Why you should switch to tea this very instant. (test drive)

Tea has been cultivated by man for thousands of years and belief in its abilities to sooth even to the soul has been around for just as long. Still, there are those who would ask the question, why drink tea? There are so many ways to answer that question, but here are perhaps, the best three reasons:

Better for the budget. A strict frugalite will drink nothing but water since ounce for ounce it can’t be beat, but most people need a little something more. Now sodas and sports drinks are another option, but they can get pretty spendy and are not too good for the waistline. Then there is coffee and tea. If you skip the sugar and cream, they are best choice for a little indulgence or pick-me up. Say you walk yourself down to the nearest New Seasons and pick up a pound of good quality coffee, which will run you around $10/lb. Out of a pound of coffee you’ll get about 35 to 45, 8oz cups depending on how strong you like it. Taking the higher number of cups per pound you’ll be spending 22 cents a cup. At that same New Seasons you can also get a pound of good quality loose leaf tea for $30/lb that will produce 190 to 200, 8oz cups depending on desired strength. That means that tea tends to average 15 cents a cup. Not a huge difference, but if  you tend to drink 3 cups a day you’re saving 21 cents a day or just over $6 in a typical a month. That’s a couple extra gallons of gas or entrance for you and a date into a movie at McMenamin’s. Of course substituting tea if you drink more than 3 cups of coffee a day could be pretty substantial. Good quality tea can be gotten at much cheaper prices that you’d find at New Seasons. One online tea shop, which is based out of Depot Bay, even boasts quality tea at just 10 cents a cut.  At that price why even both with water?

Tea is good for you. From its beginnings in China, tea has been used largely for medicinal purposes. Tea, especially green, contains antioxidants which can slow down the aging process by helping cells regenerate and repair. It has also been found to be helpful in fighting certain kinds of cancer, blood pressure, Type 2 Diabetes and stress. Tea has been associated with plaque reduction and therefore fewer cavities in its drinkers. In one study people who drank 5 cups of tea a day boosted their immune activity, while coffee drinkers consuming the same amount experienced no change. With the scares of H1N1 going around this winter, tea is a natural way to help your body boost its immune system. Of course tea is no substitute for your doctor or even a vaccine, but it sure is nicer to cuddle up on a couch with.

Variety is the spice of life. The English poet, William Cowper, coined this phrase when he wrote: “Variety’s the very spice of life, That gives it all its flavour.” Being an Englishman it is easy to imagine he was thinking of tea when he wrote these lines. Black, white, green, oolong, chai, mate, rooibos, herbal.  All those, including their sub categories, where they are grown, which flush (or harvest) off the plant, and the season in which they were harvested create a seemingly unending array of options for the drinker. Plus, so many teas are great both hot and cold. A tea drinker could spend a life time pursing and trying every variety and variation of tea. This would indeed lead to a very flavorful life.

Further reading which will show as hyperlinks in the final article:

http://info.cancerresearchuk.org/news/archive/newsarchive/2009/october/19412076

http://www.cbsnews.com/stories/2003/04/21/health/main550409.shtml

http://www.virtualtea.com/

More Adventures In Home Brewing

Thus far the whole herbal home brew thing has been a success. The next night after experiencing the delicious and delectable cinnamon goodness I wrote about I was feeling pretty confident so I decided to try steeping the Lavender. I used about a teaspoon and steeped it just like regular tea. The color of the tea was sort of a woody green. I’m wishing now that I had, had the foresight to take a photo of it so I could show to you all- I must remember that in the future. It tasted all right, like Lavender water, but the best part was simply the aroma it left in the house. Actually that was one of the benefits of the cinnamon as well. I think Lavender is better suited to being in a blend than as a stand alone.

Next up was Ginseng. Last night I brewed about a teaspoon of ground Ginseng and steeped it for about four minutes, just like regular tea. I didn’t really care for it- too woodsy, liquorishy. Michael, on the other hand, loved it. He had another cup tonight.

Tonight I had a real hankerin’ for Chai Tea. I had seen recipes before for a crock pot version and tried to hunt one down via Google. I looked over about half a dozen or more and didn’t seem to have all the ingredients for any one of them. Not to be hindered, I decided to create my own using what I had just read and the ingredients I happened to have on hand. Now I’m very picky about my Chai Tea. Starbucks, Dutch Bros- not very good. The Daily Buzz in Stayton, OR and Paris On The Platte in Denver- very good. My chai tonight could definitely contend with the latter two. Of course there is room for improvement. I just used Lipton tea; a good quality loose leaf would be much better. So would some high quality spices, compared to the ancient grocery store variety I had. I think I’m on to something and to prove I’m not crazy I’ll test out my recipe at church on Sunday and see how it is received. Also to end I thought I’d leave you all with it. It is very easy and worth the small amount of trouble it takes:

Tara’s Crock O’ Chai

• 4 cups water
• 1/2 cup sugar
• 2 tsp ground cloves or about 8 whole
• 2-3 cinnamon sticks (you could probably use 1-2 tsp powder if you don’t have sticks)
• 4 slices of ginger (the fresher the better, candied ginger is what I used)
• 4 black tea bags or equivalent in loose leaf
• 1 cup milk

1. Stir together the water, sugar, cloves, cinnamon and ginger in the crock pot. Add the tea.
2. Cover and cook on high 2 hours. You can give of take a half hour depending on how black you want the finished chai to be.
3. Strain mixture, discarding any solids. Stir in milk.

Makes about 4 servings. You can serve this hot or cold or even blended with ice.

Enjoy

Cinna-Yum!

Favorites Part 2

A while back I wrote a blog about favorites and wondering if I would have favorites among my children. I know I’m less than a month into having more than one child, but so far my verdict is that parents do not have favorites. Or that at least myself as a parent will not have favorites. It’s amazing how Jude just kind of slide into place. I mean the adjustment as far as family dynamics has been rough, but as far as his place in my heart he just fit right in. I know that it kind of starts to sound corny, but I guess my heart just effortlessly expanded to include him. It wasn’t even a question. He wasn’t there and then he was.

When Cade was born I was amazed at how much I loved him. Sure I was, and still am, pretty crazy about Michael, but it’s two different kinds of love. I hadn’t know parent love, mom love, before.  It took me by surprise, I can’t really explain it. Maybe it was just having a tiny baby so completely dependent on me and the feeling of protection that came with it. Like the whole mama bear analogy. Maybe it was just because it was so new. It sounds funny but I wasn’t sure I could handle that kind of love times two, but again it just happened without a thought. I love Cade and Jude so completely and the same. That makes me think about God as Father and his love for all of us.

I’ve learned a lot about God through raising Cade thus far. It’s one of the real blessings of being a parent. You come to understand your own parents better and especially God the Father.

I like being a mom. I never thought I would. I thought I’d be bad at it and so I’d hate it. I’m not saying I’m good at it- I don’t know about that, but I do know I really love it. Some times I feel less than adequate because I don’t have much education and never had a career, but I’d never want to trade places. I am blessed.

Few Thoughts on Authors, Reading and Books

Yesterday I picked up a copy of Truman Capote’s short stories I had put on hold at the library. I selected it largely because it features “Breakfast at Tiffany’s”, the movie version of which I am very fond of and have felt for some time that I ought to read the book version. I find that if I enjoy a movie based on a book that I’ll really love the original. “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” has not let me down, I’ve been devouring it in 5-10 minute pieces since yesterday afternoon. This is the second Capote work I’ll have read. I equally devoured and loved “In Cold Blood” about six months back. Again a book I picked up after watching a movie. Capote, thus far, seems to be one of those authors that falls into my “very much loved and devourable” category. Among them is Austin, Tolkien, Twain, Langston Hughes and various others I know I am forgetting. C.S. Lewis I adore and a good many of his books would fall into the category I’m talking about, but some others are very hard for me to read. Not that I’m not up to the challenge intellectually (needless to say, I know), but they require a certain level of cow like chewing.  This category could possibly be called the “Good Deal of Thought and Alertness Required” category. Falling into that category completely is an author who’s book of short stories I’ve been trying to read through for months- Herman Melville. I know that is a name that strikes fear into many a high school and college student, but I enjoyed “Moby Dick” my senior year at Stayton High and I think I may be enjoying “Billy Bud and Other Short Stories” even more. At least with a greater respect and maturity. The problem is that I often start hard books like these and then sideline them in favor of one in the “very much loved and devourable” category. The problem is you don’t always know what kind of book it is going to be until you read a chapter or so first and even then there is the promise that it will pick up midway. As a result I’m usually reading three different books at a time. Currently I’m in the middle of “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” and “The Hobbit”. I’m near the end of “Billy Bud” and “Attributes of God” and am still on the first chapter of my third reading of “Mere Christianity”. Plus I strive to get a daily dose of The Good Book and various other colitis and childhood education books I reserve at the library. Michael says I read too much. I think that’s asinine. Maybe it is possible, but there are defiantly much worse habits to have.

I suppose avid reading has just always been apart of me. Growing up mom and dad always had a book just an arm length away. My granparents, too- on both sides. I learned to read early. Mother Goose, Shel Silverstein, Charlotte’s Web, Berenstain Bears, Maurice Sendak. Those books fill my childhood memories.  I hope Cade learns to love books as much as I; he seems to already. He loves Dr. Seuss and going to the library to get comic books. I cannot tell you how many time I’ve read “Cat In The Hat” or the things I’ve learned about Superman. Dr. Seuss I read as a child, but Superman has not been apart of my collective knowledge until recently. The best thing about books is that they are perfect ones for every age and stage of our lives.

Sing A Song Of Sixpense…

I was recently made aware, via the Imago Dei Writer’s Group emails, of a little online publication seeking poetry submissions. You can view the journal for yourself at: http://4and20poetry.com/

I personally found it a delightful read and it also presented an interesting challenge. For a poem to be considered it must abide by two rules: 1) It must be four lines or shorter in length; 2) It cannot contain more than 20 words total. Which means, as the clever poem on the “Submissions” page says,

Let’s figure this one out:
If I write four lines
with five words per line,
that gives me twenty words.

~By Roger Legon

I think I’ve mentioned on here before, if you remember and are an avid reader, that I like to write poems, but hate them and hate even more to share them. Something like this however, is a bit easier to wear out in the open. For one it is all in fun, although I’m sure there are those who take it very seriously. Also if the poem sucks it can always be blamed on the constraints put upon it to meet submission standards. And lastly I think it is, like any challenge new to the challengee, a matter of trying something new just for the hell of it and not caring so much what the outcome is so long as one raises up to the said challenge.  With that in mind I submit to you, my reader, a few of my own Four and Twenty poems for your consideration:

Ode To Pen

You are a viper,

Death, pain accompany every touch.

Yet touch I must

Or lose my soul to rejection.

American Dream

A piece of heaven

Is all each person desires,

But what if heaven

Exists only opposite reality?

Question

If good things come

In small packages,

Are large ones

Automatically bad?

Oxymoron

I always keep

What I’m writing a secret

And later try to publish

For the whole world to see.

Look at Love

Hands intertwined

Hearts interlaced

Emotions overwhelmed

A frantic state of grace

The irony it that I set out to write some lighthearted, witty poems to make you chuckle and these are what I came up with. I don’t know. Take them or leave them. I think on my next attempt I’ll try for ones with some sort of rhyme scheme. I think those would be more interesting and certainly would read a little better.

Favorites

I like to tell Michael he is my favorite husband and Cade that he is my favorite Cade.  Michael tells Cade, “you are my favorite first born.” It’s just one of those quirky family endearments. I suspect we’re not the only quirky family out their saying stuff like that. Most likely I’ll continue the tradition by telling Jude he’s my favorite Jude. That way it is equal- they will both be my favorites. I think. I wonder about that sometimes; parents having favorites. Especially lately I wonder if I’ll have a favorite child. It is easy to have a favorite when you have just one, but what happens when you have two or three or ten? You hear parents all the time saying they don’t have a favorite. I remember my own mom saying that. Andrea always said I was the favorite, but I think it’s Chris (although there was a period of time I’m sure he was not the favorite). Which makes me wonder if, like with friends, you just ‘click’ with one child more than the others which is subject to change depending on what you’re each going through in life. Or maybe it is just a younger sibling thing in that you always think the older sibling is best and favorite.  Or maybe parents really do have favorites. I asked Michael this morning while I was in the shower  and he came in to teach Cade to pee standing up, if he thought his mom had a favorite. He said yes he knew she did and that it was him. I asked him how he was so sure and he said it is because she pesters him the most. I’m not sure that’s true, but it was a pretty typical Michael response. Maybe this whole favorites thing depends on the specific family unit- some families have favorites, some really don’t. I guess I’ll find out all this first hand in a matter of months. I could see myself much preferring a quiet, sweet, dependant baby to a rambunctious toddler with violent, independent tendencies and a love of climbing and jumping off everything.  But then again Cade’s a pretty cool kid and I never thought I could have so much love for one little person.

My Favorite Verse

I have always been a great lover of Psalms and Proverbs. I suppose because they represent two of my greatest desires: art and wisdom. The wisdom and philosophy found in Proverbs continually amazes me. It is ancient writing and yet just as relevant today as it was when it was written. Of all the morphing and evolution that philosophy has gone through in thousands of years, nothing I have found holds more wisdom than the words of Solomon, Lemuel, and others.

While it is Proverbs that seems to house the great thinking of the Bible it is Psalms that represents the best of it’s art and emotion. I go to Psalms when I cannot express myself to men or God, when I need to know that I am not alone in my feelings and for times I need a bit of inspiration. It is in these two neighboring books that some of my favorite verses can be found. Most of all I love Psalm 17:15 “As for me, I will see Your face in righteousness,/ I shall be satisfied when I awake in Your likeness.” (NKJV). Psalm 17 is a prayer of David and likewise it is the prayer of my heart. God is righteous; He is all things good. This Psalm speaks to that fact and of the longing to be like Him. David knew this was not a task that could be completed this side of heaven and yet his prayer is to be like his Father. On one hand he is recognizing God’s goodness and striving to be like Him, but on the other he knows that he will not really come close until he dies. When he says “awake” I think he really means when he finally awakes that final time in heaven- when real life starts and we are truly like Him. I identify with that because I see how awesome God is and cannot help but want to be more like Him. Here on earth I am being refined, made more like Him and it is painful, but the payoff is going to come when I finally “awake” in His likeness. I guess for me this Psalm is more than just a prayer, it is also a reminder of the promise to come.

Earliest Memories Brought To You By…

The earliest memories I can recall are really more like a few minutes of worn celluloid film. One a brief session of Mousersizes in front of a wood paneled television led by a lady with big hair, pink leg warmers and spandex. We were pretending like we were climbing a ladder. The next clip is a memory of watching a short lived TV show on that same paneled set in which Wilford Brimley, who used to be the Quaker Oats guy and now does diabetes commercials, played the grandfather. Looking it up on imdb.com I believe it was called “Our House”.  Then there is a short reel of my dad playing his guitar. In relaying these memories to my mom she has told me that I must have been around two since dad sold his guitar when we moved to Lyons and also out there we could only pick up PBS which has never carried a Disney or Wilford Brimley series. I was two when we moved from the duplex on Wilding in Stayton to the house dad and mom bought from Grandpa and Grandma Gilson on the North Fork. I don’t know if it should be cause for concern that two of my three earliest memories are of television. I suppose my generation was really the first to grow up with a TV in the house.  A lot of my childhood memories seem to center around television. Like when we moved to Lyons and could only pick up PBS with a giant antenna located at the side of the house that had to be adjusted and readjusted from time to time. I remember when the VCR had a remote that couldn’t be moved more than a few feet because it was attached by a cord. Now I don’t really understand the point of a remote that can’t leave the side of the VCR, but back then it was pretty cool. PBS didn’t offer a lot of choices but I eventually became addicted to Nature, Nova and Marty Stouffer’s Wild America. Perhaps this is what led to my all consuming love of dolphins and whales and my desire to become a Marine Biologist until I got into High School and realized I hated biology.  

Adventure in Resume Writing

Today was an adventure in resume writing, something I’ve done before, but never really had to do. There are those classes in school we’ve all taken that require you to make a mock resume, but when it is five to ten years down the road and you suddenly are in a situation you need one how are you supposed to remember exactly what to do?

Michael and I are looking to move, probably into an apartment, and one way to keep the rent free existence we’ve enjoyed for the last thirteen months is to become apartment managers. Cue the super hero music. Seems like a good idea, especially during a time in history when the unemployment rate is creeping towards 10% and hundreds (maybe thousands?) of other people are thinking apartment managing would be just right for them. So what if we don’t have experience? We have class, we can at least sound intelligent, we are honest and usually get along with people pretty well. All qualities that in my rental experience most managers severely lack. I figure that ought to give us a pretty good shot. Problem is the job listings specifically ask for experience (something I ignore) and also for a resume- something we probably shouldn’t ignore if we want a chance at this. Yuck, a resume. What do I know about resumes? Suddenly I remember that Publisher and perhaps also Word have resume templates. Easy as pie. Nope. The templates don’t tell you what you should write and give you no examples. Stuck again, but praise the Lord for Google. Google solves all the world’s problems (maybe I can get a job there writing advertizing clichés). Sure enough a quick search revealed a wealth of help (hmm… another advertizing cliché?). I had to go through a lot of rotten eggs before I found gold, but http://www.howtowritearesume.net was exactly what I needed. It was as simple as plugging in your info and using given examples to come up with a bunch of wishy-washy garbage about yourself that hopefully some potential employer will love. It took me all of a half hour, once Cade went down for a nap, to finish. Viola!

After I finished perusing Craig’s List for Apartment Managing jobs, which took all of two seconds and provided no fruit, I decided to keep looking for other stuff like horse jobs. Found a great one:

Part time possible full time position available soon. Job includes turn out, feeding, blanketing, grooming. MUST HAVE HORSE EXPERIENCE. Needing someone to live on property and work in trade for partial rent in a newly remodeled two bedroom mobile home. Clean and private. Please email horse experience, family, roommate and pet situation to determine if house is adequate. Current job schedule as it may be flexible to keep current job. Must tolerate early mornings and all weather conditions.

Perfect except it is in the Tigard/ Sherwood area. I also looked at listings for egg donation, surrogate mothers and nannies- just for fun. Then I found they actually had listing for freelance writers, three to be exact. One was a small magazine looking for someone to commentate on local concerts, another was a blog on motorcycles and the last a blog on parenting issues. The motorcycles sounded like more fun, but obviously I’m more qualified to write on parenting. The concerts sounded the most ‘cool’, but since my experience in music doesn’t go much beyond playing the flute in high school and the gig didn’t pay I skipped it. Lo and behold they all wanted you to send a resume. Then I got to thinking, a resume for apartment managing would be vastly different that one for a writing job. Especially since I’ve had numerous jobs in managing and leadership throughout the years, but really have no experience whatsoever in writing- other than it is the air I breathe. But how do you explain that on a resume? My solution was to take my original resume I’d just finished and put more emphasis on my ‘qualifications’ and ‘achievements’ and significantly less on my actual work history. I also added to my work history that I’ve been a freelance writer from 2006 to present. I did not end up sending the new ‘writing resume’ to the parenting issues blog job (they wanted three links to examples of your writing, something I don’t have), but did find a job writing poems for greeting cards. I figure greeting cards are usually pretty stupid and probably only half the people that receive them even read them, plus no experience required- I just had to send a sample poem with my resume. We’ll see although I’m not crossing my figures. I once heard it is easier to become a famous movie star that a famous writer. I believe it.

Thanksgiving Eve

Here I sit the morning before. Before travel, family therapy sessions, mass food consumption, probably a stupid movie (which I’ll hate and everyone else will love) and mainly the inescapably of my life. Not that I dwell on that very often, although the other day I was listening to this country song “Everybody Wants To Go To Heaven” by Kenny Chesney in which the chorus lyrics following the words of the title are, “But nobody wants to go now”. And I thought, ‘actually Mr. Chesney, I’d very much like to go now’. If heaven is all I believe it is and earth is all I know it is they why wouldn’t I want to get the hell out of here (pun intended). A couple night ago I finished reading the Chronicles of Narnia for about the tenth time- specifically I finished the last book in the series rightly named “The Last Battle”. These books are probably among my most cherished of our small library and I’ve been reading them about once a year since I graduated from High School in ‘01. I know is seems a little funny that a childrens’ books could so touch my heart, but every time I read them that’s exactly what happens. I think it is mainly the way C.S. Lewis portrays Christ in Aslan and the way the Lion interacts with the Children, Narnians, Calormene, ect. Aslan is very like the Jesus I know from scripture and it is refreshing to see how Lewis makes it all so simple even though its really always been that simple. But I digress. In the last words of “The Last Battle” Lewis describes heaven this way:

“And for us this is the end of all the stories, and we can most truly say that they all lived happily ever after. But for them it was only the beginning of the real story. All their life in this world and all their adventures in Narnia had only been the cover and the title page: now at last they were beginning Chapter One of the Great Story, which no one on earth has ever read: which goes on for ever: in which every chapter is better than the one before.”

The preceding pages paint an even more beautiful picture of what Dear Mr. Lewis imagined heaven would be like. When I read this and I read scripture such as Rev. 21:4 “And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away.” I think it sounds a whole lot better than here.

For all my thoughts on wanting to be in Heaven I am thankful to be here on earth. I know my Father’s work is here and that He clearly has more plans, more perfecting in store for me or else I would not be here. I want nothing more than to be with My Sweet Jesus, but as His servant I know that the task is still at hand. It sucks. Life is hard and I guess it has to be that way or we’d never grow, but growing hurts. A lot sometimes. It sort of reminds me of a scene in another of the Narnia books: The Voyage Of The DawnTreader. I’d quote it to you, but my copy is missing thanks to a certain little boy who enjoys playing with them. In the scene the crew of the DawnTreader have reached the end of the world, as near as the end as their ship can get them that is. The heroic mouse Reepiceep gets into a smaller boat and continues to follow the shallow current believing that it will take him to Aslan’s Country. The king, Caspian, wants to go with the mouse and if memory serves right threatens to kill the men who try to keep him from going. Caspian does then realize that he can not go- his duty is to get his men home, to marry, and to rule Narnia. He must wait. And so too must I.

FYI the lastest of the Chronicles movies created by Disney “The Voyage Of The DawnTreader” is in preproduction and should release in 2010.

Today

I saw a tear on my grandfather cheek today. I paused and wondered at it and saved the image, recalling it later when I needed to cry. I can’t remember seeing him cry before, but I wasn’t surprised, I have always known him as a tender man. Today we memorialized his friend and brother-in-law. One of his own. I know he mourned this man, but I think he was mourning his own self as well. It is easy at 26 to not think about death very much except briefly during scenes of fiction or on rare occasions of personal losses. I don’t feel death’s knock or coldness in my bones. For me there is no sense of abandonment as the years progress and those I grew up with, ran with, laughed with begin to fade and disappear. My parents, sisters, brothers, cousins they are all still here-a phone call away. I cannot fathom watching your spouse of sixty plus years deteriorate and weaken and not be able to give a supporting arm. Most the faces I see are older than me. It must be strange to be grandpa and to be on the other end. When you are into your eighties you don’t know how many years are really left. Each birthday that comes you must surely wonder if it is your last. Maybe you even look for it, maybe you even hope. Like another lap around the track, if you could only do one more or else simply be done and rest. I had a conversation with my grandparents one day about death. How it is only sad for those left behind. How they don’t fear it. How they’ve begun to look forward to it. I don’t want them to go, but I know someday they must. They’ve lived great stories. I know because I have heard them all my growing up. Maybe that’s why I love a good story so much; they’ve always been a part of my life. I know it is why I want my own story to be great as well. I feel like I owe it to them. They struggled through the Great Depression and WWII, through raising five children and getting their GED’s in their 40’s, they worked until their health no longer permitted and I know not how many prayers have been sent up by them for their family. I’m the fruit of their labor. I feel like I owe them a great story.

Adventure in Fictional Short Story Writing

When I’m out looking for publishers accepting submissions I find that many of them are looking for fiction short stories. I don’t particularly like fictional short stories. I enjoy reading them, but I hate to write them. But just to prove to myself that I could (or maybe that I couldn’t) I wrote the following. Comments are appreciated, no matter how harsh (Michael, who was first to read it has already told me he hated it):

Small misty drops fell from a white gray sky leaving a delicate sheen on large many handed maples, stately evergreen firs and an assortment of woody shrubs. It was the kind of light rain, if indeed it could be considered rain, that didn’t so much fall as just appear- leaving everything in a sort of instant cool wetness. The Northwest forest seemed as thick with water as its tropical cousins although it was a cold and clammy humidity. An average man of average age, height and weight with non discriminatory features, which could have described hundreds of other whitish males from his native Portland, was following a muddy trail which meandered through this very forest. His features where his own, but could have easily belonged to someone else. His cloths were appropriate for such an outing: hiking boots, nylon pants which could be zipped off at the knee, a rain jacket in REI green with the hood over his head and close to his face and a pair of lightweight “one size fits all” cotton gloves. He carried also a light day pack filled with little in it: water, GORP, binoculars, a small Leatherman, his cell phone and wallet. Today he was in need of a brisk hike to try to lighten his mood which was as damp as his surroundings. Yesterday, before he’d left work, he’d told his boss he would be taking a personal day the following day. He’d given no explanation and his boss had asked for none. His boss had suggested though that the man make sure his office voice mail let anyone calling know that he’d be out for the day; which the man did. He needed only to be alone and a hike on a weekday early in the morning in a place few others went would give him what he desired. It wasn’t that he was depressed or melancholy, or angry or anything really he just had a need to be alone, to sweat, to feel the cool Oregon air against his hot face and to feel a human heart pounding in his chest. Nothing was wrong, he just needed a bit of wilderness. He had not even bothered to tell his wife. He didn’t want to have to answer any questions and he knew she wouldn’t understand, not really. He couldn’t fully express his need to himself. He just knew he needed a bit of wilderness. Caution however, he knew was a must and at the last moment when he’d parked his Outback at the trailhead he called a number he knew no one would answer. His widowed mother owned and operated a small sewing shop six days a week of which she was never absent from because she was never sick. She was never sick she said because she ate one-hundred percent organic meals one-hundred percent of the time. She also took a barrage of vitamins. The man did not doubt that this was the secret of her health, but he’d never been able to take up such a regiment himself. At least he knew she would not question his forest yearning. The plan was to call his mother’s home and leave a message of where he’d be. She had one of those impersonal messages with a digitized voice saying the person at the number you’ve dialed cannot come to the phone and please leave a message. Those kind of messages annoyed him, but also made him feel as though he were not telling a true person of his semi-secret plans. At the beep he simply said “hello, mom” and left the name of the trail and that he expected to be home before dark.

Once on the trail with the drenched greenness all around he began to feel better. As he hiked and his heart began to pump harder he could feel his energy swelling, building to climax within himself. It was as if his sweat and his labored breathing were cleansing his body- the bad being poured out as he sucked in the fresh forest air. As if his internal balance was being centered by every step of his foot. He was beginning to feel exhilarated by the working of his body and the surging of blood, endorphins and adrenaline. He began to think only about his movement and the movement of the forest flora and fauna around him. Without being conscience of it he had accomplished what he had set out to do, he become a part of the wilderness. He no longer thought about his wife and their problems together, nor of their Gordon Setter in need of an expensive hip surgery. He forgot his feud with the neighbor over a big leaf maple now dropping its leaves and about the many unending concerns at work. Instead he was becoming more like a wild animal concerned only for where it was at the present moment. He climbed steadily uphill and farther into the darkness of the forest, emerging occasionally into small clearings. He did not keep track of the time, this was not a workout it was refreshment. Then in this state he was reminded, much as an animal might suddenly become aware, that his stomach was empty and that he should stop and eat a bit. The trail was very narrow and being set on a butte the man always had a steep incline on his right and a dropping slope on his left as he ascended. A series of uphill switchbacks were really all that it was until the top at which point a view of the surrounding valley and river was possible. Then of course it was again a series of switchbacks going down to the trail head- this time with the uphill to your left and the cliff to the right. The man was cautious of the slope and took his small snack leaning against a spongy Douglas Fir a few feet from the down hill side of the trail. A few feet was all the buffer between the trail and a fall to the next switchback or possibly farther. The GORP was quickly finished as the man was in a hurry, wanting to keep a quick pumping heart beat. He also noticed he was getting cool rather fast due to his profuse sweating and a small breeze that just seemed to find its way through the dense trees.

After what must have been a few hours of solid walking the man had finally reached the top of his destination. Standing out on a large rock shelf he surveyed the landscape which was truly spectacular. A herd of undulating hills in various shades of Oregon green shrank from the hill on which he stood and finally became a sort of bluish sloping field. The slope eventually met its limit at the edge of a large fast moving river a couple of miles from the base of the butte. Another smaller river, full of rain, ran from around one side of the butte following the hills and field dumping into and endlessly feeding the larger river. The two rivers became one and traveled together eternally moving west and carving their path as they went. The result was a wide and weathered gorge which the man studied with a sort of conquering fear. Conquering because standing on that cliff alone feeling strong in his body, which had carried him to this place and was still surging with a powerful amount of adrenalin, he thought he really could do most anything. He felt right at that moment as if even a snowy summit of thirteen thousand feet was attainable for him. He felt sure of victory in the battle which only existed in his mind. He felt as if he could live out in this wilderness forever, surviving by his own intelligence, skill, and the hardness of his body. Fear also came to mind because he understood that even his own power was nothing compared to what he saw. The wilderness in its beauty and mans harnessing of it was still a dangerous foe. Mother Nature could entrance, she could sooth, but she could also deceive and kill. The man turned from the view looking back into the woods and laughed at himself. If his wife could hear the thoughts he had she would call him a typical man. She would laugh at his maleness some how making him feel ashamed of it. He knew too that he had better hurry back to his car and be home in time to help with dinner, feed the dog, do a bit of cleaning and then finally fall asleep in front of the TV as was his weekday custom.

Heading back down the trail, his harsh downward steps and the pulling of gravity made him suddenly aware of his need to urinate. Also coming to mind was the fact that he had drank almost 30 oz of his quart Nalgene bottle. All the more reason to hurry towards home, first though he left one of the bends on the edge of the switchback to find a place a bit more secluded. He had not seen anyone on his hike, but being a bit of a shy prude he preferred not taking a chance. He could never bring himself to be like so many of his more masculine friends who would just stop and loosen their fly whenever and where ever they felt the urge. He could never stop the car on the road to pee, he had to hold it even a hundred miles if necessary to find a bathroom with some privacy. One particularly strange friend of many years once admitted that often on returning home from work he wouldn’t bother to wait until he got in the house and would just relive himself right there in the driveway in front of any neighbors who cared to spy. This sort of thing seemed like sheer lunacy to the man who now shuddered anytime he visited at the strange friend’s home. Even now in his seclusion he hiked off trail about a hundred yards until he found a small sheltered stand of Douglas Fir. As he shook himself off and put himself away he gazed towards the western horizon and the now sinking sun. It was getting late. He knew he’d have to tell his wife where he had been since clearly he’d be late for preparing dinner and perhaps for the meal itself. She would probably be mad and spend the rest of the evening talking to him in short irritated sentences. If he could pick up his pace a bit he could get home in time to make up some other excuse. Like something came up at work, but she knew nothing ever did. Or a particularly bad line at the gas station and “did she notice that gas prices are dropping, everyone must be in a mad dash to fill-up?” Of course his Subaru, if he remembered correctly was at less than half a tank so to make the story good he would have to really stop which would just delay him further. Maybe the car was handling funny and he stopped at Les Schwab to have the tires looked at, rotated. Whatever lie he decided to use he knew he had better at least call her as soon as he got cell service again. At least put her mind to ease before she started to worry, if she ever thought to worry. Usually she never got to worry, she started and stayed right at angry. As he pondered all these things he found himself almost running to meet back up with the trail. With the steep slope he knew he shouldn’t, but his thoughts drove him on and so as he felt his misstep and his body lurching downward he knew he should have listened to that small voice of caution. He rolled violently down about fifty feet until he hit hard against a soggy tree which despite its sogginess did not stop his fall gently. It had only taken less than a minute he guessed, although he was sure he’d blacked out, but the pain which he felt coursing through his side and especially his leg convinced him it had been enough to do some damage. While he had never broken a bone before he was sure from the sharp pain that he had broken his leg, probably a few ribs as well. He lay on his side in a sort of daze not sure what to do and hurting too much to want to do anything.

A half hour passed, maybe more, maybe less. The man was still lying with his left arm pinned against the tree trying to mentally fight the pain and come up with a plan. He was unsure of the time and didn’t want to disturb his injuries more by trying to move his arm and look at his watch. He had decided not to move until he had a set plan in his mind. He was afraid that if he moved at all, the pain would be too much and he’d lose his will to go through with any sort of plan. It was dusk and full darkness was fast approaching. The knowledge of this stirred in him a survival instinct that over came his fear of pain and he slowly, achingly moved his body into a sitting position. Taking a few breaths and gritting his teeth he used his right arm to undo his small pack and take it off his body. This was his plan to survey the contents of the pack, use whatever he could to make himself comfortable, ration what little GORP he had left and to slowly nurse the few ounces of water he had left. He felt stupid that he had tried to run back to the trail and that he had left himself such little water, but his one hope was the message he left on his mother’s voice mail. He took comfort in knowing he was at least smart enough to do that and it would be his salvation. Probably, he thought, his mother was checking it now and in just a short time when his wife started calling around to find him she’d call her mother-in-law first and then they would know where to send the search party. He that worst case scenario he would have to stay out over night. Most likely, he was sure, they would locate him in a few hours- he was close enough to the trail he knew he’d hear anyone calling his name. His pride was wounded and his pain level was near a ten, but he knew he would be fine.

In all his confidence this man never thought to worry about how even with a plan and safety net in place things can still go wrong. In the man’s contact list on his cell phone the alphabetic listings of the M’s were as follows: Mann’s, Mary & Bob, Mike, Mike F, Mom, and Myrtle’s. Myrtle’s was the name of a restaurant that he and his wife used to frequent until it burned down and went out of business about a year ago. The number for Myrtle’s had gone back into the system and since been registered to another name and location. He was slow to delete numbers out of his phone and in his haste to get into the wilderness never double checked that he was indeed calling his mother. Myrtle’s number had gone to someone with one of those impersonal digitized voice mails asking you to leave a message. When Ed Fisher, a man of no acquaintance to the hero of our story, heard the strange message he knew it was just a wrong number and quickly deleted it from his inbox without a second thought.

Gay Found Me Today

This is not a blog I ever wanted to write, nor did I ever think I would be writing and now as I sit to write it I’m not sure how. It may be more of a ramble- incomplete thoughts- nonsense even, but here I go. Today I talked with a very dear friend I’ve know for about 10 years. I love her very much, yet we’ve not been as close the last few years I think mainly due to distance and just being at totally different places in life. I’m married with a kid. She’s not. That makes a difference, but one thing I’ve always appreciated about our relationship is how easily we fall back into it when ever we find ourselves together no matter how long between talks or meetings. Really she’s always been more like family. No matter how long you go without speaking or seeing family members they are still your family. She’s better than family though because we chose each other. We didn’t have to love each other, we just always wanted to. Today she told me she is no longer a Christian and is gay. I am devastated. I’ve been crying for the better part of a hour as I write this and still I fight back the tears. Why? Mainly because she doesn’t love Jesus anymore and that hurts me because I love Him so much and don’t understand how anyone would want to walk away from Him. I can understand walking away from Christianity, but not Jesus. I also feel like she has died. I know that sounds terrible. Its just that I’ve always know her as some one who loves Jesus like me, who worships like me, who I can talk to about God, who loves to serve and now she’s not that person anymore. Actually I can’t really accept that its the truth, that she’s made this 180. I have never thought of her as gay-of anything but a Christian, as someone like me I guess. I just cannot accept that she is the same person anymore, but I cannot accept that she is different either.

One irony is that some months back, it may have been a year or more ago (I wish I could remember exactly when) I felt the Lord laying on my heart to pray for her sexuality. She had confessed at one point to me that she was struggling with believing in God, but she never told me about struggling with being gay. I feel now like I’ve failed, big time. For one it’s hard not to feel like I failed to pray like I should have.  Also I hate that I wasn’t the friend that I probably should have been. I wish she had felt comfortable enough to share this with me long ago. I understand, but I hate it… (shoot another wave of tears). Maybe I’m being way to overly dramatic about this. I’ve never had anyone ‘come out’ to me before I wonder how other people deal with it. It does make it a bit tough when you believe in the Bible as the inspired word of God and it says sinner go to hell. Which reminds me of the second irony in all this.

For some time now I’ve been extremely frustrated with the Church. I hate how it singles out gays. To sum up my feelings I’m going to post a comment I left on a friends blog when he posted a link to the following article: http://www.cnn.com/2008/POLITICS/12/17/obama.warren/index.html

Here’s what I told him:

“Anyway I too hate the word tolerance. For one this ‘tolerance’ is not very tolerant of people who are not tolerant and that’s what bugs me. Why should tolerance only be reserved for those who think and feel the way you do? Isn’t that counter tolerance? And why am I intolerant if I don’t believe in abortion or gay marriage? I guess I don’t want to be tolerant, but I want to show Christian love and I think that is the saddest part of this article. It’s thought that anything Christian is anti-gay because that’s what Christians portray. Homosexuality seems to be the ‘big Christian issue’ which sucks because frankly sin should be the ‘big Christian issue’ homosexuality is just one of those sins. Why are gays so much more evil in Christian eyes than other ‘lost souls’? Why do Evangelical Christians seem so tolerant of divorce, fornication, adultery and even porn compared to homosexuality? They are all called sexual sins in the Bible and I believe are all the same. I guess its because gays are an easy target. Divorcees, fornicators, adulterers are welcome in the church, but not the gays. That makes me angry. I think gays feel this and that’s what is reflected in this article. Gays should feel love and think love when they hear the word Christianity. So when it comes to homosexuality and sin in general the attitude as seen in scripture should be tolerance no, Love yes. Let me make a disclaimer by saying that I myself have no gay friends and have not invited any to church (that I know of) and I understand that is a bit counter to what I’ve just written. It’s really not intentional I just live a bit of a sheltered life and I’m sorry to say I rarely hang out with any one but my ‘church’ friends. I’m not proud of it exactly and I welcome those chances to make more ‘alternative’ friends. I don’t understand alternative life styles, but I welcome and even pray for the chance to get to know those people. Maybe not to understand it, but to understand and love them. (I just felt the need to add that because people often say ‘well that’s easy for you to say…’ and I want to be candid).”

On the drive home Sunday night from Tahoe I had told Michael how the Lord was really laying on my heart homosexuals and how I really wanted to meet someone, make a friend I guess, with someone who is gay. I told him I knew it wasn’t a big deal that I’d just felt it, had prayed for it and would wait and see. I never thought it would be like this. I guess part of me was looking forward to meeting someone who was gay and needed Jesus- someone I could ’save’. To be an edgy Christian. Again even though I knew I needed to pray for her, I never expected it. I don’t feel edgy I feel like a terrible Christian.  I feel a bit hypocritical and I feel very confused. I do know this though. I know what Jesus would do and what He wants me to do and that is to show Love. To love her like Jesus does. It sounds corny maybe, but that’s all I got. That’s all I understand.

Just A Vent, Really

My blogs are dwindling I feel. I initially wanted to do one a week, but all ready I think I’ve failed. I haven’t actually gone back and looked into it though. I’m blaming Cade for it since I don’t feeli like blaming myself just yet. Cade no longer is taking naps at home. He’ll take one in the car and occasionally fall asleep watching cartoons in the afternoon, but the only way to get him to nap in his own bed requires a hour minimum battle of nerves and patience with a few spankings thrown in. Usually by the time he falls asleep it is so late in the afternoon that bed time doesn’t come until 10 or later. Nap times were always my writing times. The one time I didn’t have to fight with anyone else for the computer. Michael is at school taking mainly online classes and we also have a room mate who enjoys his time on Facebook and looking up various gun related web sites. So now my writing times are precious and few. If I could make some money selling some articles or short stories I think the first thing I’d do it get myself a cheap laptop for the sole purpose of using Microsoft Word. I do have a few small journals that I’ve been leaving laying around for the purpose of jotting my thoughts throughout the day, but honestly anything short of typing seems so archaic. And the chances that anything put into the journals will ever end up transcribed onto my PC are slim to none.

Where does this leave me? I guess the easy answer is that I’ll have to get more creative about finding time to write and when I do get time make sure it is productive. Right now for instance I might not be very productive, but I think bribing Cade with the Incredibles and some dry cereal for what may amount to a hour or more of uninterupted writing me-time bliss was ingenious. Sure there are dishes to be done, bills to be paid, and endless clutter to be decluttered, but what is more important? Housework or my writing? I’ll let you ponder that and maybe you’ll have a clever answer for me. As for my own opinion… I’m not sure I have one, not at this time anyway.

War Zones

East County looks like a war zone right now. The bodies and limbs of trees lay end to end from here to the east side of Portland. Quite literally. It started Saturday with winds of about 50-60mph, although an unofficial source told me the highest gust was recorded Sunday and that was 104mph. I was out and about in Gresham and Troutdale Saturday and had to fight the wind all through the running of my errands. I had been out at Sauvie Island earlier in the day where there was no wind and with no clouds in sight it was quite a lovely day for mid-January. Then I headed east. I hate the rain, but I hate the wind even more. There were limbs down but things didn’t look all that bad. Trees in East Multnomah County grow up under such conditions and so are probably a bit hardier than their pampered cousins. Then night fell and so did the temperatures- down below freezing. I’m no expert but I think the cold must have frozen their sap and the trees were then no match for the wind. We lost power about 4-5ish Sunday morning. I had planned to leave home about 8:30am to go to Stayton to meet up with my sister and her family who were visiting from Spokane, but when I got to the bottom of the driveway I realized the gate won’t open when the electricity is out so I went back home and Michael called the neighbor, also known as our landlord, so he could manually open it. About 40 minutes later I was free to leave. I got about a mile and could go no farther. Power lines and around 6 trees lay between me and the freeway. My only alternate was to drive the curvy back roads which head southeast to Sandy and are more protected from the wind. It took me a bit longer, but that’s what I did and eventually made it. We also got our electricity back that night. Still today it continues to blow pretty good. I went into Gresham for a bible study and a section of one of the main roads in Gresham, Stark St, was closed because yet another tree had given its life to the east wind. The forecast is that it should die down by tomorrow. I have no photos from the storm so I stole some that Pastor Jerry took from around our church:

http://s123.photobucket.com/albums/o289/spovy26/?action=view&current=n1630413785_97677_7300.jpg

http://i123.photobucket.com/albums/o289/spovy26/n1630413785_97679_9130.jpg

http://i123.photobucket.com/albums/o289/spovy26/n1630413785_97680_54.jpg

Here on our homestead we suffered no damage because we had no wind. We are well protected by a hill that slopes down to the Sandy River.  Our only casualty was our paper box that used to sit with all the others at the top of the hill about a mile from the house. Not a big deal although we have not received the paper the last few days and I kind of wanted to keep either today or tomorrows paper along with the Oregonian from Wednesday, November 5th as a souvenir from this time in history.

That reminds me other sorts of ‘war zones’ I was thinking about this morning as I was driving through a very windy Gresham listening to the pre-inageration programing on NPR- that being the war in Iraq, the economy, health care, racism. All thing on the fore front of the American mind today. I am hopeful that things will change for the better in the coming months and years, but I am not overly hopeful. Obama is just a man after all, even if he has already overcome so much and is now President of a country still very powerful in its weakness. Only time will tell if he can really change things and ultimatly if he was a good president. I was impressed with his speach today and that it excited so many people. What excites me is the need and want for change that seems to have stired in the hearts of people because of Obama. The desire in people to ‘get out and do’ and serve their communities. After all one man doesn’t change history very often, but millions of people have and can. Serving one another, loving your neighbor as yourself, are very good places to start and if we can all do them then things will surely get better.

Why I Hate ‘Tolerance’

Today I spent much of my morning listening to the Inauguration on NPR and watching it on NBC. I was impressed with the prayers, the poems, and the speeches. They were all well done and very change inspiring, I thought. One word though that made me shudder was a word which probably left warm fuzzies in the hearts of everyone else and that word was “tolerant”. Before you discount me as anything but a bigot or intolerant fool, please hear me out- for tolerance sake.  For one thing I hate that tolerance requires me to accept things that I think are bad or wrong or both. Also I feel that tolerance isn’t very tolerant of people who are not tolerant. People who are tolerant, in my experience, hate it if you do not subscribe to their way of thinking. For example Nazis, Skinheads, and White Supremacists are pretty extreme anti-tolerance groups. I have yet to meet any tolerance person who would tolerate these people. And yet should those that are hardest to tolerate be the ones who need tolerance the most? Philosophers that I researched for this seem to disagree on whether its okay to be intolerant of intolerance or not. But is anything short of complete tolerance really tolerance?

Let me back up a bit and take a look at what Tolerance is. Here is what the almighty Wikipedia had to say:

“Toleration and tolerance are terms used in social, cultural and religious contexts to describe attitudes and practices that prohibit discrimination against those practices or group memberships that may be disapproved of by those in the majority. Conversely, ‘intolerance’ may be used to refer to the discriminatory practices sought to be prohibited. Though developed to refer to the religious toleration of minority religious sects following the Protestant Reformation, these terms are increasingly used to refer to a wider range of tolerated practices and groups, or of political parties or ideas widely considered objectionable.”

So anything considered objectionable is intolerant, but who decides what is objectionable.? Later in the Wiki article it mentions that those ‘objectionables’ have changed through the course of history and are usually decided by the ruling government. Which seems a bit politically motivated to me. Like Constantine tolerating Christians for example. Which now I suppose we’ve come full circle since Christians are considered among the most intolerant in American society today. And of course politics do come into play I think quite a lot today when it comes to who is and who is not tolerated.

If I think that homosexuality, fornication, and adultery are wrong (all common practices today) why should the tolerance movement ask me to change my mind? That would be asking me to choose between my religion and being a socially ‘nice’ person. Isn’t that kind of intolerant?

If the whole idea of tolerance is to stop the hate, and I’m certainly not against that idea, then why not just love instead. That’s something I can understand. Jesus said the greatest commandments require love. The first to love the Lord your God with all you heart, mind and soul. The second He said was like it- love your neighbor as yourself. That does not mean loving their behavior, but loving the person. Like the old Christian saying goes, “hate the sin, not the sinner”. Then I can love every body whether they are tolerant or not. I know Love was all very popular in the 1970’s and maybe we just needed a new buzzword, but my suggestion is that we stop with the tolerance and start with the love. All we need is love. I think it will get America a lot farther than tolerance.

One more question to ask perhaps is what does Love in action look like? Well scripture says Love is patient; love is kind; love has no envy; love has no high opinion of itself, love has no pride; Love’s ways are ever fair, it takes no thought for itself; it is not quickly made angry, it takes no account of evil; It takes no pleasure in wrongdoing, but has joy in what is true; Love has the power of undergoing all things, having faith in all things, hoping all things.  Jesus  said to love your enemies, bless those who curse you, do good to those who hate you, and pray for those who persecute you. He also said so what if you love those who love you- that’s easy.  The greatest love is dieing for someone else.

Sounds hard, but it sounds a lot better than tolerance.

Tolerance.org is, I guess, the machine and movement making a tolerant heaven here on earth. According to the site the 10 Ways to Fight Hate (am I the only one who finds irony in the use of the word ‘fight’?) are as follows:

1. Act

2. Unite

3. Support the Victims

4. Do Your Homework

5. Create an Alternative

6. Speak Up

7. Lobby Leaders

8. Look Long Range

9. Teach Tolerance

10. Dig Deeper- which means looking inside yourself for prejudices and stereotypes

Now I agree with all that except #9, because again I’d much rather teach love.

I can agree with parts of the tolerance movement and I can even love tolerant people as well as intolerant people, but I wonder will tolerant people tolerate me?

To close I’ll leave you with a quote from Elizabeth Alexander’s poem Praise Song For The Day: A Poem For Barak Obama’s Presidential Inauguration

“Some live by “Love thy neighbor as thy self.”

Others by first do no harm, or take no more than you need.

What if the mightiest word is love, love beyond marital, filial, national. Love that casts a widening pool of light. Love with no need to preempt grievance.”

Cute Cade and the Continuing Chronicles of My Writing

Cute things Cade has said in the last few weeks:

“Mom, you drive me peanuts.”

“I’m not Cade Samuel Dennis, I’m Captain Bruiser Defender of the Weak”

To one of his little friend’s moms- “You spank my Mia?”

“I love you to bits, mom”

I’m trying to do a better job of recording life. This blog is one way for me to do that. I also keep a couple journals. One is a prayer/thought/sketch journal. I’ve kept a journal like this since high school and keep them after I fill them up. There are around 6 some where in a storage container. I’m sure I’d have many more if I were more consistent. Also I keep a journal for Cade that I started when I was prego and just add tid bits here and there about his growing up. Journaling is key for me. I’m not so good at talking things out or doing the alternative of bottling them up. Writing is my psychologist, my best friend, my place of enlightenment, my throne room. I don’t usually need others to help work out my feeling or thoughts, usually doing that makes me frustrated, I only need to sit and write. Sometimes something might even come out which is worth expounding on and finalizing into an essay or poem or, like now, a blog. I’ve always known this about myself, but it was only recently that my friend Autumn helped me become aware of it. Autumn is always very insightful and discerning.

As a side note my goal for this year is to send at least one piece of writing to an editor or publisher each month. Not much of a goal maybe, but I’m going with the baby step approach. This month I sent two. One wanted to chop it to bits and make my commentary a letter to the editor (barf) and the other I never heard from. So goes my adventure in writing…

A Study and Reflection on Grace

“Grace is that in God which brings into favor one justly in disfavor” A.W. Tozer from The Attributes of God

I’ve been hearing a lot about grace lately, most of it I haven’t liked. I figure when I hear so much about something from so many different sources that the Lord is trying to tell me something. In this case I finally sat down last night with my Bible and did a bit of a word study on grace. What follows are my findings. It is not doctrine it is just what the Bible says and my own reflections on those words:

Genesis 6:8

God was going to destroy the whole earth, “but Noah found grace…” And so because of Grace humanity had hope of survival. This was a type and shadow of the Grace and Salvation to come later through Christ.

John 1:16-17 ESV “And from His fullness we have all received, grace upon grace. For the law was given through Moses, but grace and truth came through Jesus Christ”.

Moses, the Bible says, also found grace in the eyes of God and it was through that grace that he received the law. But more grace was available and came in human form through Christ. God’s Grace brought us Jesus who died on the cross giving us salvation. The cross is the bridge between humanity and God. Romans 5:17. What Christ brought us through His death was accesses to Him no longer by works, but by grace. Romans 11:5-6 & Galatians 5:4. Justification by works is anti-grace. To trust in “being good enough” is to deny grace, so grace really is freeing. It is freedom from sin as well as the law and works.

Ephesians 1:7 NKJ “In him we have redemption through His blood, the forgiveness of sins, according to the riches of his grace…”

Ephesians 2:8-9 NKJ “For by grace you have been saved through faith, and that not of yourselves; it is the gift of God, not of works, lest anyone should boast.”

Paul writes more than anyone in the Bible about grace. One thing I wondered is why so many of Paul’s letters start and end with prayers of grace. What was Paul’s understanding of grace that he wished so often for grace for others? I think it is because he knew it was only by grace that we have hope of salvation. 2 Thessalonians 2:16. I suppose he had good reason to. Looking at his life, who he was before he had his encounter with God and believed that Jesus was the Christ, seeing the great grace God showed him it is no wonder. Paul also seems to use grace as a synonym for salvation.

Titus 2:11-12 NKJ “For the grace of God that brings salvation has appeared to all men, teaching us that, denying ungodliness and worldly lusts, we should live soberly, righteously, and godly in the present age…”

An understanding and feeling of God’s grace in our life should bring us closer to God, not take us farther away- that would be an abuse of grace. A healthy relationship is one in which both people give and put the other above their self. An abusive one is where one person gives and the other only takes. Grace should cause us to love the Lord more, to desire holiness and righteousness as a way to give back- to be that which Christ tells the woman at the well in John 4:23-24 ESV “But the hour is coming, and is now here, when the true worshipers will worship the Father in spirit and truth, for the Father is seeking such people to worship him. God is spirit, and those who worship him must worship in spirit and truth.”

Salvation is a free gift through grace, not of works, but faith without works is dead. James 2:20. We cannot earn it, but when we have it there is a change in us- a love for Jesus that compels us to want to serve Him. It is looking at our lives as Paul did, seeing the great grace that God has given, and in humility and love desiring to serve with all of us, our whole life, even to death.

Portland and Seattle

Having spent the last 5+ years in East County and driving so often to the Salem area I’m often faced with the choice of taking 205 to I5 or just staying on I5 all the way down. Lately the choice hasn’t been so hard- I5 all the way. Especially at night. Why? I’ve fallen in love with Portland. I always used to think I was a country girl growing up in Lyons like I did. But the last year I have spent in the far reaches of Corbett/ Springdale I have learned something. I’m a little bit of a city girl, too. Maybe a lot even. I especially love driving over the I5 overpass at night. You cross over the Willamette and you can see all the thousands (millions maybe) of tiny little lights. From the boats on the river to the cars on the many bridges, the US Bank Corp building, the KOIN towers, the  Marriott- all those lights make such a beautiful twinkling landscape.

There is so much more to love about Portland than just its night time look. It’s the weirdness. It’s the posh-fun to look at-too expensive to buy shops in the Pearle. It’s the funky little consignment shops downtown. It’s the atmosphere of the cafes. It’s the amazing restaurants of all flavors and ethnicity’s. Hollywood, Burnside, MLK and Division. Hippies, yuppies, gangsters, pranksters, the stylish and the emoish. The many parks, the many bridges, the many pubs, the many arts worshiped. Powell’s, McMenamins, the Grotto, the Waterfront, Portland Art Museum. I haven’t seen it all, there is so much more to explore. These are all the things I love about it and I’m fiercely loyal to this little green city.

Last weekend though I spent in Seattle. My prior experience with Seattle has been driving through I5 traffic and changing planes at SeaTac. We arrived Saturday and drove to the Ballard and Shorelines area. We walked around Pike’s Market, took photos of the Puget Sound and went to see the space needle. All the usual Seattle stuff. Sunday morning we returned to Ballard and attended service at the main campus of Mars Hill Church. What an incredible church and move of God. I wish I could make everyone I know listen to their sermons at least once a week. The ministry of Mars Hill and Mark Driscoll, the founder, has had such an amazing impact in my life. To know what I believe listen to a few of his sermons. I got to meet Mark Driscoll and we thanked him for his ministry. He was really nice and much shorter than he looks on UTube.  For such a large church (4 services & around 3,000 people I think) it didn’t feel large. There were very  volunteers everywhere. The congregation was great, worship was phenomenal and you don’t expect to get to meet the pastor in a church that large, but we did. Another landmark for me was visiting the huge and beautiful Seattle REI. All in all a great weekend in Seattle and as much as I love Portland I think I’ve started a love affair with Seattle. Not just because of Mars Hill, but because it is so much like Portland, but 10X so. Plus Seattle seems a bit more sophisticated. Like the big brother Portland looks up to. For now I’m perfectly content to live in the Portland Metro, but I could definitely see my self living in Seattle some day. Not to settle, but maybe a year or two. I may be becoming a city girl at heart, although I think I’ll probably always end up in the burbs- half way between the country and the city.

I must add that really the best part of the whole thing was being with my family. Michael is so busy and Cade is always wanting to be with him, and me too of course, that it was just so nice to have all that time together without interruption. It makes me smile thinking about.

Poetry

I’m not exactly sure, my mom would have to confirm or deny it, but I think I started writing short stories and poems at about age 6-7. For fun. I’ve always done it for fun. To fulfill some sort of need inside myself. I love to read too and can’t stand a bad writer, but adore a really great writer- whether it is poetry, fiction, non-fiction. Whatever. I don’t really care much for my own writing though even though I do a lot of it. What I really dislike most is my poetry and yet I keep writing it. I’m not sure why. Again I think it is the whole fulfill some need. Lately though I’ve been thinking about sending some of it to publishers. First though I thought posting it here would be a good trial run. Please be honest. I already hate it so if you do too I might be hurt, but I’m not going to care too much. Really. My writing is a part of me and when it gets rejected by publishers its hard not to feel like I myself am being rejected too. I think that’s why I’ve always shied away from ‘becoming a writer’. It may be harder to be rejected by my own friends and family, but I guess I’d prefer it. Yadda, yadda, yadda. Here is some for your consideration, be honest or don’t comment. Whatever.

Testimony

I am a page;

Although not blank.

I have been written upon

By people loved and hated,

By events and choices.

I am stained beyond my control-

I am stained by my control.

Some things have been blotted out,

Although there’s still a scar.

My own devices have made me ugly,

But he is a better artist-

A true craftsmen.

As I surrender, he beautifies.

Now it’s hard to see,

But I believe one day

I will only be beautifulness.

Heaven

Who can tell me of sunless days

As bright as an August midday?

There I hear is a golden shore

Wherein Love reigns forevermore.

Is there any one who has seen

A holy and translucent being?

I have read that is where they dwell;

Triumphant over death and Hell.

What mortal knows this Paradise?

Would that knowledge to me suffice?

It is a place I yearn to travel,

A mystery I long to unravel.

Taylor & 10th

Summer evening sun fades to gold,

Slipping behind large many handed maples

Standing as sentinels.

Cool bleached park beckons the unshaded city.

It’s soothing breeze relieves

Sweaty, sticky bodies

Sends maple hands clapping a rattling song.

Tibetan yellow robes

Sit, watch, chant, find solace in the symphony.

Pick-up game on blacktop

Jump, run, yelling, cursing sounds as percussion

Like bass drums and symbols.

Rastafari dreads in black basketball shoes,

Stands alone in their midst.

In the far field frisbee gives way to kick ball.

Dogs on leash add their barks to the city sounds.

The whir of bicycles,

Giggles of small children,

Unheard conversations.

This is Portland funky

And this is Portland weird.

This is Portland’s street song

And Portland’s summer symphony.

Mazama

Modern Mazama- sleeping monster;

We are too disconnected to see,

Ancient communal cords are broken.

Replaced with synthetic hard cables;

They move nothing but dank metallics,

Not liquid love and tender rhythm.

So another explodes red and falls,

With not a shred of flesh for comfort,

They disappear beyond our touching.

Oh, where are you who’s created for this?

How could you forget your first lover?

And in forgetting forget your call?

You have missed the giving end of take.

Repent!

Before one more is lost to the cracks.

Mostly an Update

I hadn’t realized until I logged on to this site that I haven’t had a blog entry in a month! So much for my goals. Although I do have to brag that I’ve done better thus far this year with my goal of sending a submission to one editor a month. I’ve been doing at least two or more a month. I guess getting my work out to publishers is more a priority than keeping up on my blog. As it should be. Still though my work has all been in vain. I usually do not hear back from the places I send stuff and when I do it is always, “thanks, but no thanks.”  And I press on. I feel like I need to be as prolific as I can before August comes and with it the new baby. A mom of one can find time to write here and there, but a mom of two? In a way I feel like now is my chance. Not that I’ll ever quite writing or sending out my work in hopes of publication, but it will become more difficult. At least as long as I have small children to care for. Sometimes I think the only way I’ll ever have a chance of becoming a famous writer is to have a traumatic death of some sort. A bit dramatic I know, but look at all the people who became famous after their deaths. Next Monday I’m hoping to join a group of writers from Imago Dei for a social chat at the Lucky Labrador Pub. They meet every other week for more serious discussions, but with Michael at school Monday nights it makes it hard to attend their 7pm meetings. Next week is spring break and then Michael will be free to babysit Monday night, and I’ll be free to cavort with other writers. That’s all I will have time for today. I must shower and then spend some time working on new stuff for sending out to potential publishers before Cade wakes from his nap.

As a bit of a side note I succeeded in my first attempt at Corned Beef & Cabbage yesterday! I also made a pretty mean Irish Soda bread and Lime pie. I love St. Patrick’s Day, if you’ve never read How The Irish Saved Civilization then do yourself a favor and read it. Here’s a limerick I found that I wrote last year for the occasion:

A Leprechaun sat on fair Irish hill

Not wearing his usual dill.

Twas a pickle indeed

For March the seventeenth,

But of green he had, had his fill

Goodbye, Grandpa

Last week was sort of a rough one. I knew on Monday my Grandpa was having some health problems and at 87 it wasn’t the first time. Tuesday my dad called to tell me Grandpa wasn’t doing well and he was going to be leaving Spokane to drive down. I was worried and decided to drive down myself on Wednesday morning. No one really knew what was going on, but I wanted a chance to be there for the family, especially Grandma, and say my goodbyes to Grandpa if it came to that. It was hard to see Grandpa in that hospital bed sedated, breathing hard and looking much smaller than his true almost 6 foot frame. I wasn’t sure how to react. I first greeted my family and sat near Grandma as she talked about what was going on and reminisced about better days. Mostly she talked about the overwhelming support of the church and community. How glad she was to have her family around her. We waited all that day for Grandpa to wake up out of his sedation, but as the day progressed he slowly got worse and never did open his eyes.

When I took Grandma home that night none of us expected him to make it until morning. My dad stayed the night with Grandpa and I prayed, mainly for dad’s sake, that Grandpa wouldn’t go. At Grandpa and Grandma’s house I sat around the table with Grandma and two of my uncles as we shared a few memories. Uncle Bill told us that right before they sedated Grandpa a family friend asked him if she could hold his hand as he was restless and a bit combative, while they gave him the medication. Grandpa looked at her and said he guessed that would be alright so long as that was as far as it went. That sounded just like him. Bill told that story as he played with a folded napkin that Grandpa had left sitting there and we remembered how Grandpa too often did the same thing when he sat at the table, usually telling stories as well.  I stayed with Grandma that night and while it was a sleepless night for me, fearful that the phone might ring, I know it was much worse for Grandma.  Grandpa made it through the night and in the morning Grandma was anxious to get back to the hospital, but while we made breakfast together she told me to toast two pieces of bread for ‘daddy’ (Grandpa). I don’t know if she realized her mistake. I guess after 64 years of cooking someone breakfast it is not easy to change your habits. It is not easy to function apart from them. The day before while we sat in the hospital Grandma had been telling a story and upon getting hung up turned toward Grandpa laying asleep in the bed expecting him to finish the story. She told me she was used to him being there to finish her thoughts.

Dad came back to the house before we finished breakfast since he had been relieved of his watch and reported that not much had changed throughout the course of the night. When Grandma left with Uncle Larry to return to the hospital I decided to head home and keep my prenatal appointment. I left my cell phone on vibrate during the ultrasound and check-up. Michael and my sister called a few time for and with updates, but it wasn’t until my dad called at 1:25pm that I knew. I was in the checkout line at FredMeyer’s and wouldn’t have normally answered nor did I really want to get the news there, but I hated the idea of hearing it on the voicemail more so I answered. Grandpa had stopped breathing and they honored his desire to not be resuscitated. I waited to get to the car before I cried and drove home, but I knew I didn’t want to go home by myself and just sit around. I drove up to the door and grabbed my video camera. Ever since we moved to Corbett last March Grandpa had been asking me about certain locations around town and did I know where they were. I was fairly sure by his descriptions that we lived just a mile down from a house he had lived in with his sister and brother-in-law.  To confirm I had planned to video some of the locals and show it to him. I never did, but my plan was to do this now. I figured it would give me a chance to grieve, to mourn, to feel a connection to Grandpa and I could still show it to Grandma- maybe she would appreciate it. Corbett is where she grew up and met Grandpa, where they were married and lived for a while together before they eventually ended up in Lyons and Stayton.  I think that little exercise did help. I’m not sure if I’ll ever show anyone the recording, but it was good for me. Writing this has helped too. Tomorrow is the burial and Friday the memorial service. I think those things will also help the process.  While I’ve not had a lot of experience with death I’m convinced that mourning is a process- it doesn’t happen in one day. It is grieving each time I say “Grandpa and Grandma’s” instead of just “Grandma’s”. It is seeing his empty recliner. Looking at photos of him. Little memories that pop up from time to time. Missing him. Glad he is with Jesus and believing I’ll see him again, but still missing him.

To end here is a little something I wrote in my journal the night before he died:

I’m laying in bed in my grandparent’s home of 20 years studying my Grandpa’s hat collection. There are at least 30. Baseball caps, trucker hats, golf hats. Some with silly sayings, some souvenirs of places traveled, one says “Grandpa”. It is one of those things I’ll always remember about him. Like the fly swatter and cane, prayers over Sunday meals, his love of reading and western movies, showing his false teeth to us grandkids and as Bill mentioned tonight when he saw Grandpa’s folded napkin on the table, the way he always fiddled with stuff. Cookies with Cade, too. It was hard to see him in that hospital bed today looking so small and weak. He didn’t look like himself. I didn’t touch him, didn’t whisper a goodbye in his ear. I’ll probably always regret that. I prefer to remember the last time I saw him (two weeks ago). He was still himself then. I hugged him and promised I’d see him again soon.