be-musings

In the car Matthew was yak yak yaking. A typical car ride. I had asked him to give his mouth a break, but he seemed to keep forgetting that request...okay, demand was more like the truth. Finally I said "Matthew, what if I had other children? How would I be able to handle what they need to? How would they be able to be heard?" So, I won't be having other kids, but it seemed like a logical point at the time. Matthew's brilliant response: "You could give them to foster care mom."

Last month Lori gave me this Scripture.

Nothing and no one is holy like GOD, no rock mountain like our God.
Don't dare talk pretentiously -- not a word of boasting, ever!
For GOD knows what's going on.
He takes the measure of everything that happens.
The weapons of the strong are smashed to pieces, while the weak are infused with fresh strength.
The well-fed are out begging in the streets for crusts, while the hungry are getting second helpings.
The barren woman has a houseful of children, while the mother of many is bereft.

GOD brings death and GOD brings life, brings down to the grave and raises up.
GOD brings poverty and GOD brings wealth; he lowers, he also lifts up.
He puts poor people on their feet again; he rekindles burned-out lives with fresh hope,
Restoring dignity and respect to their lives -- a place in the sun!
For the very structures of earth are GOD's; he has laid out his operations on a firm foundation.
He protectively cares for his faithful friends, step by step

I can't get past level 6 on Mission Paintball! I need my life back.

Q. What do bullet-proof vests, fire escapes, windshield wipers, and laser printers all have in common?
A. All invented by women.

For Rob Deyo: The cost of raising a medium-size dog to the age of eleven is $6,400

Every day more money is printed for Monopoly than the US Treasury.

It is impossible to lick your elbow. (I know you're going to try it.)

Men can read smaller print than women can; women can hear better.

The percentage of Africa that is wilderness: 28% (now get this...)

The percentage of North America that is wilderness: 38%

Intelligent people have more zinc and copper in their hair. (Doesn't that make them redheads? If so, this is a good place to stop.)

He was in second year university and school had begun a few short weeks earlier. It was the weekend, and they wanted to go to town for the evening. He drove a couple girls and spent time with them, laughing together. One of them was Candice, a freshman.
On the way back from down after dark, they laughed some more. The train drove beside them, and they paced with it. Approaching the dangerous S-curve just before the university entrance Paul accelerated. Perhaps not lots, but enough to beat the train so that they didn't have to stop and wait for it to cross the road when so close to their destination. His car slid on the tracks and stalled. He tried frantically to restart it, but time was running out. He shouted for his friends to get out of the car, and they scrambled. It was difficult for the girls in the back to get out of the vehicle, and the train headlights had borne down upon them. One girl got away clear. Paul knew he could do nothing to help. He jumped away from the car just before impact; his leg got hit with part of the metal.
Julie had arrived on campus a couple weeks before. It was her first time away from home, and in another province. Her family lived in Saskatchewan. In the panic she fought to get away from disaster. She pressed off the back seat and got out of the vehicle just as the train's momentum and strength descended on that tragic portion of track. She was on the pavement just outside the car door when the collision took her away. Yes, it's a true story.
When Julie's parents came to get her, they met Paul. It was gut wrenching for him. They told him they weren't angry at him...they forgave him. It was in God's hands. They showed him Christ.
A year later Paul had undergone surgery and much therapy for his ankle. He was being prosecuted for manslaughter. Things were dim. He was suicidal. He was unable to forgive. Not the traindriver for failure to stop more quickly. Not the friends for not discouraging him from racing the train. Himself. He had been forgiven by the family who was permanently changed by that moment of wrong decision, yet he couldn't forgive himself. He chose to carry that burden for them, even if they wouldn't join him.
I don't know how Paul is now. A few years ago I saw him and life had a semblance of normalcy. He was married, and employed as a psychologist. To see him you would never know the burden he carried for those years.
This makes my fried hair tale of 1986 so trivial. The scale of injustice seems to be less than zero in comparison with Julie's story. Where does yours seem on the scale? And really...does it matter?
What burdens do your past carry? Affairs, pregnancy outside of marriage, addiction, gossip, malice, stealing, betrayal? Sometimes we can't see the other people involved to hear that they forgive us. Maybe they still hold it against us. Maybe there's something we hold against them. It's outside our ability to change their response. It's only possible to change ours.
Paul needed to forgive himself. It was a mistake. We all make them.

Yesterday I joined Matthew's school class for a field trip to Storeum in gastown. I was one of the few parent volunteers whom the bus did not have room for, so I drove. By myself. I wasn't certain that morning how I was going to get there or how far I would drive. Maybe I would follow the bus all the way in, but that would mean driving downtown. I haven't done that by myself, and avoid driving that part when with others. Maybe I would drive partway and take the skytrain the rest of the way. But I didn't know the station that I was being advised to find. It's at Lougheed mall. I only know where Ikea is. All Vancouver/Burnaby directions must revolve around Ikea or I'm messed up. Even then, I still am. Yes, I'm babbling, but only for you to get the picture. To drive downtown by myself was a necessary step in proving that my "fears" aren't rational and the things that my active imagination could come up with probably wouldn't happen.
I drove in following the bus, got separated from it on the freeway, and stayed calm. Bridges didn't bother me. The plethora of people on Hastings street (the bad section) didn't bother me. It was a positive, affirming experience. I felt good, happy, change evident.
On the way home thoughts turned to the possibility of a car accident and my son, 15 minutes behind me on the bus, having to witness it. Man, the mind is a crazy thing. I realized it as a "blast from the past", and dismissed it. Nothing was going to ruin the small victories that day. I laughed when I realized how foolish and unrealistic the new thoughts of doom were.
Don't think I'm a paranoid freak. Actually, I think I'm fairly normal. We all have history and memories that cause irrational thoughts to come into our minds. My fear of driving downtown isn't paralyzing. But my thoughts of "what if" can be emotionally forefront. A little quickening of the heart when traffic closes around me. Not knowing what the other people are doing. Just enough to have an "edge" and want to make other arrangements if possible. Maybe not any more.
I think this summer when I go into the city I'll go to an unknown skytrain station and see where it leads me without being upset about getting lost.
It's liberating when I let the unknown situations and surprises be an adventure rather than a stress. After all, it's only a detour, not a final destination. Or is that true? Maybe it can be a destination. Do we always know the best about where to arrive and what route to take? You know I'm not talking about gastown anymore, don't you?

Today I visited with a wonderful friend. When I had given her room to leave me, she didn't. When I needed distance she respected it and waited patiently. In a time of second guessing relationships and expecting the worst responses, she has surprised me with her presence and love. She has shown me that God still works in my life, by putting His love into action.

all my dreams
I had dreamed were dreams of me
all my hopes
were desires of what I wanted to be
with ambitions put aside
I crawl in your arms to hide
I have given up to you

this is all (this is all)
this is everything
this is all (this is all)
this is everything
this is everything I've got

the good things
and the bad things are in your hands
my hopes and my dreams
are in your command
and I come before you now
as imperfect as I am
and I give
yes, I give it all to you
(Audio Adrenaline)

A teacher noticed that a little boy at the back of the class was squirming around, scratching his crotch, and not paying attention. She went back to find out what was going on. He was quite embarrassed and whispered that he had just recently been circumcised and he was quite itchy. The teacher told him to go down to the principal's office. He was to telephone his mother and ask her what he should do about it. He did it and returned to his class. Suddenly, there was a commotion at the back of the room. She went back to investigate only to find him sitting at his desk with his "member" hanging out.
"I thought I told you to call your mom!" she said.
"I did," he said, "And she told me that if I could stick it out till noon, she'd come and pick me up from school."

I just noticed that I've had 3 serious posts in a row. I'm going to ignore the urge to cajole. You'll forgive me I hope.

Much of my life has been ruled by responsibility and guilt. They go hand in hand very well. It's an unhealthy way to live, whereby joy is reduced. I've been working through that, and it's an arduous process. Some days I'm incredibly free. Some days memories ripe with faces, expressions, raw emotions zap me unexpectedly and I'm reminded that I'm still in process of healing.
One of my professions was a a hairstylist. In 1986 an older woman who never should have had a perm asked for one. Her hair was fried already. The salon owner never let us refuse any services, so I had the woman sign a waiver and gave it my best shot. Apparently that wasn't good enough, because her hair became even more fried. As she looked in the mirror while I tried my best to salvage it, she kept saying I couldn't trim it because her husband might be mad at her. She seemed afraid of him, and I was concerned for her...because her hair was not getting any longer that day. This memory of "inferiority" and wondering if things were okay with her at home still bother me. It was 19 years ago, and it still haunts me. Pretty bad, hey? That's the smallest of the things that make a repeat appearance in my guilt memories.
There have been things I'm not proud of. Sometimes I've really screwed up. Other times I know I've done the best I could with the circumstances that were presented. Yet somehow they all blend together when the "responsibility" kicks in. It's always my fault in some way. Am I the only one?
When I worked at the bank, whenever I would hear of a big mistake that they were investigating and weren't sure who did it, I began to create a "memory" that it must have been me. It was fear, as well as the realization that I am definitely not infallible. What I learned over the years in that job is that the moments I thought something was probably my fault it wasn't. The mistakes I did make, with the exception of one particular time, were ones that I never gave second thought to after the transaction was done. The things I worried about the most didn't happen. The things I didn't worry about were what bit me in the butt.
My journey has taken me on this path of realization that I beat myself up alot. Do you? I always said I could criticize myself better than anyone else could. I can tell you most of my faults before you even begin to formulate an opinion about them. That's not ego...it's guilt. I'm soooo familiar with them because I beat myself up over them all the time.
I'm not whining or depressed, just doing therapy. This is a slow process.

There are more collect calls on Father's Day than any other day of the year. That's the way to do it...make them pay for the call that is supposed to tell them how much we appreciate their sacrifices for us. Not to complain...I think my house originated some collect calls to make that statistic true.
When I was growing up I thought that parents were the reason why so many teenagers were screwed up. Certainly as a teen it was a convenient excuse. I saw this as playing out in the life of my dad. Seemingly uninvolved, it made me feel like I was not convenient to have. Yes, I have problems because of some things in the family unit.
A few years ago dad seemed to be in a tender spot and he made comments that were different than prior visits. He said that he wasn't always supportive or even kind in his remarks. It was my chance to tell him how the child in me felt. I could have "stuck it to him". I couldn't. I said one statement of acknowledgement of what he was saying and left it there. Why dig up something that couldn't be corrected? I wasn't a child anymore.
My dad learned to say he loved me when he left home. I was 18. Sure, if it were earlier that would be nice, but I'm just glad that it happened sometime. Every time I talk to him on the phone he ends by saying he loves me. I melt for that few seconds. It's not a drippy delivery, just a quick matter-of-fact communication. But I know he means it. He says "I'm proud of you girls" and I know he means that too. It's enough for me. He calls me every couple of months, even if there's not much to say. If it's sooner than that I think someone must be dying. This winter he really showed me he cared by calling every few weeks. I shook my head in bewilderment, but understood what he was doing. He was loving me in a way that he could.
Dad learned how to be my father when I was a legal adult. It was late, but not too late. I'm glad it happened.

This life is hard and the road is long that leads me toward the light
Sometimes I trip and stumble in the night
My mind becomes so weary I just want to lay me down
But I’ve got to keep on going until I reach the higher ground

Let this good life be the life I lead
Let this faith grow like a mustard seed
Let Your love be all the love I need
To carry me all the way home

Hoping to learn that every wrong turn
Is a step toward the past
Going astray, losing my way
Until I found it at last

Let this good life be the life we lead
Let our faith grow like a mustard seed
Let His love be all the love we need
To carry us all the way home

(Larry Norman)

Don't know why I didn't see it coming. Nothing like going to bed with the taste of soap in your mouth.

I was running a couple minutes late yesterday, and finishing Matthew's lunch pack while he was brushing his teeth. I told him it was time to go and he responded by telling me that I also had to brush my teeth. This is suspicious. What does he care if I do? I told him I would do them when I get back from dropping him at school. He said he had a "surprise" for me when I get back. Clue number two. He's not so good yet at being sneaky (thank goodness). When I picked up the toothbrush I looked at it carefully. Nothing was obviously wrong. Noticing the handsoap on the counter I smiled knowingly. A quick touch of the tongue tip onto the toothbrush revealed my suspicion was true. Soap on the toothbrush bristles! I rinsed it...and then reciprocated. Oh yeah...soap on Matthew's toothbrush.
That night when he was readying himself for bed, he put toothpaste on his toothbrush. I stayed in the bathroom with him, smugly watching (my clue number one). At first he didn't respond, but then his face slowly contorted and my smile became apparent. "MOM!!!!!" "you put soap on my toothbrush." I laughed and admitted it, stating that it was payback. It was hilarious to watch the large bubbles coming out of his open mouth. He laughed as well. Of course, Matthew kept blowing more and more.
I wonder if he'll try something else this week.

Recently we went to Hayward Lake. The previous day the water line was higher than I had ever seen it before. We went expecting to see the same, but instead the opposite was apparent. The water had been let out of the dam and at first we were confused about that. Could it be that in the controller's efforts to drain some water he/she had left the dam open too long? Surely no one meant to drain it this much. At first we were sad, because we wanted to play in the water, but instead we had a good time exploring what's under the water line that had now been exposed. The chance to see those things that we could never see if the water had still been there. Hidden danger in diving areas, and confirmation of "safe" zones.




The colours were bleak, yet restful. The shadows provided a beauty of their own.




Man, this is like life. One moment we're "on top of the world", filled to capacity. Things look and feel great, even when there's turmoil on the outside. But then the water is drained. We feel parched. We don't understand what's going on.
We went back to Hayward yesterday. The lake is full again. Replenished by new incoming water.
It will happen for you too. It was all foreseen.

You give and take away
You give and take away
My heart will choose to say
Lord, blessed be Your name

Thanks Liz for blogging this song

A man's car broke down as he was driving past a beautiful old monastery late one night. He walked up the drive and knocked on the front door. A monk answered, listened to the man's story and graciously invited him to spend the night. The monks fed the man and led him to a tiny chamber in which to sleep. The man thanked the monks and slept serenely until he was awakened by a strange and beautiful sound.
The next morning, as the monks were repairing his car, he asked about the sound that had woken him. "We're sorry," the monks said, "We can't tell you about the sound. You're not a monk."
The man was disappointed, but eager to be gone, so he thanked the monks for their kindness and went on his way. During quiet moments afterward, the man pondered the source of the alluring sound.
Several years later the man happened to be driving in the same area.
He stopped at the monastery on a whim and asked admittance. He explained to the monks that he had so enjoyed his previous stay, he wondered if he might be permitted to spend another night under their peaceful roof.
The monks agreed, and so the man stayed with them again. Late that night, he heard the strange beautiful sound. The following morning he begged the monks to explain the sound. The monks gave him the same answer as before. "We're sorry. We can't tell you about the sound. You're not a monk."
By now the man's curiosity had turned to obsession. He decided to give up everything and become a monk, for that was the only way he could learn about the sound. He informed the monks of his decision and began the long and arduous task of becoming a monk.
Seventeen years later, the man was finally established as a true member of the order. When the celebration ended, he humbly went to the leader of the order and asked to be told the source of the sound.
Silently, the old monk led the new monk to a huge wooden door. He opened the door with a golden key. That door swung open to reveal a second door of silver, then a third of gold and so on until they had passed through twelve doors, each more magnificent than the last.
The new monk's face was awash with tears of joy as he finally beheld the wondrous source of the beautiful mysterious sound he had heard so many years before..........
But, I can't tell you what it was. You're not a monk.

As children we learn fear responses, and we file the experiences so that they aren't repeated. Examples: touching a hot stove, falling down stairs, a near drowning experience. I've heard of some people who have fear of carpet, but have no "rational" reason why. Surprisingly, Matthew doesn't, because when he was 3 he tried to impress some people by getting down on all fours, crawling across the carpet, with his head firmly pressed against it. The more the laughs, the faster he did it. The result: the first layer of skin torn off and a bright red carpet burn that lasted for a week. The memory of that pain didn't deter him, because this happened on 2 occasions. After the second time he decided it wasn't funny anymore.
Some of us are more determined than others.
I've been thinking about my fears as they relate directly to me, not to my family or friends. There are plenty. Try some of these:
• physical violation/sexual abuse
• home invasion, especially when on the premises
• mutilation (not the machete kind, but any deep physical scar or extreme impairment)
• death by drowning
• earthquake
• bridge collapse while on or under it (refer to earthquake)
• that inevitable phone call from the police if someone is very late returning home

The list I just spelled out is probably enough to make you think I'm a huge phobic. Or does it? Do you recognize some of yours on there?
It has taken me 41 years of experience to solidify these fears. They don't die easily, and often I really want to hang onto them. They protect me from what I "know" will happen. I have learned from what has happened to me already and from what I have seen happen to others. I have experienced minor forms of physical violation. Not to the degree of many others, but enough for the mind of a child to carry it for years and to amplify it into an adult fear. Home invasion came true twice, while I wasn't present. When it happened the second time I was actually relieved that the thing I had anticipated "finally" happened. Like I would put it to rest. But I didn't. When I was a teenager I began to have dreams about my childhood that I thought were fiction, but my mother confirmed they were indeed real. In one of those dreams I witnessed a baby crawl under a car, the owners get into the car and drive off a little ways, dragging the baby under it. My mother was shocked, because they thought no one saw it happen. Can you imagine the panic of the adults who realized what was going on and were tending to the scene? They wouldn't notice a preschool child standing a few houses beind them.
We all hear horror stories and some of us go beyond "that's awful" and incorporate the fear into our lives. We take our personal experiences and those around us and harbour them. They protect. Make us feel safe.
Do they really? Is it better to have fears to prevent us from repeating dangers? How healthy is it? Sure, touching a hot stove will produce pain and scars, which is a good lesson to learn, but when is it too much? If I wake up in a panic several times a night because the creak I just heard might be an intruder (but isn't) is that healthy? I had my plan of how I would straddle under the bedframe so I wouldn't be seen. But now that I have a child that strategy would have to change so that it's about him first. How do I figure that out? Do you see how we spin complicated traps for our mind? What if...what if...what if??????
I'm tired of living in what if. No, tired is not the way to describe it. I WON'T live in the bondage of fear. Will everything disappear right away because I say so? No. Yet there is hope and a future that is bright. And the present is not bad too. There's been a healing in my life, and I want the work to continue.
I can:
• be alone in my home without the fear of invasion
• jump off a low cliff into water. Swim without paranoia of not being able to breathe properly
• go to the theatre without planning my earthquake strategy
• cross a bridge without any thought of it's collapsing
• tell myself that lateness doesn't mean a tragic car accident (still working on that one).

I can choose to protect myself from all my dangers...all my fears. In the protecting I have lived out my fears over and over and over and over. What I have been afraid of happening I have made real in my mind and the physiological reaction that has happened has solidified it. So, in trying to dull my senses to it I have instead heightened them. That's messed, isn't it? I see now that I need to continue in this healing. To see what I have written here as being truth for me. That those "security blankets" are not at all secure.

I've written about this kind of topic before. This post is not as well planned and hasn't been edited. I won't edit it, because if I do then I'll just delete it rather than publish it. Maybe this post is more for me than for anyone else.

They say that you can tell a lot about a person by what they carry in their purse. I don't like purses. They're inconvenient to carry. I use a tiny card wallet most of the time, set in a pant pocket. Of course, occasionally there are no pockets, so a purse is essential. The smaller the purse, the more functional it is. Once a friend joked that my purse fit in their back packet...and it did. This week I've been using my "larger" purse, and at the end of a shopping day thought about what a catch-all thing it is. Here's what I find:
a coin purse, wallet, putty knife, spare key, car keys, several receipts, shopping notes, both expired and current, a dimmer switch.
Liz, can you top that? What's in your purse?

One day Matthew and I were walking home from school, when he starting frantically muttering a boy's name and dodging to each side of me, crouching as he did. At first I didn’t understand what was going on, but then I clued in. It takes a while sometimes. He was afraid the boy would see him and tease him. He told me that the boy teases him often. It was sad to see Matthew’s fear of him and that his fear so dominated his actions and where he felt was safe to walk. I told him it would be okay, and tried to see who it was for future reference as well as to know how to best make Matthew feel safe and “shielded”.

We are all children inside. We think we have grown up and are “mature” and know how to deal with life, conflict, teasing. To be honest, I don’t know if we really have grown up or if we’ve just changed some of the “game”. The stakes seem high as an adult. It’s still difficult to cope in when we see or experience “playground tactics”. It reminds me that we are human through to the end, and that in reality the sin of the fall is still prevalent in this human existence.

"To you who are ready for the truth, I say this: Love your enemies. Let them bring out the best in you, not the worst. When someone gives you a hard time, respond with the energies of prayer for that person. If someone slaps you in the face, stand there and take it. If someone grabs your shirt, gift-wrap your best coat and make a present of it. If someone takes unfair advantage of you, use the occasion to practice the servant life. No more tit-for-tat stuff. Live generously.” (Luke 6:27-30.)

Mom told me that this Sunday her pastor preached on praying for “your enemies”. I don’t think I can totally understand that term, but I have my own application of the principle. I didn’t like hearing her say it, in a way. I know it’s true, but sometimes I struggle with wanting to pray when I’m hurt. You see, I feel that prayer is primarily for my heart. It has been my experience that it works in me by softening me toward whomever I’m praying for. And let’s face it, sometimes soft isn’t what we want. We want to be RIGHT. We want to pray with an agenda – that bloody control thing again. And we’re not always right (hard to believe, but really…its true). I can’t pray with an agenda in my life. I gave it up years ago because it never worked out. When I pray then, since I can’t tell God what to do, I pray that He will be with the person along their journey. How can I pray that without caring for and loving them? Can you see the dilemma, when my natural instinct is not to love them?

I’m not there right now. Maybe first I need to pray for myself. “God, bring me to the point where I can pray for these others. Soften me enough to at least be able to get to that level before I get to where I should be. Open me slowly, instead of not opening me at all. Amen.”

Matthew and I are having a lazy day. After he came home from school I let him play on the computer for a while. For him that's still a treat. Then I decided to pick up the paintball game (I know, you're surprised) and we sat beside each other, him playing the computer game, me playing the paintball game. I wasn't going to quit until I got to Level 3!
Pardon me for a station break. Matthew just shot me in the back with a suction arrow. Okay, now he licked the suction arrow and shot the newly cleaned window with it. Gob on the window...yummy. Let me move him over to the electronic piano with headphones. He loves making the organ sound like a haunted house. Ah, there we are. Back to our regular scheduled programming.
So, as we're playing our respected games, Matthew turns for a moment and watches me pick off all the players that were somersaulting through the woods. Man, the girls move slow, and are easy targets. Stereotypical. Matthew says to me "You do well for a mother." Not sure I heard the last part right I said "What?" He said "You do well for a mother who doesn't know how to play paintball.
Man, I wish this game had the capacity to play with two people at once. I'd smoke his butt.

If you've found my posts to be trivial as of late, I'm sorry. There are things rattling around in my brain that need to come out, but I'm massaging them with time. For now, the new book is a great topic. It contains great advice on interpersonal relationships, such as the quote below.

The Art of Avoiding Conversation

Here are 5 Survival Tips on how to keep a marriage smoking long after the fire has gone out.
• Be very quiet when she’s talking. If she stops talking, always wait a full minute before speaking: she may not be finished.
• Do not change the subject. Even if you have to speak first, you can usually figure out what she wants to talk about. For example, if she’s trying to clean an oil stain on the kitchen floor, she probably wants to talk about you trying to fix the lawnmower in the sink.
• Watch her body language. Alter what you’re saying in response to what she does. If she stops doing her nails and starts sharpening a knife, it’s time for you to do a 180.
• Maintain eye contact. If you can’t see her eyes, you have no idea how things are going. If you’re working on the car and she asks you about plans for the weekend, take the time to roll out on the creeper so you can see her response rather than just yelling, “I’m going fishing with Bob. I told you that last week” from under the car. Remember: she has access to heavy tools and the lower half of your body is exposed. Always maintain eye contact. Don’t have conversations in the dark and don’t talk to your wife on the telephone unless you’re a professional.
• Keep you sentences short. Five words maximum. That allows you to change directions quickly if it’s not going well. You can say “Unless” or “But” or “Whatever.” Short sentences give her a chance to talk. Which is what you want. You want the conversation to go her way. It’s not about success. It’s about survival.

I bought Matthew some new toys this weekend. He picked out a TV game called "Mission Paint Ball". Everywhere he has been going he's been bragging about having this game. He usually starts by saying "Do you have Mission Paintball? I do." Yesterday he couldn't wait to play it. He kept getting paintballed and kicked out of the game, and every time he did he would exclaim "Man, I'm good at this game." I picked it up when he had gone to bed, and wasn't quite as proud of my handiwork. It was getting to me, so after he went to school I plugged it in and didn't quit until I passed Level 1. LEVEL ONE! It shouldn't be hard. I am game challenged (I wonder if there's a support group for that). Tonight before Matthew's bed I told him to put his game away, then quickly rephrased. "Uh, is it okay if I play your game when you're in bed?" He said yes...phew. Otherwise I would have to sneak it out of his closet after he fell asleep.
After the support group for people who can't play TV games I may need T.V.G.A. No, that's not certified general accountant. That's TV Games Anonymous.
Now don't bug me. I need to go play so I can get past Level 2!

For many years I never had a favorite colour or number. I always root for the underdogs, so to have a favorite something would mean another thing was an underdog. Weird, hey? Like colours and numbers have feelings?
I now realize that I (probably) have a favorite flower. A couple actually. One is the Bird of Paradise. The most favorite though are lilies. They come in a few shapes and colours, most of them vibrant. I'm reminded of the words of Jesus, recorded in Matthew 6:25-34:
Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more important than food, and the body more important than clothes? Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to his life?
And why do you worry about clothes? See how the lilies of the field grow. They do not labor or spin. Yet I tell you that not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these. If that is how God clothes the grass of the field, which is here today and tomorrow is thrown into the fire, will he not much more clothe you, O you of little faith? So do not worry, saying, 'What shall we eat?' or 'What shall we drink?' or 'What shall we wear?' For the pagans run after all these things, and your heavenly Father knows that you need them. But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well. Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.

Make a joyful noise to the Lord all the earth
Make a joyful noise to the Lord all the earth
Make a joyful noise to the Lord all the earth
Make a joyful noise to the Lord all the earth

The flowers of the field are crying to be heard
The trees of the forest are singing
And all of the mountains with one voice
Are joining the chorus of this world
Oh, yeah
Oh, yeah

And I will not be silent, no
And I will not be quiet anymore

Running through the forest
Dive into the lake
Bare feet on beaches white
Standing on the canyon
Painted hills around
And the wind against my skin

Every ocean, every sea
Every river, every stream
Every mountain, every tree
Every blade of grass will sing

Make a joyful noise to the Lord all the earth
Make a joyful noise to the Lord all the earth
Make a joyful noise to the Lord all the earth
Make a joyful noise to the Lord all the earth

©1993 Mercy / Vineyard Publishing
Words and Music by Terry Butler / David Crowder

I'm reminiscing about singing this song in church, letting it rip on "I will not be silent". Sigh....

Cable is hooked up, and ready to go. It was a nice break, but back to the computer world.
Tonight I bought a book. Yep...me...bought a book. It's been a long time. I used to enjoy reading, but the last 15 years reading puts me to sleep. I read the same text over and over, thinking of other things while I scan the words, none of them registering in my brain. But when I do read, it's intellectual stuff. The Case for Christ, Byzantium, books on Grace. This latest purchase is equally intellectual, and I need to make sure I pace myself. Here it is:


214 pages, each one containing a photograph. Could take me a long time!

There won't be any posts until at least Friday. I forgot to get the cable company to transfer my cable/internet services. Borrowed someone else's for this. Stay tuned on the weekend!