Tuesday, July 30, 2013

    In Ocrober of 2005 we had our biggest barbeque yet. People came from all over
America and the world. Represented from out of the country were Canada, Denmark,
England and Scotland. People were also there from Arizona,Stylishplus,California, Rhode Island and New York. i drove down to Bob's on the evening of Thursday, October 6th to be there on Friday so i could pick up Paul and Glynis, a couple arriving from England.Already there were Neil and sandy from Canada, susey from England, Jean from Scotland and Ron and Lili from Rhode Island.
    This was also a specia1 occasion. Von was there from Arizona and Vivi was from Demnark. In the early part of 2003 Von and Vivi met in my music room and hit it off we11 enough that they decided they wanted to meet. So Von traveled to Denmark and spent a month with Vivi. They fel1 in love and it was decided that Vivi would come to America and live with Von. After a bit Vivi had to go back to Denmark for a time while the arrangement were being made. Then Von went back to Denmark and on October 8th,2004 they were married in the city of Holstebro. Since Vivi was now Von's wife she could come back with him to America to stay. Their first year anniversary fe11 on the day of the barbeque émd they did me the great honor of spending it with us.
    After we ate and before we started karaoke i invited Von and Vivi to take the
dance floor. i popped in a specia1 cd i had burned for the occasion and played Dina11 Shore's version of the Anniversary Waltz. It was wonderful to watch them twirl around on the dance floor, and everyone applauded when they were done. Then of course my smarta1ec side had ro kick in. Von is really tall and Vivi is very short, kind of like the old time cartoon characters Muu and Jeff. So when the dance was finished i grabbed the mic and quipped,"and there fo1ks you have the long and the short of it." Everyone broke into laughter and the fun was kicked off for the evening.
    Because we were going to have people from around the world, i sent emails to all the major media corporations inviting them ro attend. This would bave been their chance to get perspective vievi'point on world events from average people who didn't live in America. But i guess they were too busy spreading the gloom of Hurricane Katrina and the war in Iraq to bother with sma11 timers like us. Since the topic of our "Summit Meeting" was music and not an issue as important as global warming, we were not newsworth1y。 Too bad, because sometimes in the midst of a11 the bad news,i believe folks would like to hear about a "feel good" event. Ah we11, life goes on.

Posted on 2:55 AM by Unknown

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Monday, July 29, 2013

    My next destination would be Las Vegas, Nevada, about four hours to the northwest of Flagstaff. i had to drive across the Hoover Dam on my way .The first time 1 had driven across the dam was while i was trucking in 1991. Back then the lake's surface level was at 1180 feet above sea level, down almost fifty feet from it's maximum capacity level of 1229 feet. When 1 had crossed the dam again in 2007 it was down another fifty feet at 1130. This time when i drove across the dam the leve1 was down even further, now being at 1112 feet and almost 120 feet lower than full capacity: Lake Mead was now at forty six percent of it's full capaciry, and it's pretty apparent that they will have to do something soon or Las Vegas is going to turn to dust and blow away. I got into town and checked into dle motel. This is where i have to say that the phrase "Location is everything" was painfully apparent. i stayed at the exact same motel chain
in Las Vegas as i had in Albuquerque. But where they had charged me sixty six dollars for two nights in Albuquerque,they were charging me sixty eight dollars for one night in Las Vagas, more than double thee price. well it's only money. That's easy for you to say ,you don't have any expenses. I had a few minutes to freshen up before I was to go meet Maryal1n (Lexie89101) and Nancy (NanDevl) for dinner. But the meeting never took place. Nancy had gotten her days mixed up and thought i was going to be in town the next night. i left a message that i was there but she never checked her machine that night. i didn't have Maryann's number, Nancy was the liason. But it didn't matter, Maryann had been called to work and couldn't have made it anyway Nancy promises that the next time i come through Las vagas, she'll cook dinner and even make me cornbread, one of my favorites. i spent the night in the motel room channel surfing on the tv.we were in Las vagas,Iwanted to go out and party, gamble and ogle the cocktail waitresses. Yeah well, remember that money thing? Hey, you can't win if you don't play. Uhhuh, you can't lose either. When you come up with a get rich scheme that works, we'll talk about going out and playing.

Posted on 2:36 AM by Unknown

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Friday, July 26, 2013

    Right now you're living large and you're loving it. Life
is good and the living is easy. But what if you could live
that lovely large life and use less? (And wasn't that a tongle
twister?) What if you could scale it back a bit and save a little for
later? Wouldn't that be a good thing? Let's find out.
    When 1 talk about "saving" things, I'm talking about saving
money, effort and resources, for the most part. 0 f course, by
saving these things, you are also saving your environment just
a little bit as well. You're cutting down on pollution and waste
and landfills and smog, not only where you are, but where all of
the things we buy and use are made to begin with: at the power
plants and factories around the world. A little savings here is
also a little savings there, and it all adds up. Or not, if you don't.
And let's not forget: everything you don't buy is something
that didn't have to be shipped,shoe store often halfway around the
world , just to get to you. That makes for even more
resource savings and less pollution. Sometimes eddoing nothing
is something. How Zen-like.
    Once you sort conserving things, all of the different kinds
of savings start to pop up all over the place. It gets to be a bit of
a game: How much can 1 save? How many ways can 1 save how
many different things? What can 1 save next? For ]oAnn and me,
it all started out so small and innocent, we hardly noticed we' d
started at all. Yes, then it all got out of hand, but that came much
later. It all started with ]oAnn's morning walk.
    Every morning, my wonderful wife gets out and walks three
miles. She's done it for years, and everyone sees her and knows
her as The Girl That Walks. On her way home from that morning
walk, she always buys a newspaper at a rack just a couple of
blocks from our house. 5he does that every weekday morning.
On the weekends, we usually walk out to breakfast at Tory's café,
just half a mile or so from our house. Along the way, we buy a
newspaper. On Sundays, we buy two (two different ones).
The thing is, buying a newspaper every day and two
on Sunday starts to add up pretty quickly when you goω
throw them away. And let's face it: yesterday's newspaper
is today's puppy trainer. It is, quite literally, old news.
50 what do you do with them all the very next day?
    It came to this: the newspapers were heavy, and
throwing them away - that is, bagging them and drag
ging them out to the curb for pickup - was a chore. There had
to be a better way. There was. 5everallocal churches and all of
the local recycling centers offer newspaper recycling bins. All we
had to do was save up our newspapers and take them to one of
these recycling bins every so often (every couple of weeks or so,
as it turns out). No more heavy trash bags, no more dragging
boat anchors of newsprint to the curb. Life just got a little better,
and all we did was put a big tub for the old newspapers out in
the garage, right by the door into the house. 50 it began, and the
truth comes out: she started it. It was a11 JoAnn's fault. (Thank
you, my dear.)
    Now, initially, that's a11 we did, and, yes, it actua11y did cost
us a little more to recycle the newspapers. JoAnn would put the
old newspapers in the truck (they're heat" remember?) and
drive to the recycle center to dump them in a bin. 5he did this
as she was running other errands, but still, energy (and therefore
money) was used. C'est la vie. It was probably less energy
(and money) than the big garbage truck was using, and we were
keeping those newspapers out of the localland and/or incinerator.
lt was a start.
    When most folks talk about savings, they mean saving
money, and that's OK. That's a great way to keep track of what
you're saving, as money saved usually does translate rather directly
into energy and resources saved as we11. Take our monthly
power bi11, for example. It was slowly creeping up and up and
then up some more. 1 didn't think we were using more power
every month - it was just costing more to use what we did.
As our monthly bill began to top $100 on a regular basis, 1 got
focused. Se.started making changes in how our house was run and the
things that ran in it. We changed light bulbs, unplugged stuff we
didn't need, and added things that would help. Over time, that
power bill came down. Way down. Despite the ever-increasing
rates charged for power, 1 don't remember the last time we had
a power bill over $35. It's been years. How's that for savings?
You can do this. You can save some serious money, just through
a little conservation and even less effort. It's easy. And wait until
you hear how much we're saving on our garbage bill. Go team!
    Look, I've already said that 1 don't consider myself any sort
of tree-hugging green freak, but apparently I'm alone in that assessment.
Maybe 1 am a green freak. All of my friends seem to
think so, anyway. Still, we have, at last count,have functioning
gasoline engines in our garage: a full-sized pickup truck, a 500cc
motorcycle, a 200cc motor scooter (with sidecar!) , a gas lawn
mower, and a gas chain saw (because an electric chain saw does
you very little good when the power is out after a storm). We sure
don't sound so green now, do we? Yes, 1 ride my bicycle to work,
and }oAnn walks to the grocery store, but we also put some miles
on those gas-fired infernal combustion machines. We watch TV
and 1 fuss in the garage and we do all of those things suburbanites
do, we just do them using a little less. And if that's all it takes
to be green, then, yes, we are green. I've just never thought of
ourselves as a11 at green. If we ever have the guts to ditch the
truck, then 1'11 say we're green. Don't hold your breath.
    Still, every little bit helps, and when you're looking at over
six billion people on planet earth,ladies shoes a little bit of change can make
a big difference if enough people do it. We're not doing much, but
we're doing our part. We're using less, living small, and helping
to maybe not po11ute the planet quite so much as we used to. It's
no big deal. It's not a major effort on our part, it's just how we
live our lives these days. But would be amazing if everyone
did it. Wow.
    We live in suburbia, surrounded by even more suburbia for
about fifty miles in every direction. Except for west. Nothing but
the (stunningly beautiful) Gulf of Mexico out that way. Living
as we do in endless suburbia, one of the big issues here, with so
many people, is the question of what to do with a11 the garbage.
It's a good question. A very valid question. An important, immediate
question. The two or three million people who live around
here can generate a considerable heap of trash in fairly short
order, and that's on a good day. What do you do with it al1? Where
does it all go? We have to answer those questions over and over
again, day after day, and again tomorrow.
    The county where 1 live operates one of the largest garbageburning
power plants in the country. lt's an impressive sight to
see, and it makes me proud to know that we're doing that, and
have been for years. This county was green before green was
coo1. 1 like that, green freak that 1 apparently am. sti11, as you
wel1 know, just because you burn something doesn't mean it
goes completely away. You stil1 have to deal with the ash and the
things that don't (or shouldn't) bum. Around here, that means
landhil1s. And around here, landfi11s can be a bit problematic.
There's just not that much "around here" left.
    We live, you see, in the second sma11est county in the state of
Florida. Close to one mi11ion people live on just 280 square miles
of lovely, semi-tropical sandbar between the Gulf of Mexico and
Tampa Bay. That's a lot of people on not much sand. 50 where
does all the garbage go? What doesn't go to the power plant goes
to the landfi11, and the land is about full. Then what do we
do? Then we recycle like crazy. Then we a11 recycle like JoAnn
and 1 are recycling right now. i fugure J oAnn and 1 recycle about
95 percent of everything we use. That makes for very little garbage.
(1 figure we generate about one small bag of garbage a
month. Maybe.) If everyone did that, we wouldn't have to worry
about landfills so much. Wouldn't that be nice? Maybe some
day. Maybe you can help. Where you live can't be much different
from where we live. All communities have to worry about what
they do with their garbage, and we're all running out of room.
Maybe it's time to do things a little differently. A little better. A
little smaller.
   

Posted on 7:01 PM by Unknown

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Wednesday, July 24, 2013

    1n many ways, the voices of these new and yet so old Catholics can be seen
as calling forth a new witness. We see ourselves as "a chosen race, a royal
priesthood, a holy nation,stylishplus, God's own people" who work to "declare the
wonderful deeds of him who called (us) out of darkness into his marvelous
light. " Throughout our existence in the United States we were seen as "no
people" but tod a African American Catholics affirm that we "are God's
people"; once little mercy was given us "but now (we) have received mercy"
fronl God on high (1 Peter 2:9-10) . As part of that witness, we recognize the
necessity of exposing the miseducation received by all, of whatever race,
who dwell in this land regarding the contributions of our black and Catholic
foremothers and forefathers to the present status of the United States.
The truth of our hi stor只b oth in this and other adopted lands, and in our
n10therland as weU, tTIust be recovered, for that hi story reveals th e proud and
distin ctive heritage that is ours, one whi ch predates the Greek and Roman
empires as well as Christopher Columbus. Black Catholics must also tell our
story within our church, a story that has as part of its r ichness a cheri shed
role in the life of the church dating back to Africa. For it was our Afri can
foremothers and forefathers who received the teachings of Christ from the
church's earliest beginnings; they who nurtured and sheltered those teachings,
preserving thetTI from the depredations of those who were not believers;
they who received, revitalized, and re-Christianized those teachin gs, too
often distorted at the hands of their wOllld-be masters, in the new lands of
the Ameri cas. Cyprian Davis has written of those early years of Afri can
history:
    Long before Christianity arrived in the Scandinavian countries, at least a
century before St. Patrick evangelized lreland, and over two centuries before
St. Augustine wou ld arrive in Canterbury, and almost seven cen turies before
the conversion of the Poles and the establishment of the kingdom of Poland,
this mountainous Black kingdom (Ethiopia) was a Catholic nation with its
own liturgy .its own spectacular religious art, its own monastic tradition, its
saints, and its own sp irituality.This cherished heritage lnust once again be brought forth, exposed to the light of a new day, and shared with all of the church catholic.
    One can arguably say that the continued presence of black Catholics
in the ROlnan Catholic Church in the United 5tat es serves as a subversive
memory, one that turns all of reality upside down, for it is a memor y of hope
brought forth from pain, of perseverance lnaintained in the face of bloody
opposition, of faith born of tortured struggle.6 It is the memory of a people
forced to bring forth life from conditions conducive only to death, much as
Christ himself was restored to life after a scandalous death. Ours is a memory
of survival against all odds. It is the memory of a people, born in a strange
and often hostile land, paradoxically celebrating Christ 's victory over death
as a sign of God's promise of their eventualliberation froln a harsh servitude
imposed by their fellow Christians. Today, black Catholics are affirming that
we are no longer sojourners, we are no longer just passing through; we are
here to stay and intend to celebrate our presence as only we can.

Posted on 11:19 PM by Unknown

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Sunday, July 21, 2013

    If I were to ask one hundred people to complete the sentence,
"Preachers' Kids (PKs) are ," the vast majority would answer,
"The worst of all!"
    But then, everyone knows PKs (or Vicars' Kids insert your
own term here) got that way by playing with the Deacons' Kids.
    However, could there be some truth to the stereotype? According
to an informal study conducted in Texas, some 80 percent of preachers'
kids are no longer connected to the church as adults.
    I wouldn't be a good preacher's wife if I didn't brag on
my husband, so I'll tell you something he did recently that serves as
a perfect example.
    Recently our church celebrated Pastor Appreciation Day. We
belong to a loving, generous fellowship, so this day was one we
wholeheartedly enjoyed. During the Sunday evening service, Luke
gave a ((State of the Union" address in which he thanked the church,
let the members know our zeal had not diminished, and communicated
how very happy we remain in our ministry. (A little side
note the people to whom you are ministering appreciate knowing
when you are happy.)
    Then he said something I hadn't anticipated but had me almost
giving a "whoop whoop" from my seat: "Thank you for loving my
family, especially my children. I know my kids aren't perfect, and I
don't expect them to be. What's more is that I really believe you don't
demand this of them any more than you do your own children. We
appreciate that you let them be who they are without making them
feel they have to meet a different standard. This means the world to
us, and we just wanted you to know."
    My man is brilliant.
    Whether Luke realized what he'd done or not and I'm sure he
didn't because he doesn't have the Manipulation Gene he thanked
the congregation in advance for grace. While Luke and I strive toward
a happy medium in parenting, we have high expectations of our kids
and are working diligently to instill the concept of accountability in
them.
    Because man's motivations
are not always pure, we can fall back to the happy medium in
seeking to meet expect ations and find balance between not caring
at all what is said of us and sacrificing our children on the altar of
approval.
    Following this general rule of thumb will manifest itself in the
lives of your children and the church in this way: When your congregation
knows your main goal in the raising of your children is
to have them love God and respect His house and His people, then
their criticisms will be in love instead of contempt for what you are
not doing. I've seen this played out with my very own kids. Luke
and I have communicated in many different ways that we need help
and treasure anyone willing to enter into a Titus relationship with
our family. What rve seen is the people who love our family gently
guide my kids and then consider their misdeeds dealt with instead
of telling me every little time they act up in Children's Church or
run through the sanctuary. It's a great arrangement, and our family
is stronger for it.

Posted on 5:34 PM by Unknown

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Thursday, July 18, 2013

    A life in ministry ultimately calls us to one thing: a hope for
a greater glory than current circumstances reveal. I can't think of
a higher charge than the invitation to participate in God's good
intentions toward His creation. Sarah considered God faithful in
His promises toward her, and because of that, she was able to look
past the difficult years of childlessn ess and hold the manifestation of
God's blessing in her own arms.
    "I don't know of any other occupation that my husband
could have that would require me to be a part of the 'package
deal' (for free) except the ministry. That took some getting
used to!" Sherry @ Life at the Parsonage
    "It's easy to spot a woman who's happy for and proud of
her husband's life/accomplishments/calling. It may not be
easy for her to 'follow' when she is in the background with
young children (early on), but she is proud of her man's walk
and character. That is a beautiful thing to
(layperson) @All Things Work Together
    I still have no idea what possessed me the day I went shopping
and managed to migrate from leggings with an oversized tunic to my
first birdhouse-embroidered sweater and elastic-waist slacks. (Slacks!
That word still makes me cringe!) To complete the look, I purchased
a pair of sensible loafers. I was swollen with pride to have found
something that made me look so religious and couldn't wait to get
home so I could model this new outfit for Luke.
    As I twirled around amid the birds and kittens on my fetching
little cardigan, I asked him one of the most dangerous questions a
wife can pose to her husband: ((How do I look?" Without a moment's
hesitation he answered with the fail-safe phrase every guy keeps
tucked away for such a time as this: ((That's nice, honey." (Luke
is such a trooper. He smiled graciously right through the look of
confusion on his face.) I remember feeling transformed as I looked
at this new woman in the mirror. One pleasing word came to
mind appropriate.
    And that was the guiding theme of my new life as the wife of
a minister-in-training. Was I dressing appropriately? Acting appropriately?
Speaking appropriately? I was determined I wasn't going
to embarrass Luke or prove God made a mistake by entrusting His
man to me. I continued my Extreme Makeover by toning down my
loud-laughing, much-talking, annoying personality and adding a bit
of "Christianese" to my conversations. <<Dinner tonight was SUCH
a BLAST!" turned into a demure <<Bless you for welcoming us in
your home." Not that I wasn't blessed, mind you. That just wasn't a
genuine way personally for me to express it.
    In responses to the survey on my blog regarding the pressures
of ministry, I was absolutely appalled to hear that one of my sisters
actually served alongside her husband in a congregation that
expected her to be involved in the women's ministry board as well as
to attend every meeting and function. They wanted to be so clear in
their expectations that they wrote this into the church bylaws!
    My first reaction was not one I'd like to detail here. However,
I will share my second reaction: "Well, at least they had the guts to
admit on paper what many expect in principle." It's interesting to
me the insanely loud ways in which people attempt to fill biblical
silence.

Posted on 11:51 PM by Unknown

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Friday, July 12, 2013

    A tiny silver-haired and round-faced woman greeted her at the door.
"Welcome! I'm Katherine Rhodes," she said, extending both her hands. Meg
was expecting a flimsy, delicate handshake from the five-foot-nothing spritenot
a firm, steadying, two-handed grip. This was a woman of sturdy resolve,
like Meg's mother. But unlike Ruth Fowler, who had been determinedly
winter Katherine radiated summery warmth. "Are you here for the sacred
journey group?" Katherine asked.
    "Yes," Meg squeaked. She felt her face flush with color. Why was her face
always hot when her hands were always cold?
    "So glad you're here," Katherine said. "Just make your way to the end of the
hallway and turn right. And help yourself to coffee and bagels."
    Meg ducked into a restroom off the hallwa)'J relieved to see she was alone.
Scrutinizing herself in the mirror, she turned this way and that. No use. Each
angle merely gave her new inspiration to find fault. She experimented with
pulling her shoulder length blonde curls away from her face, but that was too
open. The red blotches were still visible on her neck. So she let her hair down
again, opting to shield herself with a veil.
    And what about her skirt and blouse? Too dressy? Katherine and the
others had been casually dressed. What if she discovered she was the only one
in church clothes? She licked her finger and rubbed it feverishly over a small
black spot on her sleeve, becoming increasingly irritated with herself.
    When a woman wearing jeans and a sweatshirt opened the door, Meg
knew she had run out of time to make herself right. There would be no
pleasing her clamoring inner critic today, no quieting Mother's voice inside
her head. Or was it her own voice? She wasn't even sure anymore.
    "I ... urn ... " Meg felt color rushing to her face. If only she had worn a
turtleneck. But it was still too warm for turtlenecks. "My pastor's wife recommended it because it helped her after her mom died. And she thought maybe
it would help me now that my mother's gone." Too much. She'd said too
much. She hadn't planned on revealing herself. Now she was going to cry. She
bit her lip and willed back the tears.
    Mara stopped putting on her bright red lipstick and lo oked up from her
compact mirror. "Oh, I'm sorry," she said, offering a tender look of compassion
that threatened Meg's already fragile nervous system.
    "Excuse me," Meg mumbled. She grabbed her purse and slipped quickly
out the exit door, leaving her Bible behind.
    Mara wasn't sure if Meg had left for the restroom, or if she intended to go
home. Poor thing. Meg looked as anxious on the outside as Mara felt on the
inside. Instead of running after her with the Bible, Mara decided it might be
good if Meg had a reason to come back. For Meg's sake.
    No. For her own sake.
    If Meg didn't return, Mara might end up all by herself at the back corner
table, and there was nothing lonelier than being by yourself in a room full of
people. She knew that from experience.
    She broke off a piece of her cinnamon raisin bagel and chewed slowly, surveying her fellow travelers. Most of the thirty pilgrims were women. A few
twentysomething guys with backpacks stood near the front, drinking out of
water bottles and chatting comfortably. Several couples sat close together,
arms draped loosely around one another's shoulders. Mara wondered if the
men had come willingly. And if they actually wanted to be there, did those
women appreciate the blessing they'd been given? Or did they take their spiritual
partnerships for granted?
    Mara tried to squash her feelings of envy, but she couldn't help herself. She
had spent years wishing Tom would show the faintest interest in spiritual
things. Years. But the harder she prayed, the more resistant he seemed to
become. So she walked the road of faith alone. Always alone.
    At that moment Meg returned to the table, looking sheepish. Mara wasn't
t sure if she had come back to pick up her Bible or to sit down. Meg seemed
uncertain too, with one hand hovering over the Bible and one hand touching
the back of the chair.
    "Welcome, everyone! I'm Katherine Rhodes."'
    Meg plunged into her seat, gripping her purse tightly.
    "I'm noticing we've got a few tables without many people/' Katherine said,
scanning the room. "I'm wondering if a couple of you would be willing to
move to that back table in the corner, and maybe another couple to the table
up front here. Let's aim for four or five per table. Then go ahead and take the
next few minutes to introduce yourselves. Maybe say why you're here."
    Mara watched as two women approached their table from the opposite
side of the room. One was tall and sylphlike, elegant in a plum top, black
denim jeans, and gold hoop earrings. She looked like she had stepped off the
front cover of a magazine the sort of magazine whose airbrushed women
taunted Mara with tips for sexually satisfying men, keeping fit, and maintaining
youthful skin. Mara preferred magazines offering real-life glimpses of
celebrities with cellulite.
    She had long ago given up any hope of satisfying Tom or keeping fit. As for
maintaining youthful skin, her cupboards overflowed with anti-aging,
wrinkle-firming, collagen-enhancing, antioxidant-ing products. She was determined
to preserve by rigorous regimen the only physical asset for which
she had ever been commended: Mara had "nice skin:" Though she knew it was
the sort of compliment people often offered to overweight women, Mara did
have a dewy soft complexion that invited speculation about what her skin
care secrets might be. Someone had also once told her that she had "lovely
feet." But in a world obsessed with faces and figures, beautiful feet didn't get
you very far.
    As she observed the covergirl's diamond wedding ring and glossy manicure,
Mara suddenly felt very self-conscious over her nail-bitten stubs. She
closed her left hand into a fist to hide the offending fingers and tried not to
think about all the other pretty and privileged girls who had made her life
miserable. The rich, stuck-up, judgmental-
    Stop it! she commanded herself. You don't even know her. She hasn't spoken
a single word and you're already judging her.
    Why, why, why? Why, after all these years, why did those same buttons
still get pushed?
    She wished the nine-year-old girl who lived inside her menopausal body
would just grow up.
    Trying hard to ignore the olive-skinned beauty, Mara eyed the other newcomer.
She was about Mara's height maybe five-five or five-six but she
was average weight, without any visible curves. Nothing about her attracted
attention: no color, no makeup, and no jewelry, except for a cross necklace.
It required a certain measure of courage not to fuss over a middle-aged face,
and Mara supposed she was either confident in her unremarkable, simple
features or one of those rare women who simply couldn't be bothered to fret
about her appearance.
    She certainly didn't seem to fret about her hair. Her chin length, light
brown hair was damp, hanging limply around her face. Mara decided she
could benefit from a few layers and a blow-dryer and perhaps some overall
color and highlighting to conceal the streaks of gray.
    The woman's wrinkles were prominent, aging her face. She wore the brow
of a deep thinker. Or a worrier. Or maybe both. And her dark eyes were ringed
with weariness. Mara had never seen such dark circles. Beyond the weariness,
however, was a knowing look which would have been unnerving if not combined
with soft gentleness. There was something trustworthy and true in her
eyes that invited confidence, even secrets.
    Or maybe it was Mara's imagination. Maybe it was the cross she wore
that made Mara instinctively trust her. She had never seen a cross like itfashioned from nails and dangling from a black cord. She couldn't help
staring at it.

Posted on 5:32 PM by Unknown

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Tuesday, July 9, 2013


    Sometimes, yes ... and sometimes, no. Dating seems to be filled with
fun, romance, drama, and heartache. I'm thrilled that dating doesn't have
to be drama. We as women are usually the one's creating the drama, but
we will t alk more about this later on in our study. Romance will also be
discussed later, but I will say that ron1ance is often what makes dating
happen. It's that "twitterpated feeling" that tells us we are attracted to a
guy. What about the fun? Dating can be a lot of fun if this is what you set
as an expectation for yourself. We each place expectations on individuals
and experiences throughout our lives. If you place an expectation on dating
that you are going to have fun, you most likely will attract guys and be
attracted to guys that also want to have fun. My question for you is what
kind of fun do you want to have? If you are choosing to live a relationship
with Christian, then I would encourage you to choose your fun wisely.
Staying away from situations that are going to cause temptation that is
physically inappropriate is always a good idea.

    Read Proverbs 7:7-27
    I saw among the simple,

                        I noticed among the young men,
                        a youth who lacked judgment.
                        8 He was going down the street near her corner,
                        walking along in the direction of her house
                        9 at twilight, as the day was fading,
                        as the dark of night set in.
                        10 7hen out came a woman to meet him,
                        dressed like a prostitute and with crafty intent.
                        11 (She is loud and defiant,
                        her feet never stay at home;
                        12 now in the street, now in the squares,
                        at every corner she lurks.)
                        6
                        Kissing Frogs and Trying on Shoes
                        13 She took hold of him and kissed him
                        and with a brazen face she said:
                        14 "I have fellowship offerings a at home,·
                        today I fulfilled my vows.
                        15 So I came out to meet you,·
                        I looked for you and have found you!
                        16 I have covered my bed
                        with colored linens from Egypt.
                        17 I have perfumed my bed
                        with myrrh, aloes and cinnamon.
                        18 Come, let's drink deep of love till morning;
                        let's enjoy ourselves with love!
                        19 My husband is not at home;
                        he has gone on a long journey.
                        20 He took his purse filled with money
                        and will not be home till full moon."
                        21 With persuasive words she led him astray;
                        she seduced him with her smooth talk.
                        22 All at once he followed her
                        like an ox going to the slaughter,
                        like a deer bstepping into a noose c
                        23 till an arrow pierces his liver,
                        like a bird darting into a snare,
                        little knowing it will cost him his life.
                        24 Now then, my sons, listen to me;
                        pay attention to what I say.
                        25 Do not let your heart turn to her ways
                        or stray into her paths.
                        26 Many are the victims she has brought down;
                        her slain are a mighty throng.
                        27 Her house is a highway to the grave
                        leading down to the chambers of death.

    Temptation is everywhere. We are told by TV, music, magazines and
the world in general that we are to be sexy, lusty, and tempting to the
opposite sex. The good news is God made us naturally attractive to the
opposite sex . Eve didn't need make-up, push up bras, or even shave her
legs to n1ake herself n1ore attractive to Adam. He made guys so they want
us! It's up to us girls to help the guy out in his battle with temptation and
not give the idea that we are merely about the sexy and lusty.

    Thought of the day:
    What are ways that you have tried to present yourself as sexy or seductive?

    If you leave seduction out of it, what traits do you want guys to see in you
and what traits are they seeing in you?

Posted on 5:02 PM by Unknown

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Friday, July 5, 2013

             
           He's the real Mackay.

                       Robert Lewis Stevenson, 1883


    We kids watched the clock, waiting for dismissal, while Sister
issued her closing announcements. "Tomorrow, after school, a
man from the Coca-Cola Company will be on the playground. If
you bring a nickel, you can buy a bottle of Coca-Cola. However,
your nickel ... " The bell interrupted and she added, "We'll talk
about it tomorrow."
   
    I'd heard of Coca-Cola, but by the time I got home my
excitement about it had waned. There were five of us kids in
school, and while I was not familiar with multiplication, I felt
certain that five kids times five nickels was more than Poppy
could spare.

    Still, I hoped that one of my siblings would mention the
Coca-Cola man. Sure enough, the next noon at dinner my older
brothers bragged about having collected and sold enough scrap
metal for a bottle apiece. My older sister, Norma, was sick and
not going to school, so that left only me without funds. I said
something to that effect.

    The remark seemed to miss its target. Poppy said nothing.
I helped clear the table, hoping my effort would be noticed and
rewarded. Still nothing from the man with the money.

    I had stalled as long as I could; it was time to return to
school. I shuffled to the door wearing a pitiful look. I paused,
and looked back.

    Ma reached in her purse, and I waited while she fished out
a nickel and knotted it in the corner of a handkerchief. She tied
the other end to my sash and warned, "Leave it there until after
school."

    All afternoon the hanky hung there, as limp as a flag on a
windless day. I was tempted to practice untying the knot, but in
Sister's class it was not a good idea to draw attention to yourself
if what you were doing was nonacademic.

    Before dismissal, Sister tapped a ruler against a poster on
the wall. The ruler always got our attention. Once when a boy
seated behind me pulled my hair, Sister slapped his hands with
the ruler. As she turned her back and returned to the front of
the room, Harold whispered to me, "They're bleeding."

    I had no pity; my head still stung from his tug on my hair.

    Now Sister said, "Those of you who are fortunate enough
to have a nickel should, in good conscience, give it to the
missionaries in the Belgian Congo, for the starving pagan
babies, instead of spending it on foolishness."

    So that's what she'd started to say yesterday. These darkskinned,
wide-eyed children on the poster had sad faces and
swollen stomachs. How could they be hungry with those big
stomachs? And where was the Belgian Congo? And what did
pagan mean? Whenever the pagan babies came up at home,
Poppy said he had enough mouths to feed. But he usually found
a coin or two, even if it was only pennies.

    I hoped that Sister hadn't seen my hanky with the tell-tale
nickel knotted inside. I don't know if any of my classmates
succumbed to her suggestion and dropped their money in the
mission box, but I know that when the bell rang and I slunk out
to the playground, a long line loomed ahead of me.

    At last my turn came. I forked over my money and watched
the man plunge his arm into a keg of ice and come up waving
a dripping bottle. In one fell swoop he wiped it on a towel tied
to his belt, popped off the metal cap, and handed me my first
Coca-Cola.

    Pushing away an image of pagan babies, I tipped the cold
bottle to my mouth and gulped ravenously. I paused to breathe;
my eyes crossed and filled with hot tears. I blinked them open,
took another swig, and another. A million bubbles fizzed, boiled
over, burst in the cauldron of my innards. An unexpected belch
brought a fiery explosion into my chest, throat, nose, eyes.

    Oh, the sting of it! This was like nothing I'd ever tasted.

    I'd heard that if you dropped a nail into a bottle of Coca-Cola
the nail would soon dissolve. I guess that meant the drink was
poison. But they couldn't sell poison. And I'd seen pictures of Santa
Claus drinking Coca-Cola, so, undaunted, I drained my bottle.

    Coca-Cola became my soda of choice.

    Many years passed. The new and improved age of advertising
dawned and, out of the blue, the Coca-Cola company announced
it would retire their ninety-nine-year-old secret formula. They
would replace it with a smoother, sweeter drink: New Coke.

    They had toyed with their customers' loyalty before. Years
earlier, they had started calling the drink simply Coke, and
despite the claim that the recipe hadn't changed, connoisseurs
detected that the taste had undergone subtle changes from
then on. Maybe it was the packaging, the aluminum cans and
plastic containers, but Coke didn't have that old pizzazz. And
Diet Coke, with artificial sweetener, with or without caffeine,
was something else altogether. The same went for Cherry Coke,
which should not come bottled at all; it should be concocted at
a soda fountain from sickeningly sweet syrup.

   

 

   

   

Posted on 2:45 AM by Unknown

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Wednesday, July 3, 2013


    My grandpa signed Chris, Brad, and me up for baseball. My grandma
hated the idea, because it would cut into our Kingdom Hall time if we
had a game or practice or Tuesday or Thursday. I really appreciate my
grandpa doing that because I loved baseball. But up until that point, I
had never played on an actual team before. We would have to go to a "try
out" to see what team we would be picked on. In Oil City, there is only
one park with three baseball fields to play on, unlike large cities that
I'm guessing have several dozen. There were three groups for placing
players, excluding the T-ball kids. H you were 13-15, you played Senior
League on the big field. If you were younger than that, you played in
either Little League or in Minor League if you weren't quite as good
to be on Little League yet. You could be the same age as Little League
kids. But in the Minors, every other inning, your coach would pitch to
you instead of an opposing pitcher. In Little League, it was just straight
kids versus kids, and that's where I was destined to be. I was really good
at neighborhood baseball, and I knew that once I was given the chance,
I would shine in Little League.
    The day of the tryout my brothers and I were excited to go out and
show what we had in the few brief seconds we got. All the coaches from
both Little and Minor Leagues were there, and how it went was basically
the Little League coaches would pick all the standouts and if they had a

much room for activities. ''You can swiiiim and play basketballllll and go
to the gaaaaame room," I said, with each last word drawn out for that
extra little emphasis on how fun it was. The day he decided to take us, I
was watching MTV (back when they played videos), and he said, ''Well,
lets go see what this YMCA is all about." I didn't want to get up right then
but he made me.
    Later on that summer we were once again signed up for the week
long summer camp. When we got there Chris, Brad, and I all went to the
same camp site and got a tent together. Mter we got settled in we went to
find the first thing to do. We ran into my friend David Stover and invited
him to be the fourth member of our tent. All of us then decided to go
down to the canoes and paddle around the giant lake for fun but also
for cash as well. There had been a rumor going around that there was a
turtle in the lake with a red "S" painted on its shell and that if you caught
it and brought it back to shore you would get five hundred dollars. We
all talked about what we would spend our cut on, and my choice was
simple that year's Street Commandos. I just knew those shits would be
hot. Not, I was getting Jordan's no ifs, ands, or buts about it. David and
I grabbed a canoe, strapped on life jackets, got our paddles and we were
off. We paddled in perfect harmony as if we did this on a regular basis
and were making great head way.
    The other grandpa thing to do was save money on bills anyway he
knew how. Turn off lights in the daytime. Unplug stuffwhen you're not
using it. By far the weirdest one was what got to become our daily shower
routine. Adding five kids will make a water bill go up, I guess, and he
was determined to put a halt to that. He thought we took too long for a
shower and so he would come monitor us from outside the tub. "Time's
up," he would yell, letting you know you were done whether you were or
not. When that wasn't enough, he upped the ante by timing us with the
water on and we would then get wet and get the washcloth soapy. Then
he would actually reach in with his hand and turn off the water. It's weird
to be showering and see a hand suddenly come through and fumble
with the water handles, cutting you off like someone who bombed at the
Apollo. We would have to wash with the soapy rag, and when we said we
were clean, he would turn the water back on to rinse off for maybe thirty
seconds or so, and then it'd be shut off again. Again, it was not so funny
then, but is hilarious now. He was a great man.
    There was an old gravel and sand pit just above our house called the
"Sand Banks." This area was used for digging and dumping sand and
things in the 1970s and also used for riding dirt bikes and four-wheelers
if you were fortunate enough to have one. We used it as a means to ride
bicycles down and to play war in and around. In the winter, the snow
covered the hills enough to have a steep sled riding place. Right beside
our house was a gas line that was kept up maintenance wise by the city
until Scott got the genius idea it was his land too and began cutting it
with our mower. An especially dumb move since the grass was very tall
and full of large rocks. My grandparents' plot was right next door and
we would often play football and tennis ball in the open yard, which ran
beside our driveway as well as the driveway that the old house once had.
It would usually be a two on two with Joey and Chris always taking on
Brad and myself.
    I was by far better than all of them combined at that particular time
so, of course, we never lost at anything. The playground which served as
the birthplace to my "Catch" alongside Damien a few years prior was right
down the street about two minutes away. We would go to the playground
and along with Joey, John Stone, Mike Wilson, Rick Copley, and a few
others we would play basketball, football, or tennis ball in the open field
that was beside the court. Scott worked as a machinist in the town of
Pleasantville about fourteen miles away and every night without fail he
would say "Connie, I have about twenty-three hundred pieces that need
done by tomorrow, now I have to be up and out by four in the morning."
Every last time, we would be awakened and sent outside about seven
or eight, and he'd still be in the bed asleep. School was approaching,
and we would now be going to I-Iasson l-Ieights Elementary instead of
Seventh Street Elementary.

Posted on 3:20 AM by Unknown

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