Subtle

"As a kid, I learned to whittle away at a pie so that no one would notice," Husband told me tonight.





Yeah, right.

Tickling His Funnybone

[Excuse the video title; it's obnoxious and irrelevant to this post.]


I have watched this one many times in the past few days, since I spotted it on Daughter's Facebook page. It makes me laugh. And I think about all kinds of things: about how much I love our girls, about how much I enjoy listening to their stories, about how good it feels to have a parent listen to your story from beginning to end, and about how language develops in children.

I also remember reading a textbook that stated that babies' noises are the same through about six months of age, and then they diversify according to the language spoken around them. A Chinese baby over six months of age, for example, will start making sounds that are more tonal than an American baby. Since reading that, I've wanted to line up 9-month olds from different language groups and compare their noises!

But what struck me most, as I watched and listened and laughed over this video, was that it reminds me of God and me. I'm always babbling something in His direction, quite assertively and incessantly, deadly serious and in earnest, ... and hardly taking a breather to listen. I think most of us who believe in God do that. And I'd really like to think that He doesn't respond by glowering or interrupting or tuning us out, but that He chuckles with amusement and delight, knowing He loves us and that eventually we'll grow up and understand that a good conversation flows both ways, hopefully fairly equally.

Nocturnal

These are our Grands, who live in a populous, sunny state to the south of us. Grandson is in Kindergarten this year at the school where I was once the vice principal. I love it that he's around people who used to be my colleagues.

So the story, as I heard it second-hand, goes like this:

Daughter was getting ready to go to work (she does night shifts, and Son-in-law gets the kids to bed). She just happened to overhear Grandson whisper to Granddaughter, "We're going to stay up all night."

"Oh no you're not!" said Daughter, whipping around to nail them with Mother-speak.

"Yes we are!" Grandson replied. "We're nocturnal!"

Ah, the corrupting power of education!

You MAKE All Things Work Together?

A couple of weeks ago we had at our university what we term "Week of Worship." This is a week during each school term in which we have a chapel service daily (instead of the usual Tuesday only) and hear preaching/teaching each day either by a guest speaker, or by an array of students and/or faculty on our campus.

Our speaker was awesome this fall.

But what has really stuck with me is one phrase from a song that the students chose for the daily theme song. It's a song by "Jesus Culture," (you can see it performed here, but be forewarned if you are older that this is the music of the current young generation) and the lyrics are pretty good, on the whole:

Nothing can separate
Even if I ran away
Your love never fails
I know I still make mistakes
But You have new mercies for me everyday
Your love never fails

Chorus:
You stay the same through the ages
Your love never changes
There may be pain in the night but joy comes in the morning
And when the oceans rage
I don't have to be afraid
Because I know that You love me
Your love never fails

Verse 2:
The wind is strong and the water's deep
But I'm not alone in these open seas
Cause Your love never fails
The chasm is far too wide
I never thought I'd reach the other side
But Your love never fails

Bridge:
You make all things work together for my good

As we got to the bridge of the song, I found myself unable to sing. I remained standing, pondering that phrase as the words were being belted out around me. "You make all things work together for my good. You make all things work together for my good. You make all things work together for my good. You make..."

Is that so? What are the assumptions in this phrase?

One assumption, I think, is a narcissistic one. It's sort of like the old dilemma of the farmer praying for rain. If God brings the rain down on his fields, the house of the person down the road who cannot afford to fix the hole in their roof becomes flooded. That may be simplistic, but it has long bothered me what the collateral effects of God working specifically for my good, or someone else's, might be. Assuming that God is Love, why would God be working for my good and not His good?

Would it not be true that if God works for His good, that would also be good for His creatures? Somehow the thought of God working within His nature, for His good, puts me much more at peace than the thought of Him suddenly beaming his laser attention on my little life and arranging all my circumstances for my good. Now why is that?

Maybe my logic grows out of a perception of who God is, as well as this: I have been told by my theologian friends that Romans 8:28 is better translated from the original Greek as, "And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him..." [emphasis mine] In my life experience, that translation has seemed much more realistic than the way I first memorized the text, "And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God..."

There is, however, a down side to my argument, and it is this: it holds God at arm's length from me. Why is it that I am more comfortable with a God who keeps His distance, working in Love for the good of us all, than with a God who gets down into my world, right into my molecules if need be, and arranges my self and my surroundings for my personal good? Might my reticence to have God arrange the universe for my specific, personal good be in some way a wish for Him to not meddle too closely in my molecules for my own--or someone else's--good?

That is troubling in several ways.

Finally, I have considered one other problem with the words of the Jesus Culture song, and that problem is a very practical one. In the past year I had seen no fewer than seven of my friends and acquaintances wrestling with cancer, and I have become aware of no fewer than five marriages of people I know, breaking up. And then there are the families experiencing chronic distress, unable to resolve issues that divide them. And I watch families deal with chronic debilitating illness, limiting the life of not just the person experiencing the condition, but the lives of everyone else, too.

It's pretty tough to sing, over and over, the refrain, "You make all things work together for my good," knowing the struggles of these folk. I just can't seem to cough up the words, including in my ruminations my own little niche in that collection of struggles. It's possible that, were I in the shoes of someone fighting a losing battle with terminal illness, I would find my faith strong enough to sing the words with gusto. But from my seat in the church it looks nearly impossible.

In the midst of this lamentation, let me reassure you that I strongly believe, as the words of the song say, that "[God's] love never fails," that He has "new mercies for me everyday," that "I'm not alone" and that "joy comes in the morning."

But I may need some theological instruction and encouragement from a few of you out there before I can join the students singing with gusto, "You make all things work together for my good."

Truth or Fiction? Part 2

The "sharp turn" in my reading habits coincided, quite frankly, with that fateful and blessed e-mail correspondence during which I got to know Husband... prior to his taking on the title. As it seemed more likely that we might be a good match, and as we became more and more curious about each other and this strengthening relationship, I started looking for some helpful source of unbiased advice. Unbiased, because I had obviously become a hopelessly biased person regarding him and the future of our relationship!

I found myself ordering books such as The Five Love Languages, and The Mystery of Marriage: Meditations on the Miracle. Husband would recommend a book to me, and then I would recommend one to him, and on we went, trying to read the books at the same time while I lived in California and he in Hawaii and then Washington. Our interests coalesced around books that shed light on personality and relationships, the books that tend to be misguidedly classified as "self-help" in some bookstores.

I didn't need, or I had lost interest in, the novels at that point; my own story had just gotten a lot more interesting and "real" than any of the fiction I'd read.

Then as we married, I went through a whole array of life changes: a new husband, a move to a different region, a new job, new mostly-grown stepkids, building a new house, and so on. The job I'd taken on was all-consuming and stressful. I missed my old job. I missed my old home. I missed my old surroundings. And I felt guilty for doing so. If you'd asked me what I was reading at that point, I'd have responded: "Reading? When do I have time to read?" or "Books about my new career." Reading material wasn't a personal getaway at that point, it was chosen in an attempt to survive.

So my dramatic shift into "Life, Part 2" also moved my reading tastes completely into the zone of reading for information. I now read for ideas, for inspiration, for helpful things to make my life or job better, or simply for interesting real-life information.

The novels have pretty much disappeared from the scene now. When I pick one up--such as June Bug--the one I just read by Chris Fabry--I find myself reading quickly, almost bored, annoyed by the unreality of it and impatient with the amount of time it's taking me to read something that's "just a story."

I know, I've become a pitiful creature.

But in moving from fiction to nonfiction, my reading tastes have mirrored my life needs. And it's all okay. I'm reading books about physical health, about emotionally warped churches, and about leadership, about denominational history, and about how to hear God's voice. In fact, the latter has been my most recent, in the form of The Sacred Echo by Margaret Feinberg, an author and speaker I learned of in the final issue of "Today's Christian Woman," a magazine that has just gone defunct. I love the book. (I'd love to hear Feinberg speak.) I'll review it here when I'm done.

So what will "Life, Part 3" bring in terms of life changes and literary shifts? Who can tell? God often chooses not to draw back the merciful veil until we have quite unwittingly stepped a ways beyond it. The good news is, there will be good books to read in "Life, Part 3, as well. I am confident of that.

I'd be interested in your comments reflecting on what you're reading right now, and whether you, too, have seen your genres shift over time. Do tell.

Truth or Fiction? Part 1

My most recent fiction reading; despite great reviews on Amazon.com, I was not enamored of itI became a fan of Christian fiction very early. I grew up as a missionary kid on an island off the coast of Malaysia. There was just one little Christian bookstore on the island, conveniently located near our church. I loved it when my mother took me to visit that little room crammed with shelves and books. I still remember the life-changing discovery sometime around 1970: I found on those shelves a few dusty paperbacks that fictionalized Bible stories, and from then on I avidly read every one I could get my hands on.

It didn't take me long to make the leap from avid reader to aspiring writer. I soon imagined myself a future author of re-imagined Bible stories, adding details and characters and explaining motives. I wanted to create these delicious plots and inspiring dialogue!

I was about 10 years old as I planned for my first Biblical novel to be on the story of Esther. I remember getting started in my little lined-paper exercise book with the gold-colored spiral binding, writing carefully as I set up the scene and recorded the dialogue and got the story going. I probably had five or six pages completed when I stopped to read the biblical story straight from the Bible, just to make sure I was getting my facts right.

It was a shocking experience. Instead of the "beauty pageant" I had imagined Esther being a part of, I realized that she actually auditioned in a different way, spending a night with the king and impressing him so much that he set the crown on her head. I knew I was too young to describe such a scene, let alone imagine it. And so ended my first and last effort at writing a biblical novel. Sigh.

I remained enchanted, however, by Christian fiction. I read Christy by Catherine Marshall several times, gripped by her description of the Appalachian people and Christy's struggles as she lived and worked among them. Marshall's descriptions were so vivid that, when I finally got to visit the Appalachian valleys a few years ago, it was exactly as I had imagined it from halfway around the world, reading a book.

And there were other excellent books that showed up in the little one-room bookstore. I read "Two From Galilee" by Marjorie Holmes, and the Janette Oke books. Later on (after I came to the United States), I bought every Bodie Thoene book I could find, "seeing" her setting of Israel from my memories of visiting there with my family when I was eighteen. I was disappointed when her husband's name started showing up on the book covers with Bodie's. The writing seemed to get more technical and dry with that shift, the descriptions of wars becoming much more detailed when I was more interested in plot and relationship.

I branched out from Christian fiction somewhere along the way. I went through a "bodice-ripper romance novels" phase as a teenager. During the year I lived in Finland as a young adult, I got hooked on Nevil Shute books, which tended to focus on aviation and Australia. And during my teacher training I developed a great love for children's literature and all the wonderful stories to be read there, particularly in the Newbery Award-winning books.

I could lose myself in fiction. I loved the stories. I loved the bits of romance. I loved the settings. I loved the dilemmas and solutions. I learned a great deal from reading of these imaginary people dealing with -- well, mostly -- real-life situations.

Sharing a condo in California with my brother for a while after we'd both gone to graduate school, I remember comparing reading preferences with him. My brother enjoyed non-fiction books far more than I did. If he could read something about philosophy or religion, he was happy. He probably read every book by C.S. Lewis, particularly relishing those that dealt with philosophy and apologetics.

But my brother was not solely into the heady stuff of the Thinker. His "guilty pleasure," if it could be called that, was any English novel by P.G. Wodehouse. He continues--last I knew--to reread the murder mysteries by Dorothy Sayer, another Christian novelist who doesn't happen to write Christian fiction (in terms of the genre). He and I shared a passing affection, also, for novels about the Church of England written by Susan Howatch, the British author, after her conversion: Glittering Images, Glamorous Powers, Absolute Truths, and others.

So, with all these years of reading good (and sometimes not-so-good) fiction, it was rather a shock when my reading habits took a sharp turn.

[to be continued]

Do Not Disturb

Woman Reading by Francis Coates JonesMy mother's DNA and my father's DNA seem to have negotiated a pretty even mix in terms of which parent I take after--a bit of both--but I find that the older I get, the more I'm taking after my father in one specific area: I despise being interrupted!

While I don't remember the specifics from my childhood, I recall my dad's annoyance when I would interrupt him while he was reading, working on a project at his desk, or talking with someone else. My offending interruption could be in the form of a question or comment, or it could be in the form of creating surrounding noise (typically in cahoots with my brother), which would result in an annoyed "Pipe down!" hollered in our direction.

And now, here I am. The older I get, the more I focus on just one thing at a time, blocking out the sounds and activity around me. I want continuity from beginning to end with no breaks. I long to follow a thought all the way through to its conclusion without having to pick up on loose ends and restart along the way. That means that all the following have now become annoying:

• interruptions while I'm reading, particularly if I'm mid-chapter or mid-article
• interruptions while I'm writing, whether it's an e-mail or a blog post or an article or a policy draft
  
• interruptions from someone who thinks they know what I'm going to say, and won't allow me to finish my thought or my argument of a certain point(s), but just starts talking right over me
  

Unfortunately, the people around me are constantly interrupting me in one of those ways. And because I am fortunate to spend my time around several people that I like very much, it's people that I care about that I end up getting cranky at. And I'm even crankier if they're interrupting to say non-time-critical things like, "My computer program isn't working," or "Today Johnny forgot his lunchbox" or "So-and-so's mother-in-law is sick" or "How do you spell 'pleurisy'?"

Couldn't it just wait until I'm done?

So I grunt. Or I don't respond. Or I look up with a baleful glare. Or I say something curt. Or I act as if what they just said was stupid. Or when it really, really gets on my nerves, I snap at them. I've been known to turn on someone during a governance meeting with, "Will you just stop interrupting me?!" It's my version of my dad's old bellow: "Pipe down!" And I can't say that any of it makes me feel any better about myself.

Do any of you experience the same response to interruptions? Do you dislike them as intensely as I do? Has it gotten worse as you age? Do you get tetchy with interrupters? Do you actually ask people around you to change their interrupting behaviors? I'd be interested if there are any other focused, one-track minded people out there who want other people to wait until they reach a good stopping point before they make their presence known.

Your thoughts?

October Walk, Part 2

Ready to continue our walk? We're back on Larch Street now, headed south. As we pass this paddock, you can look back across the field, at the end of the storage buildings, just to the left of the tree behind the further horse. Way back there is the apartment where Husband lived during the year we were dating long-distance. Good memories!
This fellow seems to be sprouting long hair in preparation for a cold winter.
We're about to pass the legendary water tanks. Well, they're not really legendary, but there's a story here. Our little town tends to quarrel with Big Town next door, generally over water rights and who's going to get the big businesses (We got Walmart and Home Depot; they have lots of other stuff). Eventually the leaders of our town decided we needed big water tanks to secure the water supply for ourselves, so they built these gargantuan tanks. And then they painted them off-white.

All the neighbors pitched a fit. If they had to have water tanks in their backyard, they said, they didn't need tanks that created a glare for them. So after all that painting and effort, the town leaders decided on this light, non-intrusive green ... and took on the task of repainting. Frankly, I think they're much better now.
Now we're walking along Larch toward the hill to the "Old New Jerusalem." On our right is the Alzheimer's home where Stepson works while he's getting his 2-year nursing degree.
At the top of the hill--which takes more effort to surmount than the picture above would lead you to believe--I'm rewarded by the glorious sight of sunshine through autumn leaves. This tree is right in front of the home of a psychology professor at the community college. She did her dissertation on the forgiveness project in South Africa, and has amazing stories to tell, stories that make you tear up.

The four-kilometer mark, by the way, just just across the street from here.
We walk down into the next little valley and pass a housing development on the left. When I was in college, this was a huge wheat field. I went out there snowmobiling with my friend Ken one cold winter night. We hit a bump, I flew high and landed in the snow, laughing. It was such an adventure for a kid who grew up on tropical islands!
I don't know what these trees are called, but I love seeing red berries any time!
As we pass by the housing development, I notice that the evergreen hedge is changing color. Strange. I don't think this is an autumn thing; I think they're really dying. I wonder why? The colors are pretty, though.
On the right, across from the multicolored hedge, we spot some cute kids enjoying their trampoline in the afternoon sunlight. Oh, what I would have given to have a trampoline like this when I was a kid! Shouts and giggles float out from inside the netting.
I politely request to take a few pictures, and Big Sister warily agrees. This little guy obliges by jumping really high for me. He's such a cutie! I show the picture on the back of my camera to the curious kids before walking on.
Just past the trampoline house is Lions' Park on the left. The pond is stocked with fish for kids who want to bring their fishing poles over, and Garrison Creek provides hours of fun for children and ducks playing in the park.
Nearby is a kinetic sculpture recently installed in the park. The design is a cross between Rube Goldberg and a "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory" atmosphere. I rather like it. We stop and watch the whimsical wind vanes rotate slowly in the breeze.
And right behind us, a bunch of university students have found time to come out of their study dens for a game of frisbee football. My guess is, their studies will go better for their having gotten some fresh air and exercise.
Reaching the top of the "New New Jerusalem" hill by the Village Church again, we're nearly home. But first, we have to take in that lovely green-gold light shining through the weeping birch leaves. There's something so enchanting about autumn sunlight.
I typically walk this route in the mornings, not in the afternoon. And there's a black-clad teenager who sits with his back against the telephone pole, waiting for the school bus, his legs stretched out across the narrow sidewalk. I have debated whether to step over his legs, or around them. So far, I have stepped just past his feet, making my silent point that I'm not going to give him wide berth. Are we playing chicken? Is he a gang member? I don't know. But I'm sure he knows he's being disrespectful.
Crossing the intersection, we walk down Larch past all the rosebushes where Husband and I stop to drink in long sniffs during the summer. The roses are rather withered now, yet still with some color to them. The hills in the distance are in Oregon.
As we pass the yard of the trumpet-playing lady's dad, I stop and point out my favorite flowers (other than the roses, that is) to you. I don't know what these are, but the blossoms of this ground cover give off the most delightful, heady smell in the summer. Do you recognize it, perchance? I'd like to plant some next summer.
We round the corner back onto our street. Today the front window has been pulled out of the house undergoing remodeling, and there are four or five guys working in the hole there. I wonder if they'll have the new windows installed by dark? It's going to be a cold night again.
Hurrah! We're back at our front door, five kilometers done. For those of you who need the translation, it's 3.1 miles. And a wonderful walk it was, in this brisk air. I think it's time to look for my other wreath which has an autumn theme to it. The fake daisies can probably go into the basement until next summer.
Walking in the front door, I look down the entryway at our breakfast nook. That green chair is the one where I sit with my laptop to do my blogging. So now you can picture it.
But before I download the pictures, I stop in the entryway to unshoe myself, and drop off my visor, sunglasses and iPod. (The purple gloves are waiting until it gets quite a bit colder.)

Thanks for coming along!

October Walk, Part 1

Would you like to come on my most often-chosen walking route with me? It's a 5-kilometer route, and before now I didn't think it was very interesting. But today I took my camera along, and what do you know?! Lots of interesting observations to make and perhaps some mini-stories to tell!

We'll start by walking up my driveway to the street. Our downstairs renter, Laura (the pre-veterinary science student) and her brother are out washing their cars in the cool sunshine. That's her brother in the picture. He's a freshman, so his muscle-y looking vehicle is important to him.
Turning right, we walk down our street. The neighbors are fixing up the house on the corner. It used to have this horrible evergreen ground cover along the sidewalk, an inheritance from the elderly couple who built the house and lived there for decades. The new owners have just built a very nice-looking cinder block wall, so we don't have to dodge the scratchy branches anymore. I'm delighted, and curious to see where their home and yard transformation will end up in the long run.
Turning left at the intersection, we start up Larch Street. As you can see, our town doesn't have a whole lot of money for street repairs, so they tar the cracks. We've had a few bad winters since we moved here 8 years ago, so there are a number of squiggly black tar lines on the roads. Looking closely, we can see some cracks they missed.

We head up the street past the house where the trumpeters live (seriously, they both play the trumpet) and past the surly cop's mother's house, and past the place where Doctor D always sets up his advertisement sign to let you know that you can hire him to build a children's playhouse for your back yard.
At the top of the hill, there's the Village Church. Lots of old people go to this church. It's very nice and big inside, probably seating 800-1000 people. I know, the outside kind of fools you, doesn't it? I wouldn't want to be the pastor here, because a lot of retired pastors are sitting in the pews each week. I'd be paranoid that they were critiquing my sermon.
Turning right, we walk east on 12th Street. We refer to the housing development on the left as "The New New Jerusalem." That's because there was a "New Jerusalem" built 40-50 years ago on the next hill over, and a lot of faculty and church workers lived there. But this one was built only in the last 20 years, thus the "new new" designation. You get the picture.

The fence along the wide sidewalk is new, built after the big windstorm nearly 2 years ago. It's made of fake wood, with knotholes in it and all. It runs for almost a whole kilometer along 12th Street, and it's pretty hot if you walk along it in the heat of summer.
This morning it was 27 degrees outside when I got up, and that convinced a lot of leaves to fall. I thought these were really pretty, lying on the sidewalk.
This is the garden of a retired professor from our school. the corn's been harvested, and I think the grapes have been, too. The sad thing is that he was diagnosed with a brain tumor last week. He is in the hospital in Seattle as I write, with bleeding around the tumor. Life is too short, and there are too many dangers all around and lurking inside us.
At about the one-kilometer mark, there is the community center. This is the coolest place! Several churches got together to buy this old nursing home, and they've turned it into a place with all kinds of services to help people who are experiencing hard times in their lives. There's a little clinic, and a thrift shop, and a place where people can get tutoring in English as a Second Language. And the local religious TV station is partially housed here, as well. Oh, and did I mention the clinic? There are medical volunteers who give free basic health care for people with no health insurance. It's amazing, all the volunteers who give time at this place.
Down at the next intersection we get a really nice view of the Blue Mountains. Snow fell on them last week, and I imagine it will do so again midweek when rain is forecast to return in the valley. Today they were looking pretty brown and dry, for the most part.
After turning left on Myra Road, we pass the skate park. It always bemuses me that our university could get sued for any skateboarding accidents on our campus, but the city skate part seems to have some sort of immunity. I wonder how that works? Anyhow, the local skaters seem to enjoy it. And right next to it is a cool BMX dirt track where there are competitions on Saturdays and Sundays when it's good weather.
My friend Millie lives in this assisted living place along Myra Road. I dropped by yesterday to see her on my way back from another appointment. We watched her budgie, Herman, sing and chatter in his cage for a while. Millie says she doesn't like the name "Herman," and asked what I would name the cute little aqua-and-yellow bird. "Jamaica," I said.
Across the road from the assisted living center is this park. The white fence surrounds an old military cemetery from the 1800s.

On my way past the park today I watched this lady throw a ball for her extremely enthusiastic dog to fetch. The dog seemed way more excited than she did. Watching him, you just had to smile. His ears blew back in the breeze behind him as he raced after his beloved ball. Why is it that when I'm that happy about life, people look at me weird?
Just past the military cemetery is the local fort and museum. It's kind of fun to walk around the covered wagon, the old houses that have been moved to this site, and the teepee that's just outside the view of this photo.
Just past the two-kilometer mark is one of the cemeteries that serves our area. I've always liked American cemeteries. They're so peaceful and green, and the headstones often have interesting things on them to be read, little clues to people's lives.
Just past the cemetery is an open field, bordered by a stream, blackberry bushes, and cattails. Often in the spring and summer you can see red-winged blackbirds perching on these cattails. I didn't see any birds there today; the fluff seems to be busting out of at this time of year.
Just as I passed the cattails today, I saw an ultra-light flying over. I imagine it had taken off from Martin Field, a mile or so away. I don't think I'd want to fly around in one of these things, but I hear that the guys who fly them are crazy about them. One of the guys had a heart problem a long time ago, so his pilot's license was revoked. But he flies one of these, since you don't need a license for that.
At Home Depot it's time to turn left onto C Street. Home Depot is nice to have nearby, but we all felt kind of bad when several locally-owned hardware stores went out of business after this megastore opened.
As we round the corner, we look across the intersection at the mall. A couple of years ago they started to completely remodel the place, reformulating it as several large stores around a parking plaza, instead of as an enclosed mall. I don't know why, in a place that has serious winter, they thought it was preferable to have people walk outdoors from store to store.

But anyhow, the whole project tanked with the economy a year ago, so it's now a half-finished lot full of weeds and partially-built buildings, a depressing sight. And one of the three remaining stores went out of business, leaving only a crowded little Sears and a Shop-Ko in business at this site. Everyone wants to know when some new developer is going to buy it and make a going concern of it. I heard someone ask the port manager about it at a meeting I attended, and he responded, "There's no market here." Well, we are a valley of only 50,000 inhabitants.
As I round the corner onto C Street on my 5-K walks, I always check the temperature at the bank across the road. As you can see, it was a chilly walk today.
At the 3-kilometer mark is the home of some friends of mine. She is battling cancer with courage and dignity. It's been inspiring to see how the local community has clicked in to support this family during the past year. I touch their fence and pray fervently for them every time I walk past their house on this route.
We round another corner, passing the Gospel Outreach offices. This place is in a remodeled commercial laundry building, and is run completely by volunteers. Their mission is quite simple: they collect funds to support missionary work by local Christians in foreign countries. It's a lot more affordable than sending people from here or other wealthy lands, and they are working in their own culture and language. The endeavor has been hugely successful. I admire the dedicated local retirees who volunteer at this office.

So we're just 3/5 of the way around "the loop," as I call my walking route. You might be winded by now, so I'll stop so we can rest. We'll continue our walk tomorrow.

Change Your Mind, Part 4

How do you know when to change your mind about a person, and when not to? And how do you know when to make an effort to change someone else's mind about you, and when not to?

Well, it's not easy trying to neatly tie up the ramblings of the past three days. Let me take on each question, with the proviso that you--the reader--know I'm talking about you just as pointedly as I'm using pronouns that refer to me.

One thing that has occurred to me as I review the stories I've told in this series, is that they could all be false. Seriously. How do you know I perceived people correctly? How do you know I had all the information to describe them--or even myself--accurately? How do you know I didn't miss big blocks of things in their lives, even with those people that I know the best, that would bring a completely different understanding of who they are and their behaviors? Do we ever have the right to assess others or ourselves, as if we were God, and consider our perceptions to be correct?

I think the way Jesus would do things, assuming He couldn't read people's minds, would be to withhold judgment until connection to another person was no longer possible (i.e. death). He seemed to stay connected with people in His day who had done even the most heinous things. He spoke with prostitutes. He invited cheats and thieves to come along with Him. He counted violent Zealots among his inner circle. I get the feeling that some pimps and abusers hung around him as well, not just the victims. Jesus seemed to assume that even within the most repulsive, annoying or insufferable person, there beat a heart that was worth something truly great.

If I profess to be His follower, can I not do the same and seek to identify the tender heart under the most maddening of exteriors, the most offensive of behaviors? I'd like to hope that I'm getting better at that as I age.

And how do I know when to attempt to change someone else's mind from a negative opinion about me, and when not to?

Again, imagine what Jesus might do. In the gospels we don't see Him trying to explain Himself or to curry favor with anyone who thought badly of Him. He was just Himself in all situations, and none of Himself seemed to be focused on improving or maintaining image, reputation or popularity. He was Himself even when He knew His purpose and focus would get on other people's nerves or make them angry. He was busy being about something quite a lot larger than getting along amiably with everyone else.

Of course, He was perfect and I am not, so while He didn't earn the anger that came back His way, I probably get on people's nerves quite justifiably from time to time. Still, that doesn't change the principle. If I profess to be His follower, should I not focus on what is important--doing justice, loving mercy and walking humbly--rather than on worrying over any negative perceptions someone might have generated about me? Aren't there far more important efforts to be made on my part for larger purposes than changing one or two people's minds?

So perhaps my conclusion is this: to maintain an open mind--commit to viewing all others with positive regard and without judgment--as long as possible. That way your beliefs and resulting actions towards others need not change a whit as new information emerges. You always assume there is more to know about them, and that it wouldn't necessarily look like what you currently see.

And on the receiving end, it seems best to let others deal with their own mind-changing about you while you stick to the themes that are truly meaningful in life. You only have one short life to live. Live it as a sturdy character. Let your energies be spent toward far more valuable things than trying to get a few family members, classmates, coworkers, or observers to change their perceptions of you.

And with that, I think I'm done.

Change Your Mind, Part 3

The first time I recall desperately wanting to change someone's mind about me, and being helpless to do so, was about a dozen years ago. I had a student, my advisee, who was nearing graduation. I had been working on her schedule, and had found some problems with it that made it look like she might not have everything finished by the date at which she wanted to graduate.

I met Steffie (a pseudonym) on the sidewalk going to class, and told her about the situation. "Let's get together tomorrow during my office hours," I said. "It doesn't look like you'll be ready to march, but let me show you the checksheet and let's see what options you might have." She dropped by and we worked things over; to make a long story short, it worked out and she was able to plan ahead for graduation.

It was at least one school term later that Steffie dropped the bomb on me, with her mother accompanying her in my office: she'd been horribly offended that I brought up the situation on the way to class, of all things, and had been devastated. She was angry at me. She was not going to forgive me. I was a horrible, unprofessional, uncaring and rude person.

What???!!!

I tried to work through it with daughter and mother, but I could see that I was making little headway. Steffie was mortally wounded although she would be civil about it. She just wanted to graduate and be rid of me as her professor.

Based on my past experiences, I asked specifically if I could be Steffie's student teaching supervisor. "I think she'll do okay," I told the department chair. "At least I can try to rebuild a good relationship there by affirming her talent for this profession."

The department chair granted my request, although with some trepidation for me, I think. Steffie taught. I supervised. She did fine. I pointed out her strong points and gave gentle suggestions where they were appropriate. She kept me at arm's length and never once cracked the door open for any relationship-building. I never was able win that one.

If I thought that my lost campaign with Steffie was emotionally difficult, all I had to do was to wait for my tour through administration, where a leader is never going to gain the approval or even the respect of all. Some deem their leaders as suspect just by virtue of their title (I kid you not; the guy downstairs says that to me in just so many words). While my colleagues tend to be a superb bunch of people who have genuine personal regard for other human beings regardless of their titles, there are a few who would paint their leaders with a malevolent brush. And the paint has dried and hardened until it cracks.

But that comes with the territory, so we need not be shocked.

Having said those things, let me address a change of mind about someone from a different angle. Refusing to change your mind about someone can be an important survival strategy. If you are a naturally naive or trusting individual, or a person of unending and open-hearted goodwill, you may find yourself being deeply hurt by the actions of another person, and yet easily forgiving them. If easy forgiveness and goodwill are your natural responses, you are likely to experience the next hurt the offender is going to dish out. And the next one after that.

It seems to me that the saying, "Once burned, twice shy," is a helpful one. A friend of mine actually once wrote herself a note in big black Sharpie to tuck in a drawer where she'd see it regularly: "DO NOT TRUST So-and-so." It was a helpful reminder to not gentle her perceptions and let down her guard. A charmingly executed stab in the back is still a stab in the back!

So. How do you know when to change your mind, and when not to? And how do you know when to make an effort to change someone else's mind, and when not to?

[to be continued]