With the growing season underway, we've been stepping up our Amishing around the neighborhood, buying onions and strawberries and other delicacies from their local roadside stands.
One day I decided to give back, just a little. I planted dozens of tomato seeds this winter, with seedling mortality in mind -- but all of them flourished, and I wound up with many more than what I needed. So when we went on our weekly round of the farms, we stopped at a couple of the visibly poorer farms and asked the ladies of the house if they'd mind taking our extra tomato plants.
The reaction was interesting. "What do you want for them?" both women immediately asked, frowning.
I explained our predicament. "We don't want anything," I said. "You're doing us a favor. And we're thanking you for all the good food we get here."
That broke the air of formality in both households, and we had some enjoyable discussions about tomato husbandry and farming in general. The women seemed a little surprised, and approving, that I'd started the plants from seed, and wanted to know if they were heirlooms or hybrids. (I always feel woefully incompetent in survival skills when I deal with the Amish, so it was frankly satisfying to show off my modestly green thumb.)
Afterward FT noted, "I wonder why we get more out of our relationships with our Amish neighbors than the 'English' ones."
We live in a community where people with life competency of any kind are in short supply -- long gone, thanks to Michigan's protracted economic doldrums -- so our 'English' neighbors tend to be, as our friends in social services say, lacking in coping mechanisms and a support network...fancy talk for My Big Fucked-Up Redneck Life. And, ironically, as gay folks, even though we know we'd not be accepted in Amish society, we also seem to have a common set of detractors and harassers -- fundamentalists and good ol' boys, both groups possessing a dangerous mixture of ignorance, inferiority complex, entitlement mentality and xenophobia. When we see a group of 20-somethings in a pickup truck trying to run an Amish buggy off the road, or read hysterical screeds by fundamentalist pastors bleating on about saving the Amish from the dangers and dysfunctions of their "cult," we nod and think, We get that too.
At the same time we hold no idealistic allusions about Amish society. We understand that their community is not immune from spousal and child abuse, addiction, out-of-control teenagers and the vagaries of an economy that affects even these most self-sufficient of people. We obviously have difference of opinion about everything from gender roles to the wise use of technology.And looking at the Amish through my Lutheran lenses, I might point out that, no matter how "called out" from the world Christians might presume to be, we're all still sinners, and no amount of good-works points is going to change that. Despite the grace I see in their actions, I don't always see a lot of grace in their theology.
But -- we still like 'em. We just do. And we love the kids, who -- unlike the sort of Stepford fundamentalist-homeschool kids I've encountered, or the jaded, prematurely "adulted" and technology-numbed children of the rest of the neighborhood -- actually act like kids; like the little boy who played hide-and-seek with us around his parents' roadside stand, or our furniture-maker friends' toddler daughter who, while we were talking bidness with Dad, was trying unsuccessfully to write on a bemused family dog with an ink pen, or the self-assured tweenage counter girl at the Amish bakery who, taking a marketing cue from McDonald's, always goes for an extra sell: "If you like that bread, maybe you'd like some cinnamon rolls too."
Our corner of Michigan may not be the hippest or the most scenic or the most historic. But our Amish community helps make it a better place to live.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Loving the Neighbors
Fellow Traveler and I have friends, a lesbian couple in their sixties and seventies respectively, who live a few miles down the road from us; FT met them at a neighborhood Christmas party shortly after moving to this area. The two live in a household I'll call Dysfunction Junction, a remodeled trailer on the edge of a river.
How can I describe this couple? They remind me of characters in a 1950's lesbian pulp novel, all growed up but still dressing and acting according to the Sisterhood's script of those times; think tough girls in jeans with a pack of Camels rolled into their T-shirt sleeve. Each has a past that she seems extremely reluctant to talk about. One partner has numerous health problems and hasn't worked for years; the other, younger partner has worked for years at a physically as well as emotionally punishing nearly-minimum-wage job. They've also been caregivers to two live-in invalid parents, although they seem to have burned bridges with many of their other family members -- including their children.
The two dwell in a cloud of blue cigarette smoke, so much so that we literally can't visit their home for more than a few minutes at a time before FT is sent into an asthma attack.They operate in a state of perpetual personal and household disshevelment; on the margins in a multiplicity of ways. They cycle through doomed money-making schemes; financial crises; caregiving problems; health issues; simultaneously exploitative and exploited "friends" who come and go. We in turn lose track of them for months at a time; then they'll call asking for help of some kind, or wanting to borrow some tool or appliance from us (that is inevitably lost or broken) and we'll briefly get involved in their lives again...until, once more, their neediness begins to overwhelm us.
A few weeks ago, after months of not hearing from them, one of the partners appeared on our doorstep. This time it wasn't about borrowing a saw. She told us that the other partner had been diagnosed with a large, inoperable tumor in her lung, and was about to undergo chemotherapy. She sank down into our sofa and, blinking away tears, began unloading about her partner's illness; problems with her live-in parent; loss of an elderly friend; her overwhelming physical and emotional fatigue and worries about money.
So here we are again, trying to help this couple without becoming completely sucked into the vortex of their household trials. We said we could help take the sick partner to chemotherapy once or twice a week. Knowing how difficult it was for the well partner to make meals for the household -- the sick partner tended to be the family cook, but is now too weak to do that -- we decided we'd make food for them once a week; enough for a good meal and leftovers. FT, who has facility with computers, offered to help fix their computer so that the sick partner can maintain some contact with her family through e-mail.
Yesterday we dropped by to pick up the computer. The ill partner, who just finished her first round of chemotherapy, met us at the door, ashen-faced, surrounded by a pack of yapping toy dogs (the result of a failed let's-make-money-selling-puppies Grand Plan, plus a rescue dog, plus Mama's dog). She let us in, then pulled me aside amid the chaos of the dogs and the durch-und-unter of the tiny living space and the vacantly cheerful, nonverbal mother-in-law who spends the day just sitting at the kitchen table.
"I need some spiritual guidance," she said. "I've been trying to pray. I pray an act of contrition and and Our Father every night. And I've been doing some bargaining with God too. But...I'm just really scared right now."
I can't remember exactly how I responded to her; something about how every prayer is a good prayer and to just keep talking to God; some sort of unnerved, caught-off-guard church-geek gibberish. I also told her to call me if she just needed to talk or wanted me to come over.
It's a daunting thought, being asked to provide the closest thing to pastoral care that this lady is willing to accept.. I had my Moses/Peter moment: "Um, no, God, you really don't want me to do this job. Because deep, deep down I'm shallow; too shallow to walk the valley of the shadow with anyone. You want someone with spiritual chops; not me." But now that I've had a day to think and pray about it, I know that I am being called to carry Christ, somehow, into the life of this individual. How that happens...well, we'll see.
How can I describe this couple? They remind me of characters in a 1950's lesbian pulp novel, all growed up but still dressing and acting according to the Sisterhood's script of those times; think tough girls in jeans with a pack of Camels rolled into their T-shirt sleeve. Each has a past that she seems extremely reluctant to talk about. One partner has numerous health problems and hasn't worked for years; the other, younger partner has worked for years at a physically as well as emotionally punishing nearly-minimum-wage job. They've also been caregivers to two live-in invalid parents, although they seem to have burned bridges with many of their other family members -- including their children.
The two dwell in a cloud of blue cigarette smoke, so much so that we literally can't visit their home for more than a few minutes at a time before FT is sent into an asthma attack.They operate in a state of perpetual personal and household disshevelment; on the margins in a multiplicity of ways. They cycle through doomed money-making schemes; financial crises; caregiving problems; health issues; simultaneously exploitative and exploited "friends" who come and go. We in turn lose track of them for months at a time; then they'll call asking for help of some kind, or wanting to borrow some tool or appliance from us (that is inevitably lost or broken) and we'll briefly get involved in their lives again...until, once more, their neediness begins to overwhelm us.
A few weeks ago, after months of not hearing from them, one of the partners appeared on our doorstep. This time it wasn't about borrowing a saw. She told us that the other partner had been diagnosed with a large, inoperable tumor in her lung, and was about to undergo chemotherapy. She sank down into our sofa and, blinking away tears, began unloading about her partner's illness; problems with her live-in parent; loss of an elderly friend; her overwhelming physical and emotional fatigue and worries about money.
So here we are again, trying to help this couple without becoming completely sucked into the vortex of their household trials. We said we could help take the sick partner to chemotherapy once or twice a week. Knowing how difficult it was for the well partner to make meals for the household -- the sick partner tended to be the family cook, but is now too weak to do that -- we decided we'd make food for them once a week; enough for a good meal and leftovers. FT, who has facility with computers, offered to help fix their computer so that the sick partner can maintain some contact with her family through e-mail.
Yesterday we dropped by to pick up the computer. The ill partner, who just finished her first round of chemotherapy, met us at the door, ashen-faced, surrounded by a pack of yapping toy dogs (the result of a failed let's-make-money-selling-puppies Grand Plan, plus a rescue dog, plus Mama's dog). She let us in, then pulled me aside amid the chaos of the dogs and the durch-und-unter of the tiny living space and the vacantly cheerful, nonverbal mother-in-law who spends the day just sitting at the kitchen table.
"I need some spiritual guidance," she said. "I've been trying to pray. I pray an act of contrition and and Our Father every night. And I've been doing some bargaining with God too. But...I'm just really scared right now."
I can't remember exactly how I responded to her; something about how every prayer is a good prayer and to just keep talking to God; some sort of unnerved, caught-off-guard church-geek gibberish. I also told her to call me if she just needed to talk or wanted me to come over.
It's a daunting thought, being asked to provide the closest thing to pastoral care that this lady is willing to accept.. I had my Moses/Peter moment: "Um, no, God, you really don't want me to do this job. Because deep, deep down I'm shallow; too shallow to walk the valley of the shadow with anyone. You want someone with spiritual chops; not me." But now that I've had a day to think and pray about it, I know that I am being called to carry Christ, somehow, into the life of this individual. How that happens...well, we'll see.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Affliction
Tonight we're attending what's being called a retirement picnic for one of my fellow lay ministers -- an "excellent woman," as they say, in her seventies who was a pillar of our congregation decades before going through the Lay Ministry Training Program. A little (okay...a lot) opinionated and stubborn and set in her ways...but an invaluable part of the church family; a lady who can terrify you if you fail on some point of church protocol, but who prays every single day for each of the names on our lengthy church prayer list, and who helped hold our faith community together during dark days in the late '80's and early '90's when its viability as a congregation was questionable on a week-to-week basis.
Shortly after being commissioned, this lady was diagnosed with MS. In the years that have ensued, she has faced down this foe with the same mixture of faith and cussedness that's earned her the rank of matriarch in our church. When her legs grew unsteady she (with much grumbling) began using a footed cane, then a wheeled walker, on her Sundays as assisting minister. When she was having a bad day and coudn't count on enough strength to make it through an entire service, she reluctantly allowed others on the team to help. Meanwhile, she defied her adult children at every turn when it came to driving or working in her yard. "They think they're the boss of me," she'd confide to a sympathetic listener. "I'm just going to do what I want to do." And that's the attitude she's had toward her illness in general.
This past month, though, on a weekend when FT and I were out of town, we heard that our matriarch had taken a bad spill while assisting during the service, and had decided that enough was enough; she was bowing out of the lay ministry team.
This is an added sadness in a year when a double share of life-threatening illnesses have been dealt to our little congregation and community and wider circle of church friends. It's made me, particularly in these perimenopausal days, start thinking more about my own mortality, and priorities, and it's made me more impatient with the petty issues that junk up the life of the Church. When I hear someone going on about The Troubles in the ELCA or the color of the Communion wine or some line item in a church council meeting, I want to shake them and say, "There are people in our congregation who are fighting for their lives every single day -- and you want me to care about this? Are you ******* serious? What is the matter with you?" Although I suspect the matter is the same nervous whistling in the dark that keeps us all distracted from what's real and immediate and painful and scary.
So, anyway, we're toting two Amish pies to the picnic tonight, where we will thank our friend for her service and wish her well in the newest iteration of her ministry to our church.
Shortly after being commissioned, this lady was diagnosed with MS. In the years that have ensued, she has faced down this foe with the same mixture of faith and cussedness that's earned her the rank of matriarch in our church. When her legs grew unsteady she (with much grumbling) began using a footed cane, then a wheeled walker, on her Sundays as assisting minister. When she was having a bad day and coudn't count on enough strength to make it through an entire service, she reluctantly allowed others on the team to help. Meanwhile, she defied her adult children at every turn when it came to driving or working in her yard. "They think they're the boss of me," she'd confide to a sympathetic listener. "I'm just going to do what I want to do." And that's the attitude she's had toward her illness in general.
This past month, though, on a weekend when FT and I were out of town, we heard that our matriarch had taken a bad spill while assisting during the service, and had decided that enough was enough; she was bowing out of the lay ministry team.
This is an added sadness in a year when a double share of life-threatening illnesses have been dealt to our little congregation and community and wider circle of church friends. It's made me, particularly in these perimenopausal days, start thinking more about my own mortality, and priorities, and it's made me more impatient with the petty issues that junk up the life of the Church. When I hear someone going on about The Troubles in the ELCA or the color of the Communion wine or some line item in a church council meeting, I want to shake them and say, "There are people in our congregation who are fighting for their lives every single day -- and you want me to care about this? Are you ******* serious? What is the matter with you?" Although I suspect the matter is the same nervous whistling in the dark that keeps us all distracted from what's real and immediate and painful and scary.
So, anyway, we're toting two Amish pies to the picnic tonight, where we will thank our friend for her service and wish her well in the newest iteration of her ministry to our church.
Friday Five: It's Summertime!
An easy, light and breezy RevGalBlogPals Friday Five this week -- name our five favorite things about summer.
1. The light. I covet the sunlight of summer all year long...waking up in the morning light only to discover that it's 6:00 a.m., then working and playing hard all day in anticipation of the sunset, only to realize that it's now bedtime.
2. The food. I'm sorry, but wintertime's styrofoam-flavored out-of-season vegetables imported from God knows where can never compare to a sun-ripened berry just off the vine, or a fresh cob of corn five minutes from stalk to steaming pot, or a juicy tomato pilfered from the garden at midday.
3. The out-of-doors. As pretty and as exhilarating as a winter day can be -- most of us can only take so much of it outside. Not so during the summer. (Especially for those of us with shady patios or porches.)
4. The evenings. One of our favorite things to do this time of year is head out on a mini road trip after supper -- just drive down country roads where the trees meet overhead, watch the farmers finishing up their haying for the day, enjoy the colors of sundown. Or we sit on the patio with some iced tea, or wine, and review the day.
5. The water. This is ironic coming from a non-swimmer -- but I love the water. I love still-fishing on the edge of a lake, listening to the waves wash up on the beach; I love rivers in the summer, with the lush riparian flora and an occasional flash of fish.
Bonus: Thing I don't like about summer: Apart from the bittersweetness of the solstice itself -- it all goes downhill from here, lightwise, until the end of December -- I never feel comfortable in summer clothing; it always feels too binding, even in khaki shorts and oversized T-shirts.
Another bonus: Best ad campaign ever: Every time I see a "Pure Michigan" travel ad on TV I want to drop everything and head up north to Crystal Lake or the Leelanau or Taquamenon Falls. I was delighted to see these running in New York when we stayed with The Kids. Please, out-of-staters -- we need hybrid vigor and skills here; consider relocating; or at least visit and spend some money:
1. The light. I covet the sunlight of summer all year long...waking up in the morning light only to discover that it's 6:00 a.m., then working and playing hard all day in anticipation of the sunset, only to realize that it's now bedtime.
2. The food. I'm sorry, but wintertime's styrofoam-flavored out-of-season vegetables imported from God knows where can never compare to a sun-ripened berry just off the vine, or a fresh cob of corn five minutes from stalk to steaming pot, or a juicy tomato pilfered from the garden at midday.
3. The out-of-doors. As pretty and as exhilarating as a winter day can be -- most of us can only take so much of it outside. Not so during the summer. (Especially for those of us with shady patios or porches.)
4. The evenings. One of our favorite things to do this time of year is head out on a mini road trip after supper -- just drive down country roads where the trees meet overhead, watch the farmers finishing up their haying for the day, enjoy the colors of sundown. Or we sit on the patio with some iced tea, or wine, and review the day.
5. The water. This is ironic coming from a non-swimmer -- but I love the water. I love still-fishing on the edge of a lake, listening to the waves wash up on the beach; I love rivers in the summer, with the lush riparian flora and an occasional flash of fish.
Bonus: Thing I don't like about summer: Apart from the bittersweetness of the solstice itself -- it all goes downhill from here, lightwise, until the end of December -- I never feel comfortable in summer clothing; it always feels too binding, even in khaki shorts and oversized T-shirts.
Another bonus: Best ad campaign ever: Every time I see a "Pure Michigan" travel ad on TV I want to drop everything and head up north to Crystal Lake or the Leelanau or Taquamenon Falls. I was delighted to see these running in New York when we stayed with The Kids. Please, out-of-staters -- we need hybrid vigor and skills here; consider relocating; or at least visit and spend some money:
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Question Time
Several weeks ago, in an effort to step up the content of our church blog, I began a series called "Worship Whys," where readers could submit questions about Lutheran worship.
Perhaps predictably, the first week no one responded until the last minute; and I suspect that was a mercy question from our pastor or a friend of mine. Our people are not communicators, and they also have a fear of standing out that may override the anonymity of blog comboxes.
Things picked up a bit in the weeks thereafter. We got some questions that sounded as if they were penned by unwilling young catechumens -- "Do you have to be confirmed?"...whinge a little as you read that aloud -- as well as a series of questions from someone who sounded like a lost Baptist who'd stumbled on our blog by mistake. Fellow Traveler, who is not a Lutheran by birth, also submitted a couple of very good questions.
I knew the feature had finally arrived, so to speak, this week, when a new questioner -- someone obviously a part of our congregation -- asked, "Why is apple [sic] juice a Communion option when it's supposed to be the Blood of Christ...and who the HELL picks out the hymns?" As FT notes, once you take the snark out of them, they're good questions. So I was happy to respond to them.
It's risky to begin an FAQ service in a church, for the same reason that it's risky to put up a suggestion box in a workplace: It's can become a vehicle for a lot of whiny passive aggression. On the other hand -- we might actually be teaching our people something. And there's not always the time or opportunity in the course of a church service to accomplish the same thing. So Worship Whys is staying on the schedule for the time being. And I'm actually looking forward to more cranky questions; because it means that people are reading the answers.
Perhaps predictably, the first week no one responded until the last minute; and I suspect that was a mercy question from our pastor or a friend of mine. Our people are not communicators, and they also have a fear of standing out that may override the anonymity of blog comboxes.
Things picked up a bit in the weeks thereafter. We got some questions that sounded as if they were penned by unwilling young catechumens -- "Do you have to be confirmed?"...whinge a little as you read that aloud -- as well as a series of questions from someone who sounded like a lost Baptist who'd stumbled on our blog by mistake. Fellow Traveler, who is not a Lutheran by birth, also submitted a couple of very good questions.
I knew the feature had finally arrived, so to speak, this week, when a new questioner -- someone obviously a part of our congregation -- asked, "Why is apple [sic] juice a Communion option when it's supposed to be the Blood of Christ...and who the HELL picks out the hymns?" As FT notes, once you take the snark out of them, they're good questions. So I was happy to respond to them.
It's risky to begin an FAQ service in a church, for the same reason that it's risky to put up a suggestion box in a workplace: It's can become a vehicle for a lot of whiny passive aggression. On the other hand -- we might actually be teaching our people something. And there's not always the time or opportunity in the course of a church service to accomplish the same thing. So Worship Whys is staying on the schedule for the time being. And I'm actually looking forward to more cranky questions; because it means that people are reading the answers.
Wild Hares
I need badly to get outside and do things. Our last trees of the season arrived yesterday -- a pair of sourwoods and a Carolina silverbell -- plus a native autumn clematis vine, all of which need replanting somewhere in our increasingly crowded wood margin. And I'm behind on some of my succession planting plans, and in starting some perennial flowers for next year.
Amid this retrogressive two-step, though, I have developed a number of what Fellow Traveler calls wild hares...you know, those sudden new interests; those odd, persistent promptings to do some new thing.
I've always had a thing for magnificent obsessions. One year, as a child, it was learning shorthand from my mother's old high school textbook. (Not terribly successful.) Another year it was stamped embroidery and rick-rack lace. Then I become completely engrossed in poultry raising. As an adult, I went through The Year of Knitting and The Year of Self-Help Psychology and The Year of Two-Mile Walks and the Year of Making Cakes From Scratch.
Here are a two of my latest wild hares:
Going to the library. I used to be a library geek, even in our book-deprived community. I used to take out a half-dozen books at once and read them all in a weekend. (And then forget to return them; I hope the library board have invested my fines in some fund for a future expansion.) Then my mom died. Then I met Fellow Traveler. Then I got busy. And I forgot about reading books. Wow; I can't believe I just typed that; but I did. This summer, though, I want to read some books, just to read them. The other day we were talking about antiques, and I remember how my aunt used to find interesting old books in secondhand stores -- books that sold for a dime, or by the foot -- and read them. I'm interested in reading a couple of those -- jackets long gone, covers faded, signed in fountain pen on the inside by some long-gone owner. Maybe a travelogue, or a treatise on botany or beekeeping, or one of those progressive novels for girls featuring a plucky heroine defying convention by tenting with the Campfire Girls or going off to college. That and a book by a Michigan author. Traverse magazine's latest issue has a list of 30 beach reads by Michigan authors; that might be a starting point.
Mosaics. We spent many weekend afternoons last year learning how to work with stained glass. Fellow Traveler loves this. I love the look of it, and there are parts of the process (like grinding) that I enjoy and think I do fairly well...but I don't have FT's ambition to launch into a full-bodied, serious art project in this medium -- because frankly I don't think I'm good enough. If I'm going to fail, let me fail with some fairly small, low-investment objet d'art. But the other Sunday we took an afternoon trip to our stained glass instructor's shop for some supplies, and while we were there I found myself attracted to the mosaics in progress in her classroom; someone was in the process of covering a cement replica of the "Bird Girl" statue made famous on the cover of Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, and I marveled at the tiny bits of stained glass the student was carefully placing on the statue. Then in a book I saw a mosaic patio table using bits of broken china and other colorful tiles, and a mosaic bird feeder made out of a basic $10 pine model covered in ceramic pieces and flat-backed marbles. I can do that, I thought. Not only can I do that, but I can do it using the rather large amount of scrap glass generated by other stained glass work.
I have strangled other wild hares. My interest in terraria, for instance, died a-borning, mostly because I realized we don't have adequate natural light in our home for most houseplants of any kind, and no spot in our living areas that would really do such a project justice. I also experienced a momentary interest in making cheese -- you know, like Martha Stewart telling us that homemade mozzarella is "quite easy and fun" -- but after coming to from that patio reverie I had to remind myself that, no, what I really like doing is eating artisanal cheese.
I haven't had any church-related wild hares of late...ironically, the more involved I am in lay ministry the less proactive and innovative I want to be. My pastor and a couple of other folks want me to lead Bible study Sunday mornings, and I've enjoyed the couple of times I've led Bible studies for our quilters' group during our pastor's recuperation from heart surgery; but my reaction to the sample Book of Faith Bible study we ordered was a big "Meh," and flashbacks to my mind-numbing experiences sitting in on Navigator Bible studies in my college dorm.
We'll see what becomes of the hares bouncing around in my brain this summer.
Thursday, June 03, 2010
The Joy of Not Working
I'm writing this on a cold, wet, sinus-swelling day here in mid-Michigan, after a quick walk outside to inspect the grounds (those last stubborn holly seedlings are still resisting greening out, but dum spiro, spero), and to quickly pop a four-pack of sweet williams into the new perennial bed before they became too sodden in their plastic container. Earlier this morning I wrote a review of Sunday's lessons, with questions for reflection, for our church blog. When I'm done with this post I might wander into the kitchen and clean up a straggle of evening dishes before they begin to multiply in worrisome ways.
It's a slow day, by both choice and circumstance. But as I sit here I am filled with gratitude for the opportunity to have a slow day, in a way I didn't have when I was working for a paycheck.
What would I have done on a day like this back in the old office -- a day where I didn't feel on my game either physically or mentally? Probably a lot of purposeful action with little work product actually being done, and some surreptitious Web-surfing and subsequent self-guilting in between.
So it's a blessing, even as I'm swallowing my Advil, to enjoy the freedom of a dark, dreary day where not a lot gets done, without the looming presence of multiple bosses and incoming assignments from other people.
That's one thing. And I'm also blessed to be able to (when weather finally permits) engage in some heavy, sweaty, grunt-inducing physical labor. Who needs a weight room when pounds of soil await moving outside? Who needs special flexibility exercises when there are seeds and seedlings that must be planted, and unruly growth that must be pruned? And it's labor that results in a tangible, seeable, living result; unlike years of PR pitchmanship on the sinking boat of increasingly irrelevant social services -- services that most of the intended recipients emphatically don't want.
So my days have a rhythm and a purpose even without a timeclock. I usually work on the church blog and its Facebook companion very early in the morning -- I'll occasionally work on drafts for other days of the week, but I haven't really gotten into multitasking here. Then FT and I have morning coffee and breakfast together and informally review the day ahead. Mondays, and sometimes another day each week, we go to church for a half day; FT works on church software issues while I check phone messages or work on my own church-related tasks. Oftentimes we pair our "church day" up with grocery shopping, since church brings us a few miles closer to Midland, or we go visit FT's elderly, infirm aunt and uncle, and help them with a few outdoor chores. We come home and do household and outdoor work. In the early evening we like to take a family "ride" around this or that neighborhood, a ritual that we tell ourselves if for the benefit of our easily bored dog but is really about spending quality time together. FT paid a profound personal price to earn the freedom of this kind of life; but we're so thankful that we can live it.
We never don't have anything to do. The other day we were wondering how we managed when I was working 40 hours a week. And we have some big projects looming ahead, most notably finishing up work on our garage office and really, truly getting started on working with our stained glass, instead of playing around at the edges of this pastime; and, next year, getting our honeybees.
I think about looking for a paying job again -- not this summer or even fall, because our schedule is too full to attempt a new job, but sometime. I worry, not about our current living expenses, but about the future, and also about keeping my skill set sharp. I'm frankly not sure I want a job, as they say, "commensurate with my education and experience"; that's the phrase that keeps getting me into situations where my job winds up eating my life. This old dog is willing to either learn a new trick or to keep busy in some non-status-laden, non-high-commitment position; a job I can truly leave behind when I go home. (Are there even any such things left -- status-laden, high-commitment jobs?)
But in the meantime I'm happy to "chop wood and carry water" in our own little world of work here.
It's a slow day, by both choice and circumstance. But as I sit here I am filled with gratitude for the opportunity to have a slow day, in a way I didn't have when I was working for a paycheck.
What would I have done on a day like this back in the old office -- a day where I didn't feel on my game either physically or mentally? Probably a lot of purposeful action with little work product actually being done, and some surreptitious Web-surfing and subsequent self-guilting in between.
So it's a blessing, even as I'm swallowing my Advil, to enjoy the freedom of a dark, dreary day where not a lot gets done, without the looming presence of multiple bosses and incoming assignments from other people.
That's one thing. And I'm also blessed to be able to (when weather finally permits) engage in some heavy, sweaty, grunt-inducing physical labor. Who needs a weight room when pounds of soil await moving outside? Who needs special flexibility exercises when there are seeds and seedlings that must be planted, and unruly growth that must be pruned? And it's labor that results in a tangible, seeable, living result; unlike years of PR pitchmanship on the sinking boat of increasingly irrelevant social services -- services that most of the intended recipients emphatically don't want.
So my days have a rhythm and a purpose even without a timeclock. I usually work on the church blog and its Facebook companion very early in the morning -- I'll occasionally work on drafts for other days of the week, but I haven't really gotten into multitasking here. Then FT and I have morning coffee and breakfast together and informally review the day ahead. Mondays, and sometimes another day each week, we go to church for a half day; FT works on church software issues while I check phone messages or work on my own church-related tasks. Oftentimes we pair our "church day" up with grocery shopping, since church brings us a few miles closer to Midland, or we go visit FT's elderly, infirm aunt and uncle, and help them with a few outdoor chores. We come home and do household and outdoor work. In the early evening we like to take a family "ride" around this or that neighborhood, a ritual that we tell ourselves if for the benefit of our easily bored dog but is really about spending quality time together. FT paid a profound personal price to earn the freedom of this kind of life; but we're so thankful that we can live it.
We never don't have anything to do. The other day we were wondering how we managed when I was working 40 hours a week. And we have some big projects looming ahead, most notably finishing up work on our garage office and really, truly getting started on working with our stained glass, instead of playing around at the edges of this pastime; and, next year, getting our honeybees.
I think about looking for a paying job again -- not this summer or even fall, because our schedule is too full to attempt a new job, but sometime. I worry, not about our current living expenses, but about the future, and also about keeping my skill set sharp. I'm frankly not sure I want a job, as they say, "commensurate with my education and experience"; that's the phrase that keeps getting me into situations where my job winds up eating my life. This old dog is willing to either learn a new trick or to keep busy in some non-status-laden, non-high-commitment position; a job I can truly leave behind when I go home. (Are there even any such things left -- status-laden, high-commitment jobs?)
But in the meantime I'm happy to "chop wood and carry water" in our own little world of work here.
Tuesday, June 01, 2010
Talking to Trees
Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, "Grow...grow." -- Talmud
I found myself doing just that bright and early this morning as I made a post-rainstorm inspection of our yard and the many seedlings I"ve been planting this spring.
This is part of what I call Project Bee Here Now: Enhancing the bee-sustainability of our property by planting species favored by honeybees for nectar and pollen. Yes, this is a long-haul project. (As we noted ruefully today, with the economy the way it is we may as well invest in the maintenance and aesthetics of our home, because people aren't exactly burning asphalt to relocate to our little burg.)
For the last two months I've scoured online nursery catalogs, extension-office tree-sale lists and other sources for inexpensive bee-friendly trees and shrubs. And I've purchased some: red osier dogwood; redbuds; basswood; ninebark; sumac; elderberry; buttonbush; highbush cranberry; winterberry, aka Michigan holly. Most of them have gone around the periphery of our yard or our backyard pond.
It's been very rewarding to watch the very unimpressive bare twigs of these seedlings suddenly sprout little green leaflets. But the holly -- a deciduous species, fairly common here in wetland areas and much beloved for its prolific orange-red berries in the wintertime -- has been a tough case.
I planted the hollies in a humus-y raised semicircular bed at the margin of our woods -- a neglected spot in the yard that until recently had been home to a few half-dead rhododendrons and a burgeoning colony of poison ivy. Those are gone now, after much effort, replaced by the hollies, a pair of pieris shrubs and some wildflowers; and for the past month I've been silently willing the leaves of the wispy holly twigs to emerge.
"Come on...grow," I'd wish each morning, staring disappointedly at the bare seedlings. "All the other seedlings are growing -- even the buttonbushes I stuck right in the pondwater. You're slacking off here. Grow. Please."
Then last week, after being awakened in the wee hours by our bored dog more interested in an outdoor romp than a morning constitutional, I trudged to the forlorn holly bed, expecting to be disappointed again and wondering what I might plant there instead. I focused my sleep-bleary eyes at a holly twig.
A tiny green leaf was protruding from the end.
"Yes!"
In the days to follow, four of the six seedlings have shown signs of life; green buds or full-blown leaves. I thought the last two twigs looked somehow bumpier today, but that might just be wishful thinking.
I found myself doing just that bright and early this morning as I made a post-rainstorm inspection of our yard and the many seedlings I"ve been planting this spring.
This is part of what I call Project Bee Here Now: Enhancing the bee-sustainability of our property by planting species favored by honeybees for nectar and pollen. Yes, this is a long-haul project. (As we noted ruefully today, with the economy the way it is we may as well invest in the maintenance and aesthetics of our home, because people aren't exactly burning asphalt to relocate to our little burg.)
For the last two months I've scoured online nursery catalogs, extension-office tree-sale lists and other sources for inexpensive bee-friendly trees and shrubs. And I've purchased some: red osier dogwood; redbuds; basswood; ninebark; sumac; elderberry; buttonbush; highbush cranberry; winterberry, aka Michigan holly. Most of them have gone around the periphery of our yard or our backyard pond.
It's been very rewarding to watch the very unimpressive bare twigs of these seedlings suddenly sprout little green leaflets. But the holly -- a deciduous species, fairly common here in wetland areas and much beloved for its prolific orange-red berries in the wintertime -- has been a tough case.
I planted the hollies in a humus-y raised semicircular bed at the margin of our woods -- a neglected spot in the yard that until recently had been home to a few half-dead rhododendrons and a burgeoning colony of poison ivy. Those are gone now, after much effort, replaced by the hollies, a pair of pieris shrubs and some wildflowers; and for the past month I've been silently willing the leaves of the wispy holly twigs to emerge.
"Come on...grow," I'd wish each morning, staring disappointedly at the bare seedlings. "All the other seedlings are growing -- even the buttonbushes I stuck right in the pondwater. You're slacking off here. Grow. Please."
Then last week, after being awakened in the wee hours by our bored dog more interested in an outdoor romp than a morning constitutional, I trudged to the forlorn holly bed, expecting to be disappointed again and wondering what I might plant there instead. I focused my sleep-bleary eyes at a holly twig.
A tiny green leaf was protruding from the end.
"Yes!"
In the days to follow, four of the six seedlings have shown signs of life; green buds or full-blown leaves. I thought the last two twigs looked somehow bumpier today, but that might just be wishful thinking.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Con-Evos and the ELCA
With the disclaimer that listening to a bunch of earnest, neo-Calvinist Intervarsity/Navigators-type men (they're always men) doing theology together is my idea of what hell's waiting room must be like...you can read what they think about ELCA Lutherans here and Internet Monk, specifically the comboxes attached to the series on problems with Evangelicalism (written by an Evangelical-to-ELCA fence-jumper) and the discussion of Lutheran baptismal theology (always good for a cagefight in them thar parts).
Actually, I think hell's waiting room would be more fun. Except maybe for the smelly BP executives dripping crude oil and dead fish over in the corner.
Actually, I think hell's waiting room would be more fun. Except maybe for the smelly BP executives dripping crude oil and dead fish over in the corner.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Trinity Sunday Mashup
Generally speaking our Worship Committee does an outstanding job, with very limited resources, in planning our music and other worship elements from week to week.Memorial Day weekend is always a conundrum, though, when patriotic glurge regularly collides with good theology; and this weekend Trinity Sunday made the mess even worse.
So we got "America the Beautiful" as a prelude, and -- argh -- "The Battle Hymn of the Republic" as a closing hymn.
I was assisting today, and after the last note of that hymn, when it was my turn to announce, "Go in peace and serve the Lord," I put a special emphasis on the word "Lord." I doubt anyone noticed, or if they did they probably attributed it to some sort of verbal tic; but it felt good.
Catching Up
So it's finally taken a bout of procrastination -- in this case, putting off trying to write about John Calvin for our church blog's regular "Saints Alive!" feature -- to get me to post here again.
I hope you're having a pleasant Memorial Day weekend. We spent a spontaneous two-day mini-vaycay up in the Leelanau, on what we told ourselves was a reconnaissance mission for The Kids to price wine for their Michigan-themed wedding in August; we began our journey home just as the weekenders' cars started multiplying in the opposite lane, and laughed at our good fortune all the way south. When we got back home I did some gardening; we went on a ride in the country yesterday evening and treated ourselves to ice cream; today we're going to grill some steak.
(Yes, I know; all part of that big, scary Gay Agenda. If you don't watch out your spouse or significant other may ask you some late afternoon if you'd like to go out for a sundae and a spin around the scenic back roads of your county, and then maybe you'll find yourselves taking a long weekend away, and pretty soon civilization as we know it will crumble into ruin.)
Meanwhile, though, we had to do something very difficult.
Four months ago, at the behest of our pastor, we met a woman he had encountered in the course of his volunteer first responder work. She was in her early 40's; had no family or friends in the area or even in the state; had gotten here through an abusive relationship with the father of her small child and wound up in a shelter; was in a custody fight for the child and had a constellation of other personal problems. Our pastor thought that she might benefit from the influence of strong, independent women who could give her a glimpse of an alternative to the sort of dysfunctional situations she seemed to be falling into with regularity. Her stated plan was to leave Michigan for her home state as soon as she could legally do so with her child; it sounded as if she had family there to help her make a new start, and the shelter (one of the best in the state) was setting up a plan to get her temporary housing and other assistance in the other state as soon as she arrived.
Because both Fellow Traveler and I have a tendency to fuzzify boundaries when we hear sad stories and wind up being taken advantage of, we set up some initial ground rules for ourselves when engaging with this person: We weren't going to give her cash, ever. We weren't going to invite her into our home. We weren't going to run errands for her. We were simply going to be friendly voices on the phone, giving her encouragement; and because she'd asked, we were going to take her to church with us, even though it meant getting up an hour earlier and driving to another county to fetch her and take her back. We even figured that we would make Sundays into an outing and treat the woman and her child to lunch. We'd been given a timeline of about a month and a half for her legal status to be resolved, so we thought that was a reasonable commitment of time and resources. We also consulted with our council members and discretionary-fund committee and came up with the means to send the woman and her child back to their home state as soon as she was legally able to leave. Our quilting ladies gave the little family a quilt to take home with them.
But after an initial month of what we had felt was a positive experience, this happy scenario of do-gooder do-bees and soon-to-be-vindicated mother-in-distress began to unravel, for a number of reasons; without going into detail, while we had enough background into this person's history to know that the situation was complicated, we suspected that another backstory was going on, concurrent to our having gotten involved, that we were not a party to. Meanwhile, the ex-boyfriend's attorney had managed to delay hearing dates, so our short-term commitment was stretching ever farther into the future. This began taking a toll on us, our good will, even our health; we'd get home from our Sunday odyssey and promptly fall asleep, exhausted just by dealing with her multidimensional neediness. This past Sunday was particularly stressful and troubling.
The woman had an important hearing this week, so we were surprised when she didn't call us to tell us what happened. We suspected it was bad news; but when we got ahold of her, she told us she'd been awarded joint custody and had been given permission to go back home with the child; the outcome she had consistently told us she'd wanted more than anything else and that the shelter, as far as we knew, had also been planning on. But now she was waffling: "I have to make some decisions...I may not go there right away..."
At that point both Fellow Traveler and I had had enough. So we told her that we had taken her about as far as we could; that if she were going to be living where she was for an extended length of time she needed to find a church home in that community, and that the staff there -- who'd invited her to their churches in the past -- would be a good resource. We told her that we weren't planning on breaking contact with her, that we wanted to hear from her about how she was doing, that we wished her well, but that we simply couldn't maintain the weekly schedule of driving her back and forth. She didn't say much in response. And that's how we left it. We haven't heard from her since.
I am trying not to be disillusioned or bitter here, particularly because we'd been informed about much of the mess we were stepping into when we said that, yes, we'd keep track of this person. I also know that we were just two little part-time-volunteer church elves on the periphery of what is really a very commendable, comprehensive program for families in crisis, and that this person has an entire staff of trained people working and advocating for her, who are responsible for her much more than we ever were and who have the expertise and means to assist her and her child more than we ever could. But, that said...we're not going to do this type of favor anymore for people we don't know. If that makes us bad Christians, well...just add lack of hospitality to our Bad Behavior list.
We have a wonderful life; we have a summer busy with family responsibilities; and we have a commitment to one another, to help and support one another. We want to invest more time and energy in one another and our life together.
I hope you're having a pleasant Memorial Day weekend. We spent a spontaneous two-day mini-vaycay up in the Leelanau, on what we told ourselves was a reconnaissance mission for The Kids to price wine for their Michigan-themed wedding in August; we began our journey home just as the weekenders' cars started multiplying in the opposite lane, and laughed at our good fortune all the way south. When we got back home I did some gardening; we went on a ride in the country yesterday evening and treated ourselves to ice cream; today we're going to grill some steak.
(Yes, I know; all part of that big, scary Gay Agenda. If you don't watch out your spouse or significant other may ask you some late afternoon if you'd like to go out for a sundae and a spin around the scenic back roads of your county, and then maybe you'll find yourselves taking a long weekend away, and pretty soon civilization as we know it will crumble into ruin.)
Meanwhile, though, we had to do something very difficult.
Four months ago, at the behest of our pastor, we met a woman he had encountered in the course of his volunteer first responder work. She was in her early 40's; had no family or friends in the area or even in the state; had gotten here through an abusive relationship with the father of her small child and wound up in a shelter; was in a custody fight for the child and had a constellation of other personal problems. Our pastor thought that she might benefit from the influence of strong, independent women who could give her a glimpse of an alternative to the sort of dysfunctional situations she seemed to be falling into with regularity. Her stated plan was to leave Michigan for her home state as soon as she could legally do so with her child; it sounded as if she had family there to help her make a new start, and the shelter (one of the best in the state) was setting up a plan to get her temporary housing and other assistance in the other state as soon as she arrived.
Because both Fellow Traveler and I have a tendency to fuzzify boundaries when we hear sad stories and wind up being taken advantage of, we set up some initial ground rules for ourselves when engaging with this person: We weren't going to give her cash, ever. We weren't going to invite her into our home. We weren't going to run errands for her. We were simply going to be friendly voices on the phone, giving her encouragement; and because she'd asked, we were going to take her to church with us, even though it meant getting up an hour earlier and driving to another county to fetch her and take her back. We even figured that we would make Sundays into an outing and treat the woman and her child to lunch. We'd been given a timeline of about a month and a half for her legal status to be resolved, so we thought that was a reasonable commitment of time and resources. We also consulted with our council members and discretionary-fund committee and came up with the means to send the woman and her child back to their home state as soon as she was legally able to leave. Our quilting ladies gave the little family a quilt to take home with them.
But after an initial month of what we had felt was a positive experience, this happy scenario of do-gooder do-bees and soon-to-be-vindicated mother-in-distress began to unravel, for a number of reasons; without going into detail, while we had enough background into this person's history to know that the situation was complicated, we suspected that another backstory was going on, concurrent to our having gotten involved, that we were not a party to. Meanwhile, the ex-boyfriend's attorney had managed to delay hearing dates, so our short-term commitment was stretching ever farther into the future. This began taking a toll on us, our good will, even our health; we'd get home from our Sunday odyssey and promptly fall asleep, exhausted just by dealing with her multidimensional neediness. This past Sunday was particularly stressful and troubling.
The woman had an important hearing this week, so we were surprised when she didn't call us to tell us what happened. We suspected it was bad news; but when we got ahold of her, she told us she'd been awarded joint custody and had been given permission to go back home with the child; the outcome she had consistently told us she'd wanted more than anything else and that the shelter, as far as we knew, had also been planning on. But now she was waffling: "I have to make some decisions...I may not go there right away..."
At that point both Fellow Traveler and I had had enough. So we told her that we had taken her about as far as we could; that if she were going to be living where she was for an extended length of time she needed to find a church home in that community, and that the staff there -- who'd invited her to their churches in the past -- would be a good resource. We told her that we weren't planning on breaking contact with her, that we wanted to hear from her about how she was doing, that we wished her well, but that we simply couldn't maintain the weekly schedule of driving her back and forth. She didn't say much in response. And that's how we left it. We haven't heard from her since.
I am trying not to be disillusioned or bitter here, particularly because we'd been informed about much of the mess we were stepping into when we said that, yes, we'd keep track of this person. I also know that we were just two little part-time-volunteer church elves on the periphery of what is really a very commendable, comprehensive program for families in crisis, and that this person has an entire staff of trained people working and advocating for her, who are responsible for her much more than we ever were and who have the expertise and means to assist her and her child more than we ever could. But, that said...we're not going to do this type of favor anymore for people we don't know. If that makes us bad Christians, well...just add lack of hospitality to our Bad Behavior list.
We have a wonderful life; we have a summer busy with family responsibilities; and we have a commitment to one another, to help and support one another. We want to invest more time and energy in one another and our life together.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
D-Day
The doctor was reviewing my recent blood work, she said, when she saw something surprising. "You seem to have a serious Vitamin D deficiency," she told me. "A normal lab score for Vitamin D is 70. Yours was 17."
Here I was, in the middle of delighted wonderment at finally finding a proactive healthcare provider, only to be confronted by this alarming news.
The human body can absorb a decent dose of Vitamin D through relatively short periods of time outside. Despite my geeky ways, I am outside a lot. I also eat a lot of vitamin-fortified foods and D-rich fatty fish as well. I didn't get it.
The doctor explained that Vitamin D deficiency can be caused by a variety of things, not just diet or sunlight exposure, and also noted that this problem can factor into several serious health problems, including cardiovascular health, metabolic illnesses, certain types of cancer and depression. She then prescribed me 10,000 IU's of over-the-counter Vitamin D per day; a number I later learned many doctors and nutritionists want to make a minimum daily dosage for everyone.
Well. Now I have a handle on at least one piece of my metabolic puzzle. For that I'm grateful. And I'm grateful to my doctor as well.
Spring Cleaning
We're in the midst of spring cleaning around here. We had our friend the professional housecleaner do a thorough clean last week, and this week we are tackling the yard and garden ourselves. Today I even ventured into Molly the cat's room, formerly the junior spare bedroom/office, stripped the sheets on her bed and threw them in the wash for the first time in nearly a year. (Molly is the the messiest kitteh on the planet, on a par with Bill the Cat in Bloom County, so removing her bedclothes resulted in a cloud of particulate -- hair, crumbs of mulch from around the house, Lord knows what else.)
As you may have noticed, I'm doing some spring cleaning here as well: changing up the blog template, rebuilding my lists-o-links. I'm also rethinking what and how and when I want to post here. But for now I'm likin' the minimalism of the new format; it feels like a new beginning.
As you may have noticed, I'm doing some spring cleaning here as well: changing up the blog template, rebuilding my lists-o-links. I'm also rethinking what and how and when I want to post here. But for now I'm likin' the minimalism of the new format; it feels like a new beginning.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
"Friday" Five: "Now Boarding" Edition
1) Some fold, some roll and some simply fling into the bag. What's your technique for packing clothes?
Well, frankly, my favorite technique is letting Fellow Traveler do the packing. Between her military career and her other traveling experience, she has it down to an art. By contrast, I do not come from a traveling family -- we never stayed one night away from home during my entire growing-up, and even in my young adulthood I was either too poor or too cheap to travel on my own -- so I don't have the skills. FT, for instance, has the ability to roll clothes up into tiny, manageable bundles that are nonetheless ready-to-wear when unrolled. I cannot do that. So I don't. My contribution to the process is the reminder list: "Did we remember to pack __________? The _____________? How about your _____________?"
2) The tight regulations about carrying liquids on planes makes packing complicated. What might we find in your quart-size bag? Ever lose a liquid that was too big?
Our solution to the reg problem is to simply not pack liquids -- we just hit a drugstore upon arrival and buy an assortment of sample-size toiletries to last us our trip.
3) What's something you can't imagine leaving at home?
We're pretty devoted to our laptops, so they generally come with us...although when we stay at our favorite motel in the Leelanau, we give up Internet access other than our phones. (Red Lion Motor Inn, for anyone interested -- nice, clean old-school lodging that is neat and clean; more than reasonable; pet friendly; kitchenette units available; Traverse Bay beach access across the street, complimentary charcoal grill and bonfire privileges.)
4) Do you have a bag with wheels?
Oh, yes. I can't imagine schlepping non-wheeled bags around.
5) What's your favorite reading material for a non-driving trip (plane, train, bus, ship)?
Nothing too heavy (like my pastor's attempting to get through the Koran on one of his cross-Atlantic adventures). My favorites are murder mysteries a la Nevada Barr, or lifestyle/foodie magazines. The in-flight mags? They get my germophobic self going; I tend to leave those in the seat pocket.
Bon voyage to all the Big Event attendees! Have fun!
Saturday, April 10, 2010
People Fatigue
It's been an unquiet few weeks here in Lake Wobegon.
In the absence of our pastor, we lay ministers have been stepping up our duties, including taking on much of the chaplaincy tasks our pastor normally does himself. Our interim has made himself available for providing Communion and doing the more heavy-lifting assignments, but we're the ones who've been keeping him informed about what's going on with whom, and doing other hospital and shut-in visits.
So far I've done two of these, and found them to be meaningful, un-onerous work -- but probably only because I've had fairly easy visits, one with a family member during another's surgery and one with a member of the congregation I get along with fairly well, who's having some big medical problems right now. The other lay ministers are so much closer geographically to a lot of our regular shut-ins -- and in some cases are related to them -- that I've been a bit out of that loop, but am not complaining.
But meanwhile, Fellow Traveler and I have been ministering to individuals who lie outside the formal boundaries of our churches. One is a woman referred to us by our pastor, whom he met in the course of his first-responder work, prior to his bypass surgery. She is an abused partner engaged in a very nasty custody battle with her former significant other. She is getting excellent assistance in a safe place, but our pastor thought she might need some affirmation and advice from women. So we've been doing that; have been bringing her to church, taking her out for Sunday dinner, helping affirm her good choices and trying to keep up her good spirits -- all the while knowing that there are two sides to every story, and understanding that both parties in this relationship made choices that got them where they are now. FT and I go through alternating waves of satisfaction and exhaustion dealing with this lady; by the time we drop her off Sunday afternoon and head home, we're usually both completely spent for the rest of the day.
And then a high school friend of FT's with whom she reconnected on Facebook -- an individual who had a rough start in life, who went into the Army to escape his home and wound up a disabled veteran whose physical and emotional injuries have impaired his work life and relationships for decades -- tried to commit suicide; that despite FT working hard to get him his veterans' benefits (which he hadn't even filed for until recently) and get him connected to VA help for PTSD. We rushed to the hospital where they'd taken him -- a cross-country adventure across the state -- prayed with him and talked to his spouse. FT used a connection at the VA to get him transferred to a facility with expertise in PTSD, and went to bat for him when the hospital he was in tried to keep him there and charge his wife's insurance for the bill. (This family would never be able to pay the copays for several days in ICU.) We've been tracking our friend's progress this past week, and almost found ourselves on the road again when the VA facility released him without a way to get back home. (He was able to rent a car; and was empowered enough through his therapy to say, "You know, I really want to do this myself.")
I'm pretty much over any savior complex I may have nurtured under the surface. This is tough stuff; and, again, it has sapped much of the energy out of us. FT, who has her own PTSD to contend with, spent most of the day after the hospital drama in bed; I've been feeling unwell in ways that I've been trying to blame on my blood pressure medication but may have some psychosomatic component as well.
This is really hard work. And one of the hardest things is not stepping over boundaries; of remaining objective and dispassionate enough to not be completely overwhelemed by other households' tragedies and traumas. That's something they never taught us much about in lay ministry training, maybe because the goal of that particular program was more modest than the reality of what some of us are doing in our congregations.
We're having another "helping" day tomorrow...but we're having Family Movie Night tonight. Don't be surprised if we don't answer the phone or get on Facebook.
A Doctor in the House?
I have been uncomfortable with my current doctor for some time now, for a multiplicity of reasons -- hour waits (and that was back when I was working; I can't tell you how many times I had to call the office from the exam room and say I'd be delayed) followed by five-minute drive-by exams; perceived disinterest (as in asking me about medications I took and procedures I had a decade ago); difficulty understanding the doctor, partly because of her accent but largely because she seemed to be in a hurry to get out of the room; sullen office staff (I have found that the discernable craic, so to speak, of any office is often an indicator of the health of an organization). And, frankly, when I came out to her, in the context of a discussion involving birth control, I could tell that she was not comfortable at all.
Long story short: After my last six-month checkup I came home and said, "I'm done." So in the meantime I have been doing online research and querying friends about possible other doctors. And I decided to cast a wide net -- Fellow Traveler sometimes goes all the way to Saginaw for her medical exams, so I figured it was reasonable to drive up to an hour for a good doctor.
At first I thought I would stay within my current healthcare system, only because they run most of the hospitals in the area and have the largest number of affiliated physicians -- and they are aggressive marketers, so don't expect any collaboration or cross-referrals. But part of the uneasy feeling I've had with my doctor's office is something I've experienced in other offices within the same system; a certain soulless, bureaucratic herd-'em-through mentality that I'm sure comes from the top down. I know; it's 2010 in America, and who am I to think that I can replicate the kindly, personalized service of my childhood doctors' offices? But then I got angry. We spend a significant chunk of change each month for my insurance premiums, and I don't feel as if I'm getting much of a return on my investment. So why shouldn't I shop around?
So the other night I went through the "Find a Physician" page of a much smaller healthcare system centered about a 45-minute drive away, in the city where we coop-shop and where I get my monthly massages and spiritual direction. I found a couple of female DO's who seemed to be a good fit for a middle-aged female with middle-aged health issues. I did some poking around a few online physician rating websites to cross-reference their names and found nothing questionable or alarming. Then I came upon the actual website -- a self-entitled "un-fancy" one-page low-tech website -- of one of the doctors. She believes in whole-system doctoring, including nutritional counseling and osteopathic manipulation; she has some special professional credentialing in treating persons on the elastic-waist-pants side of young.
I liked it. I followed the e-mail link and sent her a note: Is she accepting new clients?
I have my first appointment with her Wednesday afternoon, when I'm pretty much going to lay it on the line for her that I've felt neglected and rejected and need a basic physical once-over, plus a review of my hypertension medication and some support/professional fanny-kicking to help me lose weight.
That, folks, is the result of a three-month struggle, some days ending in actual tears, to find enough information about area physicians to make an informed decision. What about the people who don't have time or money or facility with information technology? It's been a long, frustrating process to get to here.
Friday, April 09, 2010
"It's Who We Are; It's What We Do"
- Participating in the Eucharist on the Lord's Day
- Offering hospitality
- Forgiving sins against us
- Testifying to the faith that is in us
- Serving the poor
Of course we Lutherans' brains tend to short-circuit at the very thought of tying our Christianity in a conditional way to doing stuff. Because, we argue, it's not about earning points by doing stuff.
Here's the thing, though. What if the "doing stuff" is not about earning points at all, but rather inviting people in our faith communities into a series of basic intentional practices that will help them live into their baptismal promises? Is there a way we can articulate this that won't degenerate into a merit- or shame-based to-do list?
Discuss, please! What do you think of this list? What, if anything, would you add to it or subtract from it?
Photo by Bill Potter, Lutheran Church of Honolulu
Friday Five: "Open Road" Edition
1. When was your last, or will be your next, out of town travel?
Our last trip was Tuesday -- we had to drop off my fender-bendered Prius (dented in the church parking lot on Good Friday) at the dealership where I bought it, up in Cadillac; and then we took off in the Jeep for a day trip to Leelanau County, replenishing the larder at Pleva's Meats and the Great Lakes Tea and Spice Company and enjoying the early-spring countryside -- forested hillsides filled with wild leeks and red-budded maples.
2. Long car trips: love or loathe?
If I'm a passenger, I don't mind them as long as we take bathroom/leg-stretch breaks. I tend not to like long trips if I am driving, unless we're talking anxiety-minimal blue highways up north. US-2 from the Bridge to the western UP, for instance -- that was enjoyable.
3. Do you prefer to be driver or passenger?
See above. Fortunately for me, Fellow Traveler enjoys driving, particularly urban driving; so our household deal is that I do the "up north" traveling while she does the downstate driving. We do admit, however, to both enjoying the "Driving Miss Daisy" option when we're down south visiting Son #1 and Son-in-Law.
4. If passenger, would you rather pass the time with handwork, conversing, reading, listening to music, or ???
I am an enthusiastic, cheerfully nosy rubbernecker. (Not always advisable while driving.) I can spend happy hours just staring out the window at the changing scenery. If there's no scenery to stare at, I enjoy listening to whatever is on the local NPR station, or listening to music or, if I'm a passenger, reading. (I'm also an inveterate collector of local fliers/magazines/newspapers.) I'm also a reader on airplanes.
5. Are you going, or have you ever gone, on a RevGals BE? Happiest memories of the former, and/or most anticipated pleasures of the latter?
I have not been...if I were to attend one, I think matching up faces and voices to blogs would be great fun.
6. Bonus: A favorite piece of roadtrip music.
FT likes to listen to oldies while driving, and I have been known to play a mean passenger-side air guitar to some of the music of my misspent youth. When I'm alone I tend to leave it on public radio. When we listen to our own music on the road we tend to run particular CDs into the ground. (We leave the iPod at home, partly because we have a dog who eats electronics when she's anxious and partly because we both have a tendency to forget stuff, especially little, easily overlookable stuff, when we travel.) On last summer's trip to the Upper Peninsula we listened to several rotations of Melissa Etheridge's best-of compilation, which included the following -- also a splendid air-guitar tune:
Tuesday, April 06, 2010
Bloggus Interruptus
Just a note that I'm still here, still around, still intending on blogging...I've just gotten very busy in the last few weeks, with a multiplicity of things.
I just got back from a day-long trip up north that was simultaneously wonderful and exhausting. I'll have more to say (about many things) tomorrow.
I just got back from a day-long trip up north that was simultaneously wonderful and exhausting. I'll have more to say (about many things) tomorrow.
Friday, March 26, 2010
Renewed, Refreshed Friday Five
1. Massage. I cannot say enough about the restorative qualities of my monthly one-hour massage at the Freaky-Deaky Hippie Alt.Healthcare Palace. When I'm safely draped, and the lights dim, the ambient music clicks on and the therapist gets out her toolkit of interesting little aromatherapy vials...o mama. When I emerge from the Palace an hour later I am ready to change my life forever, yessir...start that yoga and tai chi, vegetarianize my diet, walk two miles a day. Unfortunately, the Palace is in the same city as our favorite restaurant.
2. Growing plants. As I write, I am champing at the bit waiting for my new grow light, wanting to get my tomatoes in the starters.
3. Adventure-tripping. Sometimes when we feel like we're spinning our wheels we get in the car and just drive somewhere we haven't been before -- which may be across the state or just across the county. It's not about shopping or eating out or sightseeing in a goal-oriented way. It also helps to live with a dog who loves -- who lives -- to ride. She doesn't care where.
4. Music. I'm funny about music. I often forget to listen to it; then I'll hear a piece of music that really speaks to my soul or energizes me, and I think, "Why aren't I listening to more music?" We're a two-iPod, Sirius-accessible, Pandora-bookmarked household, so there's really no excuse other than distracting, buzzy busy-ness.
5. Learning something new. I get jonesed learning things; I figure that as long as the old dog can learn something new about anything, there's still hope.
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