The Seventh Hour

A view of Cana (close to Nazareth), taken about 100 years ago.

The royal official said to Him, "Sir, come down before my child dies." Jesus said to him, "Go; your son lives." The man believed the word that Jesus said to him and started off.  John 4:49-50

It was nearly 24 miles (38 km) from Capernaum to Cana. That's about an eight-hour walk one way--almost the distance of a marathon--which is a long way to go for a dad whose young son is so ill that he's dying. It's an interminable journey for a dad whose thoughts are going in frantic circles, hoping against hope that his feverish boy's life can be saved.

And Jesus' response to this man?  "Unless you people see signs and wonders, you simply will not believe."

What is THAT all about?

This isn't about believing; it's about desperation and hope and no other options. The dad won't be swayed. He's walked (or ridden, if he had some kind of animal to carry him) until he is beyond tired, and for all he knows, his son may have died in the meantime. As with so many of the people who received healing from Jesus, this dad is single-minded, focused, persistent, and can't be distracted from his heartfelt need. "Come down before my child dies!" he pleads, ignoring all that stuff about a sign and belief.  "Come down before my child dies!"  Please!

And Jesus answers simply: "Go; your son lives."

When the father checks with his servants later, he hears that his son's fever broke at the seventh hour, just at the time when Jesus heard his plea and responded. The dad didn't actually see the result of Jesus' words until the next day. But afar off, down winding roads and into the bowl of hills that surrounds the sea of Galilee, back in his son's sickroom, the healing had taken place.

So often we wait ... and wait ... and wait, thinking that the healing is yet ahead of us for some great need that we have. We've asked Jesus for help, and we believe He can and will help. But we think the answer we so desperately want is still ahead of us. Maybe tomorrow. Or next week. Or later. But it hasn't begun yet.

That's the unexpected thing about the kingdom of God, which became visible to us in the appearance and life of this Man, Jesus. His answer comes "at the seventh hour," in the moment when He hears our plea for healing. We may not see it until much later. We may have a "marathon" to walk until we perceive the evidence of God's loving response to our prayers to Him. But what an amazing thing it is to eventually be able to look back and to see that the answer began in the moment when we asked and believed!

I'm thinking about that. It seems to take quite a bit of living and a willingness to keep an open heart before we can turn around and see the evidence of "the seventh hour." God's clock works on a completely different paradigm and in a completely different dimension from ours.  So with that, I'm going to start praying daily for some seemingly impossible things as I go into the new year ahead. Let the Seventh Hour commence!

A Blessed Christmas

Wishing you all a wonderful Christmas from California! We're looking forward to having nearly all our immediate family here today, and that includes the five Grands. As it was when I was a kid, I'm awake early with anticipation. And I'm taking a moment to be thankful to God for that amazing gift of Himself in human form, the Gift that offers us each an invitation to faith, hope, and love.

Let Heaven and Nature sing!

He Will Not Leave Us

Pismo Beach, as we recently saw it. Because I don't have a photo to illustrate this topic.

It has been a week today since a young man broke into an elementary school in Connecticut and killed 26 staff and students. The story hit me hard, very hard, as it did many people. Outside of the bottomless grief that the families and friends of these people are experiencing, I think that those of us who work in the field of education have experienced an added dimension to our sense of horror and grief at the story and photos from Newtown. We place that story in our own context, see the faces of the children we have loved and served, and know that this could have happened in any one of our own schools, to us and to our own students. We are defenseless against utter Evil.

We can do so little to try to stave off this kind of threat, this brand of horror.  I'm not sure I can explain my thoughts about the incident clearly, but I will begin by saying that, quite paradoxically, I find myself mulling over how people can process happenings like these, and believe that there is no God. 

How can I say such a thing? I invite you to consider this shooting and all the others that have tagged along in the remembrances as people tried to make any sense of the growing pattern, as conversations ran along the lines of seeking a cure for this violent spreading cancer in our society. In nearly every case the shooter (or shooters, in the case of Columbine) has completed his deed by killing himself. The aim is destruction, destruction of people and of oneself. There is utter disregard for the value of life, utter intent to kill, utter commitment to destroy oneself. This is the nature of Evil. Utter Evil.

It takes my mind back to the story of a mother in Texas who killed her five children, saying that Satan told her to do it. She was convinced that if she did kill all her children, the state would kill her and complete the job of the killing. Her tale is one of darkness, despair, and destruction. She ended her account by saying that when Satan was done, he left her. When the psychiatrist asked why he left, this mother said, "He destroys and then he leaves."

"He destroys and then he leaves." That phrase has stuck with me in the more-than-ten years since that tragedy. It is the accurate description of what happens in all of these situations. Evil destroys and then leaves, its aims being accomplished. In each subsequent tragedy I've read about in the news, the pattern has held. People are destroyed, lives are destroyed, a trail of destruction is left behind, littering the earth with death. In some other parts of the world where I have lived, the destruction wrought by Evil is much more visible on the surface of life; in north America, we get these little windows on Evil and tragedy, and we seem to get them more often as earth's history marches on.

I believe that Evil exists. We see its face, sometimes just for brief moments, and sometimes completely unveiled as it happened last Friday. I can't imagine that anyone would disagree with me on Evil's existence, and its existence in that specific massacre.

So if we believe in Evil, an Evil that is greater than us, then how can we not believe in Good, a Good that is greater than us? (The alternative, to simply believe in Evil without accepting the duality, is a truly hopeless philosophy.) Where does the Good come from, as seen in the kindness and caring that people so often demonstrate toward others? What about those times when people reach outside of themselves to help, to sustain, to give life? How can we daily see those glimpses of Good that are the complete antithesis of evil and destruction, and then blithely brush them aside and doubt the existence of some great Good? And it's not just a yin-yang of Good and Evil in equal strengths. The nature of the Good that we see in human beings, in the beauty around us, in love and generosity and selflessness of people... that Good is greater than Evil. It overcomes Evil. It makes quiet choices that stand in stark contrast to those twin characteristics of Evil--destruction and abandonment.  "He destroys and then he leaves."

It bothers me some that I'm making the argument, essentially, that "I believe in Evil, therefore I believe in God." I don't look at it that way. I actually believe along the lines of "I see and experience God in so many ways from the quiet voice and evidences of leading in my life, to the intricacies of nature; therefore I believe that a God of Love, good and beauty exists." My point, I suppose, is this: I see many people who are willing to admit the existence Evil from the evidences, but balk at the concept of God from the contrary evidences. That is what puzzles me.

I believe that there is a God (or whatever you want to call the personification of Love/Good), and that there is a Satan (or whatever you want to call the personification of Destruction/Evil).  I believe that there is a cosmic conflict between the two, and that we see little glimpses of that conflict in our everyday lives. And I believe that someday God will bring an end to the destruction, and will--if you are willing to put it in biblical terms--"make all things new."  I believe that God/Love "will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain," (Rev. 21:4) because the old way of things--destruction and abandonment--will pass away. I choose to put my hope and faith in this. As my friend Jodi is fond of saying, "It can't come soon enough."

God is Love, and Love is God, and does not leave us alone. Love stays. For the sake of all of us, and especially for the Newtown families right now, I can hardly wait for that day when the tears are wiped away from eyes, and when--in ways that I'm sure will be surprising to all of us regardless of our beliefs--we will be surprised and surrounded by Love that will never let us go.  

Tree of Disappointment

Royal palms near our home in California

Psalm 22: 1-5

My God, my God, why have You forsaken me?

Far from my deliverance are the words of my groaning.

O my God, I cry by day, but You do not answer;
And by night, but I have no rest.

Yet You are holy,
O You who are enthroned upon the praises of Israel.

In You our fathers trusted;
They trusted and You delivered them. 

To You they cried out and were delivered; 

In You they trusted and were not disappointed.

 
I claim to be no expert in these things, but I think the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil produces the fruit of Disappointment. I invite you to meander through my rather hodgepodge garden of thinking on the matter.

Remember the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil in the Genesis story of Adam and Eve?  Whether or not you believe that the story is literally true or is a creation myth, it's highly symbolic of human nature, and worthy of contemplation.

As a reminder of the plot setup: Adam and Eve, the prototype of human beings, are created in a delightful garden where life is idyllic. They are given work to do, and they get to walk and talk with their Creator every evening. But they are forbidden one thing in the garden, per God's instructions to Adam (and mind you, these instructions are given before Eve is ever created): Don't eat the fruit of the tree of knowledge of good and evil, for in that day you will certainly die.

So what happens? We can see this plot event coming a mile away. A serpent hanging out in the forbidden tree convinces Eve to give the attractive fruit a try, and she does, and so does Adam. Then the eyes of both of them were opened to their nakedness, and their first action is to try to cover that up with loincloths made of fig leaves.

Although this story works well with children in its literal form, it carries with it a deeper symbolism that can take on reality for adults while the literal scaffold falls away.

God created us in His image, which means that however we came to be, we're creatures that are made to emit some reminiscence of Him. It reminds me of those clouds that look like a picture of something for a few moments, or a shadow cast on a wall as I walk by in bright sunlight. What we forget is that "in His image" does not mean that we are just like God. Thinking of it in that way leads us to believe that we actually might think our way into being as knowing and powerful and good as God, being able to stand on our own two feet and take His place.

Lots of people have done that, I think, because they have either perceived their Creator to be as small as they can become in their best moments, or because they have jettisoned the idea of God altogether. They believe that intrinsically and by their efforts they are good people, that they are Enough. And they come to believe that, compared to the horrible image of God they see in religious people around them, they are not just Enough, but they are Better. Here's how it is: we are all judgmental and demanding of one another, and we can all justify it to ourselves in seemingly airtight ways.

Truth is, now that we have eaten of the proverbial fruit--however that happened--we are all bound to taste disappointment. We have, in our arrogance of knowing, built up our perception of who God should be (if there is a God), of who His children should be and how they should behave, and most of all of who we are. We are masters of deceiving ourselves as to our own goodness. There it is, the symbolic loincloth of fig leaves.

The truth is, we're naked, and despite what today's culture might convey about "naked" being rather attractive, it is also at the same time pretty funny-looking. "Naked" is ugly, if you try on certain lenses or look at some parts of it. Seen in some situations, "naked" can even be extremely threatening; women tend to understand this better than men do. And I think everyone, seeing themselves naked, at some point looks and is disappointed.

Paradoxically, recognizing one's nakedness can be a saving grace. Once you see yourself as you really are, it's humbling. When you are humbled, oddly enough, you have a prime opportunity to become more teachable, more accepting, more loving.  Once you see your family as it really is, once you see your community as it is, once you see your church or country as it really is, you must at some point face utter disappointment and shame. We all, having eaten of the symbolic fruit, are cause for our own disillusionment. Deep, deep disappointment.

At this point, I would suggest, we are sorely tempted to look at someone else grabbing at the edges of their pitiful loincloth and trying to cover their nakedness, and point fingers at them. "You're a mess." "Your family is full of jerks and criminal behavior." "Your church/mosque/temple or religion perpetrates hideous evil on the world." "Your government isn't as good as mine, and you need to be like us."   And all the while our own fig leaf loincloths are gaping and a crackly leaf drops to the ground from time to time.

We want something better. We've lost the garden and can't find our way back to it.

This is what amazes me every time I see it or experience it: that in tasting the bitter fruit of disappointment (which at its core must be disappointment in ourselves), we can either choose to live in Disappointment, or we can take that leap of faith to believe that there is a better Tree, and that it is available to us even though we are still locked out of the Garden. Disappointment and shame are crucial steps on the way to understanding our need for and the availability of saving grace.

I observe this, but I really don't understand it all. I keep thinking about it, and maybe that's because I have experienced it, and it opens up a much bigger universe to ponder and explore.

Back to the Burbling Brooks

Me, sitting in a garden on the Mount of Olives, watching the sunset over Jerusalem, on June 30 of this year.

I am going to adjust the direction of this blog back to some of its original channels; namely, my musings on spiritual themes. I used to write along those lines, and then somehow I got away from that. It's not that I wandered off from faith, as faith is what has nourished and sustained me. I love God as I perceive Him to be real and present in my life, and I can't ever get away from His invitation and calling upon me. But I think that some of the burdens I was carrying got heavy enough that I didn't feel I could express that inner life for a while. It felt like it got stopped up because of life feeling rather threatening and overwhelming.

Underneath the surface of the water in which I've been paddling, the thoughts have continued to run along, bubble up, and wash back and forth. Putting those thoughts into words and sentences and paragraphs has always clarified and fine-tuned them for me. It's time to open the sluice-gate again and let them flow, maybe in just a dribble at times, but hopefully in some happy burbling brook at other times.

This is by way of saying that if you are put off by spiritual things, you might want to drop in occasionally to see if there's a pretty picture and then mosey along. I won't be your cup of tea for awhile.

But this is one cup of tea I'm looking forward to sipping. And maybe some of you might want to drop by and bring the scones and jam in your comments, and make it a pleasant and chummy social event.

Yes, I realize I'm hopping from one metaphor to another. It's my posting, and I get to do that.

Urban Legends and the Truth

I think I have all the makings of being a pest. Not as bad a pest as Husband can be, mind you, but a pest, nevertheless. And that's the truth.

While others may identify some other kind of pestiness, I am specifically specifically speaking here of my penchant for setting people right when they are believing in rubbish as being truth. I have realized as I've gotten older and more mature that the truth isn't quite so cut and dried as it might seem, particularly to those of us who find it easy to think concretely. But it still irritates me to the point of growling when people are taken advantage of by others, simply because these people are not discerning enough to be squinty-eyed about everything they see or read.

Let me offer a couple of examples.

A couple of days ago I called over to my parents' place to check on them, as I do nearly every day.  My dad answered the phone, and the following conversation ensued.

Daddy: "I turned on my computer today, and there was a warning that one of my files is corrupted.

Me: "Oh yeah?"

Daddy: "Yes, and I ran the scan and it told me which one was corrupted. So I wiped everything off my hard drive and reinstalled it.  And my Facebook program works!  But I still don't have Skypee, so I will have to put that one back on. I hope it works."

Me: "Daddy, you don't have to wipe your computer clean! It just makes a lot more work for both of us!  Just because a notice says you have a corrupted file, doesn't mean you do."

Daddy:  "Well, it said the file was corrupted, and it told me which one it was."

Me:  "Daddy, you can't believe every notice that pops up!  If you don't know where the notice comes from, never, never, NEVER click on the buttons to let it do anything, whether they are to scan your computer or to go to a website. They just want to steal your information or get access to your computer."

Daddy: "Well, it's all clean now, and I think I didn't mess anything up!  And later I'll try to get the Skypee program back on. I hope I can do that."

Me: (with exasperation) "Daddy, that's the problem. You may not get Skype set up, and then I have to come download it again and figure out what your login and password were, and it's just a mess. Quit wiping your computer clean!"

I know, I know. I should be more patient. But I get so tired of seeing my parents, who come from a more trustworthy era, believing everything that comes in the mail, trusting strangers who cold-call them and want to sell them medications more cheaply from a "Canadian pharmacy," and getting concerned about news stories from less-than-reputable sources.

Which brings me to another case in which I become a pest--viral urban legends.  I discovered snopes.com some years ago, and ever since then, when there's a story that sounds wild or scary, I'll run a search on Snopes for it. We MUST have the truth!

So people who send me sensational e-mails that are geared to strike fear into the heart, or people who post them on Facebook, are more than likely to get a response from me that links to a web page written by the good Barbara Mikkelson--who happens to be Canadian, by the way--setting us all straight. I'm not always nice about it, either. I don't quite say it this straightforwardly, but essentially the message is, "Don't be an idiot. Check out your stories before trying to perpetrate them on the rest of us."

Yeah, I know I have a hangup about truth-telling.

My latest foray into setting someone straight by citing Snopes received a response saying, "I figure passing along a 'keep your eyes open' type thing like this usually won't hurt." 

Um... well yes, it will hurt. As much as I love you, it hurts, and you'll figure that out if you think about it a bit.  First of all, passing on things that scare other people, hurts. There is too much in this world that is scary without making us fearful every time we turn around that we'll get carjacked, assaulted in the night, and so on. Second, simply passing on a story that is untruthful hurts the little bit of ability we have to trust one another. I desperately want to be able to trust people, so much so that I consider myself rather gullible. Having people pass on false information doesn't help me at all. I want to be a part of a wholesome, dependable world, not a cynical one. You are forcing me to become more and more cynical, not only about your stories, but about you. And that hurts.

Actually, I think I've gotten my dad to not believe the tabloids by the checkout stand anymore. I didn't realize I had accomplished my goal until my dad told me that a lady had glued her baby to the wall. (He likes to opine to me about the latest news.)

"No WAY!!" I exclaimed. "Daddy, you've got to quit reading those tabloids! You can't believe something just because you see it in print somewhere!"

"No, really," he said, and dished out the story with a few more details. He had read it on the internet, actually, which of course makes it true. I didn't believe him about the story ... not a bit.

And then I saw it in my newsfeed. A woman did indeed superglue her kid's hands to the wall. And of course she was sentenced to a lot of years in jail for that an other abuses, as she should be. It's a horrible story, and made me sick to my stomach. How is it that the news can find so many stories of people degenerating into behavior that's worse than that of animals?

Consider the true story of the abusive mother compared to a viral false story about how carjackers might trick you. Truth can be much, much worse than fiction.

Crystal Clear

Mama sporting her new glasses frames at the optometrist

It's about time for an update on my sweet mama. When I last blogged in October, she was planning to see Ophthalmologist #4. After waiting a few weeks, we walked into his exam room. He looked at her eyes and said, "Yes, you need more surgery, and I can do that. I think we should let your eyes settle a while longer after the cataract surgery, though--maybe six to eight weeks--and then we'll clear the crystals out of her eye and put a little hole in her iris to make sure she doesn't get glaucoma."

"What about reading?" I asked.  "Mama's favorite thing in the world is to read. Is there any way she can see between now and the surgery?"

"Sure," said Doctor #4.  "You could go see an optometrist and see what they can do for her."

Hurray, we thought. We made the pre-op appointment to see Dr. #4 on our way out. The first available time--and I kid you not--was TWO MONTHS down the road, November 28.

Off we went to see the optometrist a few days later, to see if we could get her some fix for reading glasses. Dr. Optometrist looked at Mama's eyes and could not get a measurement. Could not. Not a bit. The verdict: can't do anything for you. Too many crystals in your vitreous fluid. Can't see the back of your eye. Wait for your surgery.

Our little family was so despondent at the news. That night I called Dr. Art in Washington state with the update. He is, as you may recall (although it's been a long time since I started this story), our family friend who had done the cataract surgery. Talking to Art, I got choked up.  "I feel like we're wasting two or more months of my mom's time of being mentally sharp," I said. "I feel so bad for her. She hasn't been able to see clearly since before we moved here, and this is taking so long."  Because she couldn't see, she was sleeping a lot every day, and that was scary.

I could tell he was frustrated with the process, too. "Let me make a call and get back to you," he said. Having parents who are retired doctors, I know that when a doctor gets a bee in his bonnet, he makes things happen that otherwise wouldn't. I felt much relieved just to have Art understand, let alone intervene.

Fifteen minutes later the phone rang. "Can you go see my friend, Dr. B, tomorrow?" he asked. "I worked with Dr. B as my attending in my residency. He has years and years of experience, and he'll fit your mom in if you can take her tomorrow." 

Little birdwalk:  When I checked out Dr. B later on his website, I saw that he's done more than 13,000 of the surgeries my mom needed.  Thirteen THOUSAND.  "That's not as many as delivering seventeen THOUSAND babies," Husband wisecracked later, referring to my mom's formidable record as an obstetrician. We all dissolved in laughter, including Mama.

I was breathless at Art's suggestion that we could get help the next day. Tomorrow??? I had committees and appointments on my calendar for the next day. Nevertheless, you don't disrespect a doctor who intervenes for you. I cleared my calendar, hope reappeared for all of us, and we were off to see Dr. B the next day.

Dr. B. saw Mama and scheduled her for her first surgery the following day, which was less than a week after we'd been told to wait another 6-8 weeks. "Those faculty doctors work in a beaurocracy," Dr. B. said. "They are forced to be ultra conservative in their approach. I can't work like that." His office was friendly and efficient, and he was no-nonsense and came across as very sure of himself. I suppose that would make sense, when you've done 13,000 surgeries on eyes.

So Dr. B did the surgery to clear the crystals out of Mama's eyes and put a little hole in her iris to relieve the crowding of the structures at the front of her eye. He walked into the waiting room and told my dad and me all had gone well, handed Daddy eye drops to administer to Mama's eye once the patch came off, and left to do his next surgery.

As a precaution, my parents stayed at our house for a day, since Mama had been told to keep her eye patch on until the morning after the surgery. I woke up at 4:30 that morning to the sounds of jibber-jabber coming up from downstairs.  There were my mid-eighty-year-old parents, sitting on the couch in the living room, holding hands and chattering excitedly because Mama had pulled off her eye patch (thinking it was morning already) and she could READ! She could read even small print, even without glasses! This is my Mama who has worn thick glasses ever since she was six years old.

Dr. B. did Mama's second eye a week later, with similar results. And yesterday I took Mama to get measured and fitted for her glasses that will do the last little bit for getting her crystal clear vision.

Needless to say, both Art and Dr. B are heroes in our books. Consider this: the job is all done, it was done well, and we still haven't reached the November 28 date for Mama's pre-op visit with Dr. #4. We are so so thankful.

Oh yeah. I'd better remember to cancel that November 28 appointment. Hallelujah!

Fuzzy

My mama waves goodbye as I leave her apartment after spending a pleasant afternoon with her and my dad.

Yes, I'm posting this blurry photo on purpose, in honor of my mom who has not been able to see clearly for about six weeks now. Not only is losing clear vision difficult for an 86-year old woman, but Mama has gone through this while making a move from a 2000 square foot home in Washington to a 900 square foot apartment in a senior living building in California. That amount of change in a short time is breathtaking, and yet my mama is smiling readily and making the best of it that she can.

The saga of the fuzzy vision started when our long-time friend Art, who previously worked as an ophthalmology faculty member in a school of medicine, pondered my mom's thick glasses and her age, and said that it was very likely that she had cataracts. He thought he could make her sight much better. Art kept inviting her to call his office and make an appointment, but my mom never got around to it--a typical response for this time of life. Finally, Art had his office staff call my mom and make the appointment.

Long story short, my mom had her cataracts taken out, one during the first week of August, and the second during the second week. I was in Nashville when the first surgery was done, keeping in touch by phone. When we flew back in to our home airport, my parents picked us up, and there was my Mama without her glasses. She was so excited that she could see bright colors again, she told me, she hadn't been able to fall asleep the night before. She had never realized how much her eyesight had dimmed with the cataracts. Her excitement and the lively expression on her face brought tears to my eyes.

Mama with Art. We like him a lot. He has brightened Mama's life, literally.

So Art fixed the second eye on my mom, and a few days later we loaded up the moving van with both households. Husband and I flew south with my parents to meet the moving van on the other end, and to settle into our new living situations.

Art had arranged for my mom to see a faculty ophthalmologist (let's call him Dr. #1) when we got to California. All three of us--my mama, my dad and me--went to the appointment.  Dr. #1 came into the exam room after his assistant had done all the preliminaries. He brought his resident along with him. With an air of tidiness and exactitude he sat down and examined Mama's eyes.

And he froze.

We saw it right there in front of us, Dr. #1 going very quiet, his concern evident. In very guarded words he explained that Mama's eyes were some of the smallest he'd seen, and that everything was crowded at the front, and there were floaters in her eyes. He needed to go talk to Art, he said. He left to make the phone call, his resident in tow.

It was what he didn't say that scared us. With my parents being retired physicians, and me also having experience as to how professionals act when they they are frightened, we were aware that something was dreadfully wrong. There was a long, long wait, and then Dr. #1 returned. He was a little more relaxed, but sat down and examined Mama's eyes again. Then he repeated his observation that Mama had very small eyes, and things were crowded at the front, and there was risk of glaucoma although her eye pressure today was fine. She should have some laser surgery as follow-up to the cataract surgery, and he also wanted to have a glaucoma specialist and retina specialist check on Mama's eyes.

And he was going to Europe the next day to present a research paper and would be gone for a month.

As time has passed, my parents have spoken of how freaky that visit to Dr. #1 was, and that they didn't like his manner very much. Art explained over the phone, while checking up on us, that he knew about Mama's unusual eyes, but his friend, Dr. #1, didn't. So maybe Art should have forewarned him, he said. Art is quite certain that Mama's eyes will be okay, that the floaters won't interfere with her vision, and that she'll be able to see as well or better than before.

In the meantime, Mama can't read except occasionally, when things seem a little clearer. And reading her is very favorite thing to do in the world. This is frustrating.

After a two-week wait (in an unfamiliar place with boxes all around them, may I add), we finally got to the appointment with Dr. #2, the glaucoma specialist. Dr. #2 was very pleasant and kind, said that Mama's eye pressure was fine, discussed that doing a little procedure to put a hole to serve as an extra drain might be good as a prevention of glaucoma, should something else get plugged up.  "I'll do some research over the weekend," she said, "and get back to you."  I emphasized that it was distressing that Mama couldn't read, and could we hurry this up in any way and get things settled?

Dr. #2, as did Dr. #1, suggested drugstore readers. We explained to her that we'd already checked that out, and Mama says she can read better without the readers than with them. Dr. #2 was sympathetic, and said again that she'd do some research, considering how crowded the structures were at the front of Mama's eye, and call me back.

We're two weeks out from that appointment and I've gotten no call.

This week we finally reached the appointment with Dr. #3. She is a loud, brash lady with a specialty in the retina. Mama said Dr. #3 made her ears hurt. I suggested that she turn down her hearing aids. Mama said that her hearing aids were on the lowest setting.

Dr. #3 said that Mama's eye nerve was great, her retina was great, and the floaters were there but shouldn't mess with Mama's vision. She gave the verbal equivalent of a slap on the back, and said that with the laser surgery done by Dr. #1, Mama should be able to get glasses that were much lighter than the thick, heavy glasses she's had all her life, and see as well or better than before.

"Please," I said, "can we get this done sooner than later? My mom's favorite thing to do is read, and she hasn't been able to read for a while. Everything is fuzzy."

Tell the appointment person to get us the "first available appointment," she said. It sounded like it was some code message.

"Is there someone else who can do the surgery?" my mama asked. "We didn't like Dr. #1's way of interacting very much."

Whoa. Dr. #1 is well-known for being good. On the other hand, when you're in the faculty medical offices, every specialist should be good. And Mama has to feel comfortable.

"Well," said Dr. #3 loudly without batting an eye at the request, "Dr. #3 is excellent, but how about Dr. #4?  He's a sweetheart."  We had been looking at Dr. #4's certificate on the wall, and his little family picture below it--Asian wife and two fine-looking kids. The certificate said he did a fellowship at Mayo Clinic.

Sure, my parents said. Sign us up for Dr. #4.

The "first available appointment" is in two weeks. Mama is on the waiting list in case an opening emerges before then. And this appointment will just be for him to get up to speed before doing the procedure, so the surgery will come after that. Mama is still seeing fuzzy.  Sigh.

I can't imagine what it must be like to not be able to read for two months. I know that older people do lose their sight, and I never thought about how traumatic that is for them and their families until seeing my mom deal with a fuzzy world and long days in which she can't read.

I just want this to be over. And I'm glad that [as far as we know] we're not facing a permanent loss of clear vision.  So glad.

Conventions, Reunions, and Thoughts on Heaven

Atrium at the Gaylord Opryland Hotel

We are staying right across the pike from Opryland, in Nashville. Starting with a pre-conference and then the main conference beginning tomorrow, we are spending these days in the company of six thousand K-12 teachers from our denomination's educational system in the United States and Canada. Six thousand teachers. For one who has never attended a school with more than a couple thousand students in it, it's mind-boggling.

A statistic professor friend reports on a recent study of higher education

These denominational teacher conventions have taken place three times in the last twelve years;  Husband and I have attended all three. 

At the first convention we had just begun dating; it was an event where many colleagues of ours (we were both seasoned, well-networked educators) first saw us together.  It was a surprise to many, and fun for us. At the time of the second convention, Husband was starting his doctoral program from a university in Michigan. Now he's begun his year off work to gather data and write his dissertation, while I'm two weeks into my new job, happily returned to teacher education in California.

Missionary kid friends from my high school in Singapore, meeting up at the convention. 
Left to right: A principal of a school in Korea, me, a nurse from Huntsville, Alabama, and a German teacher from a school about two hours outside Berlin.

These conventions are times of reunion. In my experience they are both exasperating, and a foretaste of heaven. Exasperating, because just as you're seeing one long-lost friend, colleague or former student, another one comes up, and you can hardly do justice to each opportunity to reconnect and catch up on each other's lives. These conventions are a foretaste of heaven because I get to see the love and esteem for me in so many faces, the joy of meeting up again with friends and former students, and of watching other friends meet in the hallways, lobbies and breakout session rooms. There is talk, touch and laughter, and hearts are full. I can't begin to imagine the joy and excitement that it will be when Heaven happens, but there are little whiffs of it in this teacher convention.

Much laughter as a colleague presents a gag gift to my new boss just before a session.

"I think we take Bible descriptions of heaven too literally," I told one of my former college professors this morning. He had been wondering aloud, as we met over breakfast at the hotel, about whether we would be able to create things in heaven. Heaven, I theorized to him, is unimaginable. The Revelator just did the best he could to describe it in the last book of the Bible, but I'm certain that he fell short and didn't tell us nearly enough. "We like building things and creating things here; why would we not continue that in eternity?" I asked. My old professor agreed.

Last night I listened to a speaker talking about Christian higher education. He declared that tension is good, and that pain can be helpful. Tension, he said, is an indication that something is alive, because everything living is in tension of some sort. He noted the job that pain does in keeping us safe, in serving as a prelude to pleasure (think of hunger, and then the subsequent taste of delicious food), and in teaching us new things. He argued that there would be both tension and pain in heaven, because they both provide benefits and go with living. It was an interesting proposition. I'm still thinking about it.

Fruit salad: a good candidate for a heavenly menu

So what do I think about heaven? Some might think me childish, but I do believe that there will be a heaven, that it will be literal, and that it will be a surprise in just about every way. I believe that those who will be there will have lived in ways that honor and reflect God's character in some way. I believe that most of us will be surprised at just who will be shown to fit that description. I believe that we will find God to be both completely unexpected and overwhelmingly familiar. I believe that heaven will be incredible, that it will include learning new things, having reunions, catching up on each other's stories, much laughter, and many expressions of love, affirmation and gratitude. 

And while I could be off-base on all that I believe about heaven, while I may not have the foggiest idea about what it's really like, I'm raising my hand to volunteer to go there. Because whatever it is, I will finally be moving Home. 

I can't wait.

Un-Settling

The view from our new home

It has been nearly four months since I last posted. As someone who, for quite some time, posted on this blog every day, that silence is akin to saying "I quit." But I didn't intentionally quit. As I returned from Thailand and the experience of the post below, it was clear to me that life would change. I felt that I had directly heard permission from God to go now, and I was grateful. I wrote the following paragraph in March, and it sums up best what continues to drive my response to the experiences of the past year:

There is so much not worth spending one's life on, so much junk and ugliness between people that we put up with instead of demanding something better of our short lives. There are so many ways in which we just let time slide by without grabbing on, squeezing the best out of life, living for meaning rather than just existing or blithely pursuing our momentary whims and adventures. We settle for inertia rather than making a move to take care of what really matters. And what really matters is a very slim set of things indeed, considering that we are like grass that withers and blows away and is forgotten.

So the change is underway. This past week we have been busy packing up our belongings in boxes, and in just over a week we will pull out for the long drive down to southern California, where I have taken up a new job in educational administration. Husband will be taking the year off paid work to finish his doctorate, and my parents have [thankfully] decided to move to the same area a month after we do. We will be living half an hour from all three of our adult children, and all five of our grandchildren. (Number 5 made her appearance in May.)


As I have been packing boxes, I have run across mementos of my life before I moved from California to the Northwest, and yesterday it left me very pensive at the end of the day. I realized how much of my creative self and inner well-being I have sacrificed to my work and to the small and rather insular community here. I have given up art work, various types of crafts, quilting, writing and performing musical theater with the college students, playing the piano and organ and guitar ... and sometimes flute, creative writing, and writing for publication. I used to go to concerts and dramatic productions, museums and art shows, and explored historical sites within driving distance. All of these things died away, one by one, in a long, twisted suffocation from my life. Some of them died, not because of time and work constraints, but because of the ways in which this community--despite its many good qualities--has squelched my inner self. I think I didn't fully recognize it because I try to always view my circumstances in a positive light. Handling the evidences of the past richness as I packed, made me wonder where that woman went, and whether she can be recovered. Or is life too far gone, has it changed me ways that I can't or shouldn't go back and do those things again?


I deliberately packed up some of my unfinished things of the past rather than discarding them, because it represents hope for the future. I'm keeping my unquilted fabric and some of my craft supplies. I'm keeping the organ music I love the most. I'm keeping my slips of paper with ideas for writing. I'm keeping my music-writing paper, and my old piano books, and I'm keeping my guitar and flute. 


I am looking forward to reconnecting with my long-time California friends who will go shopping with me, go on visits to the Getty museums, walk on the beach (which will be just a half hour drive away), explore ghost towns, and attend concerts at the Redlands Bowl and the Hollywood Bowl. I am going to seek out old and new friends who are hopeful and optimistic people. I want to spend time with people who are interested in building others up than tearing them down, looking for the good rather than criticizing, withholding judgment rather than building grudges, focusing on the big issues of the planet rather than giving themselves over to a small-town dramas, grabbing onto what is meaningful in life and trying out new experiences and skills, rather than simply existing from day to day without breaking the routine.


While life will be unsettled for the next six or seven weeks, I am feeling hopeful. "For Any Eyes" just might be hearing more from me again.

Five sweet reasons to head for California

Long Thoughts

Well, I think that maybe I'm ready to write about this now. I couldn't face it for a while.

On Saturday of my retreat at Koh Kood, I signed on for a snorkeling trip. I've snorkeled in Thailand before, as what is underwater is magically beautiful there, at least on the west side of the country. This was to be my first snorkel in the South China Sea. The manager of the resort told me that the coral and environment isn't as pretty on this side of the country, but the fish would still be beautiful.

The snorkeling speedboat came to pick me up that morning from the resort's dock. As I got in I noted who was in the boat: two young Thai guys to drive and spot, and about 8 Thai tourists. We stopped by one more resort up the coast, Pirate's Cove, to pick up two more snorkelers. They were a Caucasian couple with tanned and leathery skin, looking pretty spry at 65 to 70 years of age. They struck me as people who have traveled a lot, been in the sun a lot, and swum a lot. I wasn't close enough to pick up on what language they were speaking, but when they spoke to me in English, it sounded like a Scandinavian accent. So I will refer to them as such.

The speedboat took off across the water for a trip of about half and hour to 45 minutes, arriving at a little cove with a beach and several other boats anchored there. I thought this was where we would snorkel.

As they cut the engine, the snorkeling company lads taking care of us spoke in Thai to the tourists. I was getting changed into my snorkeling shirt (I burn fairly easily; dressing up to snorkel is a really good idea) and missed whatever instructions they gave in English. When I asked what was happening, the older lady said, "We learn how to snorkel here."

Sure enough, the boat guys were showing the Thai tourists how to prepare the snorkeling mask and put it on, how to use the mouthpiece, and so on. I saw the Scandinavian couple get their gear on and go right into the water and start snorkeling. The Thai tourists had put on the life jackets provided in the boat. I hesitated, knowing myself to be a good swimmer and veteran snorkeler. But administration has trained me well to over-protect against risk, so I put on the life jacket provided me, grabbed my snorkel and mask, and went in.

I didn't notice what the Thai tourists were doing during this time. I figured they were practicing and trying to get familiar with the idea of floating in the water, breathing, and so on. The older couple and I swam from the boat into the bay and were looking around at the underwater life. There were hoards of beautiful sea urchins down there with long spines and little dots on them, and some fish, but nothing as lush and rich as I've seen on the west side of Thailand.

Photo found here: http://www.theweddingtravelers.com/tag/54/index.html

At one point I noticed that the Scandinavian man who was swimming near me, was heading back. I raised my head and saw one of the boat guys beckoning to me.  Time to swim back, get in the boat, and go to where the "real" snorkeling would be.

I was feeling pretty happy, looking forward to a couple of hours with the fish and coral. This was going to be way better than a walk in a pretty park on a Saturday afternoon. It was good to be in my swimming suit and wet, good to have a snorkel and mask, good to be headed back into the water shortly.

We didn't have far to go. In just five minutes the boat inched its way to anchor near a small outcropping off the island. There were lots of people in the water from other snorkeling groups.What a fun prospect! I couldn't wait to join them.

"Do I need to wear the life vest?" I asked the boat guy, looking for permission to shuck mine.  He nodded yes. The couple hadn't put theirs on, but after the boat guy had nodded in response to my question, I figured I'd just keep it on. I gave one of the boat guys my camera to get some pictures of me in the water, grabbed my snorkel and fins, and jumped in. 

As I put my fins on I noticed a lot of stuff brushing against me and was quite startled, as you can see in the photo above (Click on the photo to get the full effect of my surprised face.). Fish were swarming all around me! Then I realized that the boat guy had just tossed them some bread, and thus the frenzy. They weren't coming for me, and I relaxed. 

Notice that the Scandinavian guy happened to be in the photo just a few feet away from me. It was the last picture of him alive. 

I swam off, looking at the fish--which were varied, colorful and plentiful--for 4 or 5 minutes. Then I heard a commotion and lifted my head. About ten meters from the boat there were people calling for help. At first it was just the sound of someone trying to get attention of the boat guys, but then the tone quickly turned frantic. I saw one of the lads throw a life preserver out to the little group of people in the water and pull someone toward the boat. Then I saw the older man being hauled into the boat, his wife climbing in next.

This was worrisome. Swimming closer to the boat to get a look, I was taken aback to see someone straddling the guy on the floor of the boat, pumping up and down on his chest. CPR. Should I go and try to help? My CPR training is at least 20 years old. I am not medical. I should probably stay out of their way. Not knowing what to do, I decided it was best to not be a looky-loo. I snorkeled off a little ways, worrying and not noticing much about the fish anymore.

Something got my attention, and I looked up. It was one of the boat lads gesturing at me to swim back and get in the boat. The other people from our boat were being called in, too. We hauled ourselves in and found our seats along the side, with the man on the floor right at our feet and a woman from another boat doing CPR. "1-2-3-4," she counted off, pausing, and then again: "1-2-3-4."  Over and over, strong compressions that were almost bouncing his body. Once or twice she hit the guy in the chest, hard. From time to time she or one of the boat guys would reach out and check for the man's pulse, and then continue. I noticed yellow gunk on the floor by the man's head; apparently they'd gotten something out of his airway before starting. There was conversation in Thai, and the lady doing the CPR handed off the task to one of the snorkeling boat lads, looking distressed, got back in her dinghy and shoved off. Our speedboat driver cranked up the engine and we sped off.

In the meantime I was worried about the man's wife, who was sitting there in shock, looking on. I took her hand and held it, trying to give comfort. "What happened?" I asked as calmly as I could.

"He drowned."

"Drowned?" I was shocked. That sounded like "dead."

"He called to me and said, 'I'm in trouble,' and then he drowned."

I didn't know what to say to that. I looked down at where the boat guy was pumping her husband's chest. "Should someone be breathing for him?" I asked.

"I don't know," she said. But shortly she got down on the floor, bent over her husband and started breathing after each count of 4.

"1-2-3-4" the boat guy would call out, and then "Breathe!" and she would breathe into her husband's mouth. Again and again. Over and over, "1-2-3-4, Breathe!" for the half hour or so that it took us to speed across the water back to our island.

We were all in shock, from the looks on the faces around me. We were trying not to watch; it was upsetting and there was nothing we could do. The woman curled around her husband's head, her head down as she breathed in on the count, and the boat guy keeping a frantic and ongoing pace with the chest compressions. Is the count of 4 correct? I wondered. Shouldn't it be a count of 5 with two breaths? Well, the boat guys must be trained, and it's a long time since I had my training, so maybe it's changed. And anyhow I don't know if 4 or 5 compressions really matter when you're trying to get someone revived. At one point I looked down and saw blood all around the man's mouth. Punctured lung, I thought. They hit him so hard in the chest, I'm sure they broke his ribs trying to shock his heart back into beating.

I think we all knew he wouldn't revive, deep down. After an impossibly long ride, we got back to Pirate's Cove where the tiny island ambulance was waiting. As they put the man on a backboard to carry him up the pier to the ambulance, I handed a bottle of water to his exhausted wife, to wash the blood off from around her mouth and nose. I didn't know anything to say, except, "There's still some on your nose, over here."  And then she was gone to accompany her husband's body to the hospital.

As the ambulance left I looked at the young guy who had been doing the CPR all the way back. He, too, was exhausted, shaking, hyperventilating. He shook his head several times, trying not to cry but not doing well. No one was talking with him. I went over and patted him on the shoulder. "You did good work," I said.  "Thank you."

"It's first time," he said, voice full of tears. "First time I do that."

"You did well," I said. "Thank you so much for trying."

And then several of us in the group, men and women, were swallowing hard and rubbing our eyes. We stood there on the pier for a minute, most of us looking down. And then the boat driver said something and the Thai tourists started getting back in the boat.

"Where are we going?" I asked.

"Back to resort," said the driver, apologetically.

"Thank you," I said. "That's where I want to go."

Mine was the first stop. As I stepped onto the dock I found myself waving at those who had shared my experience in the boat, and they were waving back. It seemed odd and right at the same time, waving goodbye. One of the resort workers, a woman who spoke English and who had arranged my snorkeling trip, was coming down the hill, a look of concern on her face about my early return. And then I started crying.

The resort manager called the hospital after hearing my story, and they confirmed that the man died of drowning (there's no HIPPAA confidentiality in Thailand). I suspect he had a heart attack and then went under, but I'll never know. Who knows whether wearing a life vest would have helped or not.

That evening I took a walk on the beach and watched the sunset. I thought about the man who wasn't seeing this sunset, although he woke up that day assuming that he would. I thought of his wife, and how she was suddenly alone out here on this remote island miles off the coast, having to figure out some kind of arrangements for the "what next." I thought of her replaying the scene over and over in her mind, probably frantic about what went wrong.

And I thought about what if that had been me lying on the floor of the boat, drowned and not responding to CPR. What would have been important to me if I'd had a flash of reflection before I was gone? Would I have wanted my life in the last 10 years to be spent on what I've spent it on? What is really valuable? What counts as a worthwhile life?

There is so much not worth spending one's life on, so much junk and ugliness between people that we put up with instead of demanding something better of our short lives. There are so many ways in which we just let time slide by without grabbing on, squeezing the best out of life, living for meaning rather than just existing or blithely pursuing our momentary whims and adventures. We settle for inertia rather than making a move to take care of what really matters. And what really matters is a very slim set of things indeed, considering that we are like grass that withers and blows away and is forgotten.

These are long, long thoughts. I have a different perspective after this experience, and it will strongly influence decisions I make. It must.

Trek Into the Interior

Today I thought I'd make a little jaunt toward the interior of the island. On a map I'd noted that there is a temple not too far away. About midday I folded up my little map and stuck it in my pocket, grabbed my camera, and headed out past the resort's little beach where everything was looking idyllic.

I passed the colorful kayaks waiting to be taken out to sea. They look kind of fun, but I've not availed myself of them; I'd probably be tired of paddling by the time I got to the end of the pier, especially if I didn't have company, which I don't.

Just past the kayaks you take the stairs up to the land's-end of the pier. Handy.

Turning left, I found that the road leading away from the beach is cement. Cement! I haven't been on a cement road for a very long time. The road led through a coconut grove, which contained not much other than coconut trees and ant hills.

Once through the coconut grove, the road led up a hill. Spying this big, spreading tree, I was quite certain that it must be a spirit tree. It just looked like the ones I'd seen in my childhood.

Sure enough, pinned to the tree were signs that someone believes the tree has some spiritual significance. I didn't see offerings or joss sticks, though.

A little ways further, there was the temple. I was disappointed to see that it was still being built. When it's done there will be a great deal more ornamentation and beauty to this structure, likely including a brightly colored geometric design in the roof tiles.

There's a gateway over the road near the temple. I am reminded of the pleasing whirls and flame-like shapes of Buddhist art in Thailand, showing their particular love for gold.

Entering the grounds of the temple I saw, among other things, a shrine that obviously celebrates reincarnation. I sat on the bench across from it for a while, and considered peacefully and gratefully how much more meaningful my life is because I don't believe in this endless wheel of life. The shrine was pretty, though.

Over to one side of the grounds was a restaurant, which looked empty. And in one of the buildings, by a window, sat a Buddhist monk in his saffron robes; on the steps of another mold-stained building sat another. The monk in the window tried to get my attention to come over, but I wasn't up for interaction. I thought monks were supposed to avoid, women, anyhow. What's up with that?

Across the road was the crematorium. We had a much more ornate one across from our house in Phuket when I was a little girl. This one had blackening around its metal door from the smoke of past cremations.

In another corner was a tower with a lovely gabled roof on it, and a drum and bell hanging under the eaves. I don't recall how the Buddhists use a drum of this size. I do remember the bell, though, particularly in connection with funerals.

Any good Buddhist in Thailand will have a spirit house in their yard. Walking past a house down the road, I saw this nice little collection of spirit houses and offering tables.

I was talking with someone this last weekend about how Christianity doesn't make much of a dent in Thailand. They explained that Thai people have constant rituals and daily activities connected with Buddhist belief and temple life, whereas Christianity has typically only engaged people at their church one day a week. The rituals and customs of Buddhism have put roots deep into the souls of the people here, and change is very difficult. I've found myself thinking a number of times this past week about how Christianity could or would adjust to Thai culture and become more a part of daily life. Having been gone from here for many years, it's very hard for me to imagine the answers to a question like this, in context. I continue to ponder.

Once I reached the temple, I decided to walk a little further, to the nearest town ... if it could be called that. Judging by this little billboard, they're clearly very proud of their little hospital on this island. Thailand is a country of traditions, and they have maintained the same nursing uniforms that have been around for well over 50 years. No patterned scrubs for these nurses!

The information for the resort where I'm staying says that you can pay for a massage by experts trained at the local hospital. I'm intrigued to think of the hospital as a training center for masseuses.

I was walking along very, very slowly in the heat; nevertheless, by the time I reached this gas station and shops two kilometers from the resort, I was dripping with sweat almost as if I'd been in a shower. I admit it: I stopped in at the little shop for an ice cream bar.

Outside the gas station was a billboard showing the island. The resort where I'm staying is about halfway up the left side, where you see the T-shaped pier jutting out into the water toward the southwest.

It was time to turn around. I headed back the way I came, enjoying the flora (I've left those photos out of this post) and typical Thai dwellings along the way.

It's always exciting when you get close to the ocean and catch the first glimpse of it beyond the coconut trees. I remember that delight from my childhood. The beach is simply my favorite place at which to arrive!

"Shantaa" is a Hindi word that means "tranquility." And it certainly has provided me with that. I'm so glad I came here!

Finally, back to the beach where there are breezes and blue water! This location is in front of the food stall on the other side of the pier from the resort.

I'm highly amused by the cleverness of the Thai owners of the resort; they did well with punning the name of the bar down by the beach where you can order drinks and check out your beach towels and toys.

Ordering drinks? What a great idea! I ended my trek to the interior by treating myself, at Shantaa Bar Bara, to a choco-oreo shake. Sweet!