no committee meetings, no appointments with colleagues to work through problems, no preparation for presentations, nuthin'! I'm free of even worrying about that work--ceasing work means a commitment to ceasing my thoughts about it. I'm free of the separation that my work world puts between me and Husband during the week--we spend this day of rest together. I'm free of my usual pell-mell careening through an over-scheduled day. I'm free of studying anything that does not enrich my relationships to God others. I'm free of the distracting clutter and to-do lists of daily life: shopping, watching TV, doing the laundry, cleaning the house, yard work, paying the bills.

I have what relatively few people in America have on a weekly basis: a whole, 24-hour day of rest. A luxurious time to worship, read, get out into nature, interact with people who are dear to me, write, listen to good music, think deeply, and dream.

This is why Friday sundown is my very favorite time of every week. The traditions of my childhood and adolescent years always bring this hymn to mind as I observe the setting of the sun on Friday evening:

Day is dying in the west;
Heaven is touching earth with rest.
Wait and worship while the night
Sets her evening lamps alight
Through all the skies.

Chorus:
Holy, holy, holy, Lord God of hosts!
Heaven and earth are full of thee!
Heaven and earth are praising thee
Oh Lord most High.

Lord of Life, beneath the dome
Of the universe, thy home,
Gather us, who seek thy face,
To the fold of thy embrace,
For thou art nigh.

While the deepening shadows fall,
Heart of love enfolding all
Through the glory and the grace
Of the stars that veil thy face,
Our hearts ascend.

When forever from our sight
Pass the stars, the day, the night
Lord of angels, on our eyes
Let eternal morning rise
And shadows end.

Generations of Men

Grandpa Joe and his grandson hike near Bowman Bay
This past weekend I went hiking with colleagues and friends in northwestern Washington State, along the coast near Deception Pass. I had the opportunity to watch three generations of men in my colleague Joe's family. Grandpa Joe is a scientist who enthusiastically studies, publishes and talks about gull behavior. Joe's son is an engineer and seems much quieter than his dad. And Joe's grandson is a busy little tyke, bustling about and observing things intently, much like his grandpa but not yet as smiley.

I found myself reflecting on what happens when a father nurtures a son, and later a grandson. I have a long ways to go before I get it figured out. In observing various families I am convinced that a father can nurture much more similarly to a mother than society seems to recognize. And sons turn to their fathers for encouragement, guidance and reassurance more than I thought they did. There's a quiet shaping, protecting and modeling going on that is both intentional and serendipitous.

I believe we don't give it enough credit in this world, nor has behavioral science studied it enough. If we did, I think, we would as a society recognize the depth of the tragedy that takes place when that bond is broken or missing, as it is for millions of dads and lads in our poor, fractured world. And we would do all we could to prevent or repair those broken bonds.

And if we could better understand what it means to properly be a grandfather, father or son, then I think we might better conceptualize what it means to have a heavenly Father and to be children of God. Encouragement, guidance and reassurance. Shaping, protecting and modeling. Walking hand-in-hand or being carried on the shoulders of our Father. Just imagine that.

Country Mouse Observes the City

I have been in Seattle for a few days, attending a conference. I find myself bemused at what a country mouse I've become by living in the woods and then in a small town for the past 14 years. After living in Singapore during my high school years and then becoming rather fond of San Francisco during my California days, I thought I'd always have a place in my heart for the city. And perhaps I do, but it's harder to find the door to that room these days.

This morning as I was on the rainy drive toward downtown, I got caught in a traffic jam of epic proportions. It finally occurred to me to listen to the radio, at which point I learned that someone had climbed over the railing on the Aurora Bridge, and the police and firemen were trying to talk him back to safety. They finally opened one lane on our side, and we inched past the line of fire trucks, police cars and personnel. The news reports say that the man did jump two hours later and was taken, unconscious, to a local medical center.

This evening, I decided to walk the six blocks down to Pike Street market. I was hoping it would still be open and busy and picturesque, as it was when I was down there earlier in the day for lunch with a colleague. Alas, the stalls were closed and the last cleanup of the day was nearly done. The fish smell, however, was still pretty pervasive. I don't much like fish smell, so I walked around the streets for a while, watching people and listening to conversations.

Have you noticed that most city folk wear black? I watched a girl on the other side of the crosswalk, dressed in her black shoes, black pants, nicely cut black coat and black knit cap pulled down over her hair. She was listening to music on her iPod and patting her thigh with her hand in time with the music, a blank look in her eyes.

A guy waited for the bus, a 3/4 circle nose ring through his nose cartilage. And another down the way was standing with a sign that said, "I bet you 50 cents you read this sign."

As I stood at another crosswalk, a guy near me said earnestly to the girl with him, "Life is beautiful, but it's a struggle, you know what I mean? You gotta be who you gotta be."

I passed two other young girls talking to each other. One said, "They're saying he ought to have chance at it, since this is the last time he could be elected president. But, like, that's not a good reason."

I headed up the road toward the parking garage. A guy on the opposite corner was belting out a tune on his soprano saxophone in the near dark, his hat on the ground near him.

I was getting hungry, so I dropped by a crepe stand I'd seen earlier in the day and ordered a chevre cheese, red bell pepper and spinach crepe.

"How was your day?" the bright-faced girl behind the counter asked.

"Good!" I exclaimed. "How was yours?"

"Long," she said.

"Oh yeah? Why long?"

"I started out at school at 7:30 and went till 3:30, and then came here for work," she said.

"Wow," I said. "Which school?"

"Seattle U."

"What are you taking there?" I asked, always curious about our sister institutions.

"International business."

"Microfinance?"

"Yeah!" she lit up. And she told me about how she wants to work with Oxfam and do good things to help the poor in developing countries.

"Oh," I said. "Cool! I first learned about Oxfam when I went into one of their stores in Oxford, England."

She looked impressed. "I can't top that!" she said. Then, "Will you vote?"

"I already did."

She grinned at me with approval. I'm such a sucker for approval from a college kid. "We do mail-in ballot in our area," I said.

We talked a little about where I am from; her dad has worked in my town as a contractor. And then I went my way, taking my crepe with me. On the way home I listened to the radio and thought about how people here in the city (or on the radio in this city, anyhow) speak in rather choppy phrases with a monotone voice and a dry sense of humor, and say very cute educated-sounding things.

So tomorrow the Country Mouse will head back over the mountain pass for home, the place where there aren't always sidewalks and it rains a lot less, and you can't buy a hot crepe anywhere, and the homeless are pretty much invisible.

Schedule

Spotted on the wall of a teenage relative this weekend:

Schedule

Morning: Do 15 pushups, Do 15 crunches, Eat good Breakfast, Drink 2 cups o' water, Pray, Be Happy.

Afternoon: Run around Block (or other exercise (or both)), Eat lunch, Drink 6 cups of wa-wa, Pray, Eat Dinner, Be Happy.

Night: Do 20 pushups, Do 20 crunches, Pray, Talk to God, Read something, Listen to Bible, Be Happy, Sleep, Dream.

***

Seems to me that oughta do it.