September 08, 2009
The Pie Experiment
I worried a lot about the pie social. As I added layers to dish, I added layers to my worries.
I knew I was entering an iffy contestant - I worried that would brand me either extremely creative or entirely warped.
I knew I was purposefully placing myself into a situation where I would be forced to converse with strangers - I worried I'd have nothing to say.
I knew I would be tired on a Thursday evening after an already long work week - I worried I would welcome any reason to back out.
So, I told everyone I could about the pie social. I showed my pie progress pictorial and shared my recipe. I only sort of wanted the physical bodily support. Mostly, I was just setting myself up to have to follow through - because mostly I was worried I wouldn't.
It turned out that my entry was the only savory pie. Then, I worried that it would be unwelcome.
I met some very nice people. I accepted some valuable feedback: 1 absolutely not, 2 "well, I wouldn't make it myself" comments, and 5 raves. I spent about two hours talking to pie makers - sharing crust secrets, recipe histories, bouncing new ideas off each other. I met a young enthusiastic new caterer who made a killer Lemon Citron Pie - tart and sweet, cheek puckering, creamy fresh, and picture perfect, too.
I collected recipes - among my favorites: a fresh pear pie from the maker's backyard pear tree; a southern sweet potato pecan pie; fresh blueberry cream pie - featuring sour cream in the filling.
I also scoped out new products: Banana Bread Beer, pre-made balsamic reduction glaze, fig chuntey, Guiness pressed hard cheddar, and sweet horseradish white cheddar. I'm already dreaming of Banana Bread beer-can chicken, porkloin with balsamic glaze and fig sauce, and a fresh tomato and pepper tart layered with horseradish cheddar.
When it comes right down to it, in baking a pie, I've accomplished quite a bit. I've developed, perfected and finalized a unique creation. I took a big leap of faith, stepping way out of my comfort zone. I challenged myself, made plans, made a pie, prayed for courage, and followed through.
Yet, I still have worries.
Can I remain as persistent going forward without any immediate personal goal to achieve?
Can I consistently treat those ideals of faith, love, honor, and hope as benchmarks for a way of life?
Can I take the discipline of a short-term project and apply it to every long-term day of my life?
Proverbs 16:3 Commit your works to the Lord, and your plans will be established.
In this issue: Marcus Aurelius, Doris Day, Part 1 of Stop Worrying, recipe for Caramelized Onion and Blueberry Salsa Pie.
Now posted: The Pie Experiment, Faith, Current
Posted by jaselin at 11:10 AM | Comments (0)
August 11, 2009
Fall Out Girl
It sucks to be unpopular.
Sadly, though, I’m obsessed with doing what is right, following rules, and complying with federal regulations.
It’s an unusual quirk, for sure. Especially since so many are not only willing to disregard rules, but insist on making up their own.
So, it comes down to self preservation. When audits are revealed, it will be me who will be deemed un-compliant if I let these problems continue. And since I have recently discovered the need and the art of self preservation, I am not willing to take the fall for folks who are supposed to be smarter. At least that’s what their comparative compensation indicates. They could go a lot longer than I can without pay, or at least they should be able to.
I do not begrudge living within my means, I just will not let anyone subterfuge my meager means. It is this stance which has put me into the precarious position of unpopularity.
I’m not happy that others are angry.
I’m not pleased that they feel betrayed.
I’m not comfortable being labeled an instigator.
I’m not looking forward to the resentment.
But I also do not intend to apologize for doing what is proper, and retaining my integrity (if only with myself).
If I could sleep, I would do so with a clear conscience, despite my unsettled heart.
Fully relying on GOD means acknowledging my obvious inner compass.
And, blessedly, my inner compass just steers that way.
Posted by jaselin at 01:51 PM | Comments (0)
August 04, 2009
Quiet, and Quietly
Sometimes, relaxation music stresses me out.
Come to think of it, sometimes Reggae makes me angry.
Yet, angry heavy metal music can make me very, very happy.
That last revelation probably has something to do with the “Don’t tell ME how to feel, what to do or when to do it!” attitude I’ve always seemed to have. I’ve been working on curbing that for a long time now.
There are some people who have never had the pleasure of seeing that side of me. Then, there are the unfortunate folks who have. Usually, it’s associated with extreme anger; with feelings that have built up inside of me, and then are invalidated by someone. Saying, “Don’t cry,” or “Don’t be upset,” isn’t the best way to handle me. When I make it all the way to the point of crying, it’s usually at least little justified. And I usually do cry when I’m angry, which as you might imagine, usually makes me angrier.
I truly don’t yell. In fact, it wasn’t until after we adopted a 4 month old Jack Russell puppy, that my husband looked at me strangely one day and calmly said, “You know what? I don’t think I’d ever heard you yell until we got a dog.”
Then there was the time, my neighbor asked me to open up my front door and yell across to her house to quickly get her son’s attention. The look on her face was pretty priceless when I told her I don’t yell. I didn’t yell that day, either.
Last night, listening to my Mom and her husband discussing the trials of hooking of their truck and trailer on a sloped campsite, I had to laugh. Mom’s all of 5’2”, speaks very softly, and never yells, either. So, interpreting her petite backing-up directions was a little difficult for him.
She’s got her breaking point, too. And it’s not my favorite thing to experience. Mostly, because I know where she’s at and what she’s had to go through to get to that point. I had a boss like that once, too. Never heard him yell, or raise his voice for any reason. One day, it happened; in a very big way. And even though he wasn’t yelling at me, even though he was behind closed doors, I still cried. Why? Because I was angry that someone could have pushed him to that point, and a bit disappointed that my hero was human, after all.
Listening to GOD is something like that. HE never yells. Yes, I’m often resistant to what I’m hearing. After a while, through patient repeating and gentle steering, whatever the message, it always seems to end-up making so much sense that I don’t know why I struggled so hard to deny it. When the message is disappointing, isn't logical, or isn’t what I want, is when I know I’m about to challenged again. I still drag my feet, sometimes. I still refuse to easily wander where I'm lead, sometimes. And, still, I’ve never yelled at GOD. I’ve cried many angry tears, but I have no angry questions. There is no tortured, “Why?” I am grounded in the reasons I see now. It’s about the paths I’ve been led down, what they all were for, and where I’ve yet to go.
I hope I’m headed towards a maturity of faith. I’m not sure when it will arrive. I’m not readily going to admit I’m desperately open for deeper spiritual challenges. I’ll just keep quietly saying “no” to GOD’s subtle coaxing, until I am sure I can say “yes” with no doubts.
Posted by jaselin at 12:51 PM | Comments (0)
July 27, 2009
Recipe for a Happy Life
A friend told me once whe wished she knew what to do to make me happier. I gave her this recipe to use.
Recently, I was asked to contribute a recipe for a bridal shower recipe box. I gave her this recipe to use, and a small pad of purple sticky notes. (Plus, instructions for a great dish called Wicked Spaghetti.)
Recipe for Happiness
Ingredients:
1 pad of sticky notes
A few colored markers
quotations, drawings, thoughts, bible verses
Practice random acts of sticky notes.
Put them on pillows, chairs, books, mirrors, the front door on the way in and on the way out, in a lunch bag, in a wallet, on a steering wheel, on a lamp shade, by a bedside, anywhere for any reason. Repeat often.
Posted by jaselin at 10:45 AM | Comments (0)
June 23, 2009
Sacred Scroll
I know for a fact that grown men whimper. I don’t remember the first time I ever heard Jeff whimper, but I think it probably had something to do with some expensive Dale Earnhardt die-cast replicated racecar. I do remember one of the last times I heard it, though.
Kmart was closing down locations and somehow we found ourselves in Monroe, and at a nearly done-in store. The place was a disaster, and worse was watching people take things off shelves and drop them on the floor after looking at them. I was just about to drag him from the madhouse scene when we turned down an aisle with – gasp – tools!
“Oooooo,” he murmured, eyes wide. I don’t know how he saw it but stacked behind some really traumatized boxes was a brand new scroll saw with its own folding workbench. He dragged it out and inspected it very carefully for any signs that it might have been opened before. They he cautiously looked at the ”before and after” mark-down pricelist taped to the display.
“Oooooo,” he gasped, viewing the sign with wider eyes still. I could see dreamy dollar signs reflecting in his glazed over look. “How much?” I asked. “It was $215.00,” he marveled. “How much?” I asked. “It was already marked down once to $115.00,” he cooed.
“Jeff!” I snapped my fingers hoping to bring him back, but he was clearly already swirling into the “I don’t think I can live without this piece of equipment” abyss. “How much,” I asked again.
“$62.50,” he tentatively smiled as he loving patted the box. “I don’t know Jeff,” I hedged. “What would you use it for?” “Lots of things,” he insisted. “I just don’t think we can afford that right now, honey,” I said trying to let him down easy, and knowing he would probably bow to my logic.
That’s when I heard it. The whimper. I was so surprised I stopped right in my tracks and turned to stare at him. The whimper came with a face I had never seen before. Eyes still foggy with scroll-lust, bottom lip tucked in under his teeth, one hand still touching the sacred saw, he barely shuffled away from the display. Then he whimpered again.
“Ok,” I said. “Throw it in the cart. “And quit smiling like that,” I grumbled. “You’re going to split your face wide open, and I don’t want to spend another night in the Emergency Room with you!”
So, that’s how the scroll saw came to live in the computer room closet. Jeff read the manual, but that’s as far as he got. His legs were giving out and we had other things to concentrate on. And that’s how the scroll saw ended up in my recent “moving” sale. It didn’t make it out of the closet until the second day of the sale because I had imagined it would be harder to retrieve than it turned out to be. I marked it at $50.00 thinking it was a fair price. I no longer had the box or the manual, but maybe someone would know what to do with it anyway.
A little after 3:00 pm on the last day, a young couple came in. “Hmmm,” the husband commented. “Honey, look at this!” “What is it?” she asked. “A scroll saw, just like the one I rented last week for $85.00. I could buy this one and we’d never have to rent one again.” “I just don’t think we can afford that right now, honey,” she replied and moved on to look at other items. The fellow just stood there mesmerized.
Knowing I’d never use it and not wanting to struggle it back into the closet, I whispered to my cohort, “He can have it for $35.00.” Because she’s the outgoing one who has no problem dickering with yard sale customers, she announced my offer loudly from her perch near the cashbox, adding the key phrase, “It’s never been used!”
That’s when I heard it. The whimper. I laughed out loud, and then whispered to my friend, “That’s the same exact sound Jeff made when we bought that thing!” He looked at his wife beseechingly, and she slowly nodded her approval. As he stood there holding the saw, he told us that he and his wife were renovating their home. “Thank you so much. Thank you so much,” he kept repeating.
“Never been used,” my friend repeated as he headed out the door. “Her husband passed,” she called after him, stopping him on the threshold of exiting. I really thought he was going to cry as he turned to stare at me. “It will get put to good use,” he said in a quivering voice. “I promise it will get used.”
So what was that scroll saw really worth: $215.00, $115.00, $62.50, $50.00 or $35.00?
Making Jeff happy, which made me happy, which made that family happy: sacredly priceless.
I may have lost a little money on that deal, but I have blessedly gained another true insight into the non-coincidences of GOD’s careful plans.
Posted by jaselin at 07:56 PM | Comments (0)
April 21, 2009
Holocaust Remembrance Day, April 21, 2009
Sometimes history becomes disconnected from us.
An event becomes a story of interest; a tale of something long ago.
Sometimes the lines become blurred
between what is considered reality
and what is considered hearsay.
It is said that all people can be traced to a relation
within 6 degrees of separation.
I am presenting to you now
a case of 3 degrees of separation.
Me, my mother, and Walter.
This is Walter’s story.
Introduction: Judy Buchman
I have the great honor of introducing tonight’s speaker my husband Walter Buchman.
Walter and I have been married for 4 ½ years. When I first heard the story you are about to hear, my first thoughts were of our grandchildren and facing doubts that any of them in this modern age of ipods, blackberrys, computers, and instant gratification could have survived as their grandfather did.
Intestinal fortitude, bravery and the sheer will to live are what make Walter’s story special. With great pride and gratitude for his survival, I present to you my husband and best friend, Walter Buchman.
My Survivor Story: Walter Buchman
For years I have been reluctant to say anything about the Holocaust because I do not have numbers tattooed on my arm, like most of the survivors I have known. I was thinking that without those tattoos no one would believe me.
I must start my story with my Father of blessed memory who with his three cousins and his sister went to Palestine to help start the rebuilding of the land, that was in 1922. They all worked at the foot of the Gilboa Mountains to drain the swamp there, the area of Tell Joseph and started the Kibbutz Bet Hashitah. This area is the most fertile land in Israel, the crop there are unbelievable in flavor and size. There already was an Uncle living in Jerusalem. He arrived there in 1888, and started a business. They were in that area for some time when my father contracted malaria and had to go home to Vienna Austria due to do the fact that he was that ill.
My father married my mother and I was born in Vienna in 1935. I must also tell you that my father was a true communist and a vegetarian. His father and mother left Vienna to go to Palestine right before the Nazis arrived in Austria, 1937. He and my mother did not want to go with my Grandparents to Palestine and they moved to Paris France in about 1938. In 1939 my parents sent me to Switzerland for a Health Visit to Mr. and Mrs. Haller who would later become my foster parents. They lived in the City of Arbon the Canton of Thurgau, on the Bonden Sea (called Lake Constance which is directly across from a city in Germany, Friedrickshaffen.
Somehow my parents let the Hallers who I was staying with know that I had family in Palestine, Great Britain, Bolivia and the USA. My father joined the French underground movement and my mother and I moved to a monastery outside of Marseille in France. My father came for a visit to this monastery and we played a game and I fell on glass and cut my fingers and knee quite badly. My father left and my mother took me to a hospital in Marseille. I had blood poisoning through out my body due to this fall. I had a large cyst on my face that had to be lanced without anesthesia because the hospital did not have any and I still hear my mother scream as I screamed but none the less things turned out well and my mother and I went back to the Monastery. While on the way, there was a parade. I saw the head of the Vichy government Petain waving his hand and hat at that parade.
Some weeks later and during the day there was a knock on the door and two men dressed in long black leather coats came and removed my mother and I. These men took us to an interim camp where somehow my mother was able to make arrangements that I would escape this camp and I would be met by a man. I was 5 years old. The direction that my mother told me to go was through a sewage drain field. When I ran out the other side of the drain field I was wet with excrement.
The man took me to his home and cleaned me up. Then he somehow got me with a group of other children and we all roamed the French countryside to live the best we could. While roaming in France this group of kids ate what we could steal in the camps of the Nazis. I ate bark of the trees, grass, dandelions and rats and mice when we could catch them. I saw the Hitler youth having bayonet practice using babies as their targets. One day my Father came and got me and took me to the border of France and Switzerland. I had in my hand a card written by me to my “Aunt and Uncle” who were in the city of Arbon and the Canton of Thurgau. I wrote that letter in French and stated that I wanted to live with them.
As I ran across the border from France to Switzerland a border Guard shot at me, as I looked back he shot in the air and not at me. I was given to a family in Geneva who sent me on a train to Arbon alone at the age of 7, where I lived for about three years with my foster parents. I had dysentery and was undernourished but the Haller family took care of that and brought my health around. One thing that they did I remember was to grate up eggs shells and I ate them as vitamins. I went to school there for two years that was the only school that I ever went to in Europe. I recall one time in that school that I did something wrong, the teacher yelled at me and when I did not respond he used his fists, he wanted for me to cry but I did not so he continued until he got tired and sent me home.
The Hallers were able to contact my family through a list my parents had given them many years before. At this point my family decided I should go to my Aunt my father’s sister in the United States. I traveled from Arbon to Marseille and then went on a ship to New York alone at the age of 10 ½ . In April of 1946, where I was met by good friends of my parents and also by my cousins. They bought clothing for me and sent me on my way by plane again by myself to Minneapolis MN, to live with my Aunt and Uncle. Some time later I was adopted by them although I retained my last name. I thought at the time that I was the last Buchman in the World so I wanted to keep my last name and I would not allow them to adopt me if I had to change my name to theirs. Later I found out through relatives and trips to Israel that there are many Buchmans living in Israel. Another of my father’s sisters, Cilia and her husband Walter Lippa lived next door to us with their two sons.
As recently as 3 years ago I met the children of my Aunt on my mother’s side living in Bolivia. And just 7 months ago, I was able to find my foster sisters, children of the Hallers who protected me in Switzerland. We correspond regularly and hope to meet face to face in Switzerland next year.
I also want to tell you about my Aunt Eva and Uncle Max Rosenberg. They had one Daughter Rachel. Max was an officer in the French Army, he fought with the French and was captured and was sent to a Concentration Camp and he came out of the camp at 85 pounds. He was nursed to health again and found his daughter and married again to a survivor. He visited my Aunt in Israel several times. While going back to Paris he was walking on a sidewalk and was run over by a Car. My Aunt Eva was taken away to a Camp and was never heard of again. Their daughter Rachel was given in hiding to a French Family, they had one Son. My Cousin married this son and converted to Catholicism and they raised two sons. I met them in Paris in 1967. I have not heard from her at all even though I tried writing.
Many years later I wanted to know just what happened to my parents. I wrote a letter to the Red Cross and two years later they responded to me and found the records of my parents that the NAZIS kept. This was in 1993.
My mother was taken from the interim camp near Marseille to the Infamous Camp Drancy in France, where she was Deported to the Concentration Camp Auschwitz. She was one of 980 in convoy #32, there were 640 males and 340 females. This group was under the supervision of Oberfeldwebel Moller, the orders were composed by SS Heinrichsohn, and telexed to the Inspector of Concentration Camp in Auschwitz by the name of Eichman. Israel found him in South America and he was brought to trial in Israel. This Convoy left Drancy on the 14th of September 1942 and arrived on the 16th of September 1942, where 58 men were selected for work and 49 woman received numbers 63898 through 63953 and the rest were immediately gassed. In 1945 some 45 people were know to have survived this convoy.
On February 15th, 1943 while two Nazi officers were walking across the Lovre Bridge over the Seine River they were shot to death. Because of this incident 2000 Jewish men were to be taken to the Gas Chambers. My Father was on of these two thousand Men he was in the convoy #51 on March the 23rd 1943. And convoy # 50 had the rest. Convoy #51 had 959 men, 39 woman and 2 children. The report that I received did not list when the Convoy arrived in Concentration Camp Lublin ( Majdanek). Those Nazis documented everything including the pimples on peoples noses. As I read the report that I have been given, the Concentration camps in 1943 were working overtime and many of the camps were in disarray. My father’s friend wrote to my father’s sister in Palestine that he indeed had been captured by the Nazis. I do not have this letter in my possession; it may well have been sent to Israel.
I had no brothers or sisters. I lived and I thrived in Minneapolis with my adopted parents and another Aunt and Uncle as well as my paternal grandparents who came to the USA from Israel in 1948. I became a plumber, started a mechanical contracting business and had three sons with my late wife of 47 years Lois.
And now with my wife Judy, we have a combined 5 children and 8 grand children. I live a wonderful life here in Naples and in the greatest country that has ever been, the United States of America. I have to say that in my life time I have had three sets of parents. My birth parents, my foster parents in Switzerland and my adopted parents in the USA. I am a very, very fortunate individual to have survived.
GOD BLESS AMERICA.
Posted by jaselin at 08:01 PM | Comments (0)
April 08, 2009
Sunrise ME News Update: Princess Day
Hi, everyone. Just a quick update from this morning's blog post: http://mblog.lib.umich.edu/~jaselin/archives/2009/04/sunrise_me_news.html#more
The "Princess Day" project became a reality today. I know of eight people who helped put this project together, but I think there were probably a few more. A friend told me, I told a friend, she told a friend, and so on.
Delivered to our honoree:
* Handmade cards personally signed by:
Snow White, Ariel, Jasmine, Bambi & Thumper & Flower, Mickey, and Minnie. Thank you to the ladies who gave up their lunch hours two days in a row. You do great work!
* A gorgeous 12 page handmade Disney princess picture scrapbook with stickers, gems, and personal notes from the princesses. Thanks to the two ladies who stayed up all night making this beautiful book, and then called and delivered it to me at 4:30 am! Bless you.
* An awesome 3-dimensional, pink foam board princess castle, hand created and decorated: a little under two foot tall and wide - one special lady with lots of help from a husband. She also made the delivery.
* A handmade, cheerfully colored pillow case - from our organizer, catalyst, and the sweetest woman you'll ever meet. She was also responsible for:
* 3 wooden coloring board cut outs and markers - 1 for our little patient and 1 for each sibling
* Balloons for our patient and siblings
* and probably some stuff I don't know about...
Lots of people, lots of heart, two days effort, priceless memories. I'm honored to know you all.
Additional update from our deliverer: "Our 'princess' was just waking from a nap when I got there. She loved EVERYTHING, especially the M & M'S. She didn't want to share them with her siblings, but she did. Her mom read her the scrap book, which was beautiful. She loved the pillow case. The cards were awsome. Thank you to every one who contributed."
Posted by jaselin at 01:08 PM | Comments (0)
April 07, 2009
Receiving End of Charity
Have you ever been on the receiving end of charity?
Me neither, until now.
There was a NOLA construction team who worked at a site where the homeowners were living on their front lawn in a FEMA trailer. They never once came out to meet the workers. In fact, they positioned themselves so there would be absolutely no contact with anyone working on their home.
I couldn’t imagine how that could be. But now, I hurt.
I cringe at the gentleness in voices; I lower my eyes so I won’t see the pity.
I hide my heart because it is so obviously broken, I’m afraid someone will try to fix that too.
I’ve lived with it so long now though, it’s familiar; it’s mine.
The one thing I own in this life is my pain.
I’m embarrassed that other people consider me poor.
Embarrassed over my inadequacy to provide for myself.
Embarrassed by my inability to solve my own problems responsibly, by myself.
Embarrassed to be the receiver instead of the giver.
Seeing myself in a new way in a new type of mirror;
Uncomfortable, panicked, heartbroken, embarrassed.
I don’t want to accept what is offered, but I desperately need to.
I cannot reciprocate; I have nothing to give in return.
I won’t hinder compassion; I won’t deny the desire.
I’ll keep my distance; outside the circle
Watching you bloom; for the price of my pride.
Posted by jaselin at 12:11 PM | Comments (0)
March 24, 2009
The Direction of Angels
You know me.
I’m a crisis manager. Huge problem – no problem.
I analyze the alternatives and find multiple solutions. If one doesn’t work, I always have a back-up. I don’t easily freak out, melt down or otherwise turn into a blubbering idiot when faced with unusual emergencies. Sometimes, three days later, when I decide to take a deep breath and slow down the adrenaline rush, I may get kinda weepy in a burnt out sort of way.
You also know how many hours, days and weeks I've spent at UMH with Jeff. I know the hospital very well. With all the parking construction, I guess I ended up in the wrong garage because I found myself exiting the car park elevators at the south end of Mott. At 6:30 am, it was too early for the information desk to be open, and the two separate employees in scrubs I asked for help were either truly totally clueless or just didn't want to be bothered on their way home.
I stared at the map, and tried to get my bearings. Nothing looked familiar. Suddenly, I was frustrated to the point of tears. I started to leave, went back, started to leave, went back, and started to leave again. I must have been looking pretty confused, because someone with a badge approached me then. She didn't know where I should go either, and told me that she'd only been there a week. But, she said she knew someone who would know, and then walked me down to the Mott Badging Station. When we got there, she said to the woman behind the desk, "I already have my Visitor Badge, but this girl needs help." That just surprised me, she was a visitor?
Because I was already shaky, I started to actually cry. Don't know if it was lack of sleep, lack of food, lack of being there knowing Jeff wasn't, whatever. I grabbed a tissue and the desk clerk wrote down directions and drew me a map. I knew how to get to Radiology from the cafeteria, and it turned out that visitor knew how to get from Mott to the cafeteria, so she offered to walk with me. On the way there she kept an arm on my shoulder and told me it was ok to cry. You know how that works for me... more crying.
Just as we got to the cafeteria she hugged me and told me that one week ago her 14 year old son hung himself. He'd been at Mott in critical care since then. "Saturday was a good day," she said, "Yesterday was a bad one." Right, and I'm crying because I'm lost! I shared with her that I have a mentally ill sibling and told her about the National Alliance for the Mentally Ill. I told her they would have a lot of resources for her and most importantly a support group where she could meet other parents. She hadn't known about it and seemed glad for the information.
I asked her if she believed that sometimes GOD puts us in the wrong place at the right time and she smiled. I told her my theory on GOD-smacks, and we agreed that this was one of those "Hey, you! Pay Attention!" times. I told her I would pray for her and her son, and then my elevator came. I'm emotionally exhausted. I didn't get her name. I wish I had given her my card. I didn’t remember the name of the desk clerk, either.
When I got back to my office, it took a few phone calls and transfers but I was eventually connected to the badging station. I explained who I was, what I had needed, and asked if she was the one who had drawn me the map. She was. I thanked her, and she said that made her day. I also filled out an online commendation form. Because, the more I thought about it, the more I realized that she had to have provided excellent customer service twice. Once on whatever day the Mott mom had needed her, because that Mott mom knew exactly where to take me to get me the answer I needed. And then, she did it again for a ridiculously sniveling, weepy lost woman.
The only amusing part of this day was that the radiologist insisted that I take the acrylic stud out of my nose because she did not know what acrylic was. When I explained it was plastic, she said she still wasn't sure if that counted as metal or not, so I placated her and took it out. I didn’t realize she was standing there waiting for the back of the stud, until she asked for it. When I told her there wasn't one, she wanted to know what prevented the stud from flying out of my nose when I sneezed. For simplicity's sake, I just told her it was gravity, and smiled to myself. GOD had put me back in my regular world, alright.
The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases, his mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning...
Lamentations 3:22-23
Posted by jaselin at 04:24 PM | Comments (0)
March 17, 2009
Green Amethyst Angels
I was standing at a display table at the Southfield International Gem and Jewelry Show, meticulously comparing three matched sets of faceted oval cut green amethysts.
A voice behind me commented, “Those are beautiful prasiolites. Where did you find them?”
I turned to find myself looking up at a tall young man. Smiling, I pointed to the table in front of me which had another six sets displayed.
“Ah,” he said, “Not that smart of a question, huh?”
“Of course it was a smart question.” I laughed, “You don’t know unless you ask!”
“I haven’t bought any of these yet,” he said as he pondered the boxes. “It so exciting to find new colors. I’ve been collecting for a while. Since I was 10 years old, I knew this was what I wanted to do.”
“A gemologist?” I inquired. “A lapidary?”
“Yes,” he answered with an incredibly contagious big bright smile.
By now, I had estimated his age between 16 and 18. “I think you’re going in a good direction. Good luck!” I said as I smiled back, and moved on.
A few tables later I found myself in front of 4 trays of loose individual prasiolites in assorted shades and cuts. “Just a moment,” I told my friend as we picked through the gems, “I need to go back and let that young man know there’s more up here.”
I wove my way through the crowd, tapped him on the shoulder, told him what I had found, and then turned around and headed back. Shortly after I returned to my sorting spot, my friend took off. That’s not unusual – it’s hard not to get distracted by shiny things at the gem show, so I assumed something caught her eye.
Not finding the shape I wanted in the shade I wanted, I looked around a bit after decided I was finished. I was a little surprised when I saw where my friend had gone. She was talking to that same young man.
When she came back I asked, “So, did you get his name?” (I knew she would have, that’s just how she is.)
“Yes,” she said.
“You should have given him your card,” I commented.
“I did,” she said.
“I think he’d make a great apprentice,” I offered.
“I told him that,” she said.
A few days later I asked my friend later what made her go back and offer her assistance to him:
"I just thought of a way to help and think that someone that eager to learn should be helped and nourished."
Yeah, she’s an angel, too.
Posted by jaselin at 08:54 PM | Comments (0)
March 11, 2009
I Asked GOD
The other night as I was starting to fall asleep I asked GOD, “What do I do when my prayers don’t seem to be working?”
I got a pretty clear answer, pretty quickly. “Seem?”
I had to get back up out of bed to write that down.
That was a pretty important answer, and I didn’t want to forget where it sent my mind.
Yep. This isn’t the first time I have wondered why my prayers did not seem to be working.
Many rounds have been prayed over and over, and nothing seemed to be happening.
I know I’m lucky, now.
I can look back and see that they were eventually answered.
Perhaps not on my requested time line or perhaps not in the way I intended.
Posted by jaselin at 01:44 PM | Comments (0)
January 09, 2009
Revelation, specifically music
Music soothes the savage beast, or is it breast?
* William Congreve wrote in 1697: "Music hath charms to soothe the savage breast / To soften rocks, or bend a knotted oak.". The line alludes to Orpheus, whose songs mythically affected animals, rocks, and trees.
* Some believe the quote should read, "Music soothes the savage beast" from the Latin, "Musica delenit bestiam feram."
So, which is it? I can apply both to myself - sometimes simultaneously.
I’ve been angry lately, and depressed.
There’s the ugly inner beast screaming it’s not fair, and the heart in my breast holding my breath until I am forced to gasp and painfully remember what it feels like to have to inhale.
I’ve been turning back to music more and more. Studying, I suppose, popular trends, markets, air play, companies. What amazes me is the specificity of what I’m hearing. Revelation by Third Day reminded me what a good song really is. It reached me, and brought back the power behind the faith of prayer. It doesn’t answer my questions, but it names them. Specifically.
Revelation, Third Day
My life, has led me down the road that's so uncertain
And now I am left alone and I am broken,
Trying to find my way,
Trying to find the faith that's gone
This time, I know that you are holding all the answers
I'm tired of losing hope and taking chances,
On roads that never seem,to be the ones that bring me home
Give me revelation, show me what to do
Cause I've been trying to find my way,
I haven't got a clue
Tell me should I stay here,
Or do I need to move
Give me revelation
I've got nothing without You
My life, has led me down this path that's ever winding
Through every twist and turn I'm always finding,
That I am lost again (I am lost again)
Tell me when this road will ever end
I don't know where I can turn
Tell me when will I learn
Won't You show me where I need to go
Let me follow Your lead,
I know that it's the only way that I can get back home
Posted by jaselin at 01:18 PM | Comments (0)
January 06, 2009
Voices
I have a friend who swears that her particular pitch of voice is inaudible to her husband. Unless she speaks to the dog, then he always hears her.
I think I have the same problem with some of the people I work with. Either that or they’re just tired of me. Or, tired of their jobs. I get frustrated weekly having to remind folks of the same rules. I send memo after memo about missing paperwork, not following pay rules, not adhering to equitable company policies. I spell it out in black and white; I repeat myself patiently, most times.
Although, lately, knowing that I have a deadline to get this information through to these employees is causing me to reevaluate how I communicate. I’m trying teaching tools; work sheets, rules summaries, examples of correct items. Not working. I’m trying to get them to work backwards from the problem, so they can follow the trail in a new way. Not working. I’m trying not to get annoyed when I am interrupted with the incorrect answer before I can finish my explanation. Not working.
So, do I speak too slowly, too softly, too deliberately? My dad would get a laugh out of that. I used to naturally speed talk. Seriously, many times he would hold up his hand, and command me to, “Slow down!” “Your mouth is moving a mile a minute. You’re gonna get a speeding ticket,” he’d say. It’s just that my thoughts ran so fast, I was afraid I’d forget them if I didn’t spit them out on the spot.
I believe I have conquered that adolescent affliction, but perhaps to my detriment. I tend to make mental notes or jot written notes more than I speak, now. I tend to think a little too long on an answer sometimes. I’ve been told that sometimes this makes me seem aloof or uninterested, or not that smart. I think I prefer all of those things to my previous pattern of saying whatever comes to mind. I have spoken a lot of words I wish I could take back, and some that others won’t forgive me for.
I’ve spent a lot of time training myself to react slower. Ok, so now what? It’s time to speed back up a bit? I don’t think so. If you don’t have the patience to wait for what I’m not saying, you’ll never stand still for what I do have to say.
jak
Posted by jaselin at 02:54 PM | Comments (0)
December 19, 2008
The Sunday Raccoon
It began with a knock on my door.
Usually the only people who ever knock are those who have ended up at the wrong address. So, I was surprised to hear the man outside my door explaining that he was my newest neighbor, and he just wanted me to know that I either had a dying or a pregnant raccoon balled up under the one small tree that occupies my front yard.
In broad daylight, in the wide open, the critter was loosely crimped into a half-moon, and looking sleepy. Cars, people, barking dogs, did not seem to bother this raccoon. The growing crowd agreed it probably weighed 25 - 30 pounds. It certainly was large enough to be very expectantly pregnant. After a while though, it became hard to tell if it was still breathing at all or if it had died.
Just then, lifting its head, the raccoon looked around, sweeping its surroundings, not really focusing. Semi-alert, it tried to rise and move away. Convulsions overtook it. Were those contractions or maybe a stroke? The back quarters were dragging, and then suddenly it was stranded on its back, struggling like a flipped turtle. A driver paused as he passed. “Looks like it’s been shot in the hind quarters," he said.
It was getting darker outside, but I could see the pain and confusion in the raccoon's dark expressive eyes. We both knew something wasn’t right. “I’m sorry I can’t help you," I said quietly. “Just relax, sweetie." After a few seconds, which seemed like an eternity to me, it finally relaxed. Did it give up, or its body just give out? It doesn’t matter, because what happened was remarkable.
The situation changed, its stiffened legs slowly, gracefully lowered. The momentum gently rolled it over on its side and into a better position to become upright. It lay there quietly, gathering the strength to stand. Finding it, it tottered a few feet toward my house. Rolled into a furry wad again, it rested. After a few minutes rest, determined to move on once again, the next obstacle became the drain pipe.
The poor animal couldn’t figure out how to get to the other side. Without the strength or balance to step over, and without the reasoning to walk around the end just a few inches away, it was stuck where it was. Tired, again. Balled up, again. Looking at me sadly, again. I wanted so badly to rush over and lift it over the barrier. I knew better, though. I’d scare it; I’d get hurt. I just kept talking in a calm voice, trying to convey caring and comfort. Don’t know if it worked on the raccoon, but it certainly wasn’t working on me. I had already taken in the stress of knowing where this was going to lead.
About half an hour passed, and the raccoon awoke. Sniffing for water by the drain spout, it wasn’t having much success finding a drink. But somehow as it realized where it was, it deduced that moving left would place it on the other side of the spout. Once it got there though, it looked back in confusion, not sure if it wanted to continue moving away from me. So, I spoke a little more and it seemed to be listening. “You’re very pretty," I said. “It’ll be ok," I said. “You should rest some more," I said, hoping to keep it within sight until the animal control folks arrived. “It really would be best. Just close your eyes." Tired of standing, unmoved by indecision, it sank to the ground once more. This time it seemed to pull itself in a little tighter.
A neighbor with a tote, and a neighbor with an affinity for animals, talked the wounded one into walking into a plastic tub. The tub set down over it, and to our surprised the creature took the situation calmly. Maybe because its own heat was now keeping it warm, maybe because it could no longer see any threats.
Eventually a patrolman showed up and determined it was time to put it down. The shot was brutal, echoing off the houses around mine. He had aimed for the head, and the raccoon had moved at the last second. The struggle inside the tub was noisy; crying and clawing. The end was painfully slow for both of us. And long enough for me to see some things a little better.
There’s no way that raccoon would have ever right itself while it continued to struggle. Letting go, almost giving up, is what gave it the temporary strength to stand. Why do I continue to struggle against letting go to GOD? Because I’m afraid I’ll get stuck in a tub with no way out. Oh, heck, I might as well admit, I’m already trapped. Family and friends are constantly telling me to breathe, relax, go with the flow, let go, and believe that things will get better.
Why can’t I give up the foolish notion that I am in control of anything, and relinquish attempted control of all? How do I know if giving up really means I have accepted that I am patiently waiting for GOD to move me, or if by giving up that becomes just giving up, and that’s it?
If I sound confused, it’s because I am.
But, I’m alright.
Ok, I’m not alright.
But, I’ll be fine.
I always am.
jak
Posted by jaselin at 01:19 PM | Comments (0)
November 25, 2008
Thankful 2008
Posted by jaselin at 07:35 PM | Comments (0)
October 01, 2008
Moved, Used, Set Apart
Cemetery: talk about being used. I didn’t like it. It made me shake physically and shook me to the core. There have been times I’ve been “moved” to do something. Mostly, write letters. There was no letting the spirit move me this time. And that scared me.
Tuesday night, September 30.
Well, tomorrow is the 2 year mark of Jeff’s death. I know that Wednesday there will be visitors. I won’t run in to any of them, most likely. Leaving home at 5:30 am and not returning until 6:30 pm makes that unlikely. I wanted to be there even though I couldn’t. So, I left gifts for whomever to take away with them; cross etched stones. A token to put in a pocket or leave on a desk, to remind whomever visited that Jeff believed, and encourage their belief. I also left a laminated a note: Please Take One.
I wasn’t driving the commuter van; my trusted co-pilot was. It was a sunny day, bright and clear for September. Sunglasses required. I didn’t ask her to, and she didn’t get out of the vehicle, just waited patiently for me. I was glad she was there with me. I don’t know if I even registered my surroundings, at first.
Sometimes things like visiting the cemetery come across a bit unreal to me. It can be like that commercial for allergy medication, where a fog overlays my presence. Don’t know if it’s shutting down or short circuiting, but it happens a lot when I’m at Brookside. I stand at my husband’s grave, neatly tucked between his mother and his grandparents and it doesn’t seem like I’m really there in my body. It’s a weird elevation.
Maybe 10 seconds, maybe 15 seconds is all it took to place the stones. I didn’t linger. I didn’t see any reason to. As I straightened from the bent position of placing the stones, I noticed a car. Halfway down the aisle, on the opposite side; it was a bright red, brand new Challenger. “Pretty car,” I thought. I registered there was a man at a gravesite near the red car. It looked as if he was dead-heading flower arrangements. I gathered they were a few days old; there was no marker. “Recent,” I thought. “Sad.” I got back in the van and thought for a second that perhaps I should bring him a stone. “No.” I told myself. “No.”
In order to leave Brookside, we had to drive forward, past the red car, past the lone man. Around the tall pine in the center circle, I glanced again towards the new grave. Two pictures, two sets of flowers, two graves. Just as we reached Jeff’s row, I said “Stop.” My van driver stopped. No questions; not so much as a blink. What happened next wasn’t real to me, at least not while it was happening.
I moved. I was moved. I jumped out of the van, walked quickly to Jeff’s site, and grabbed a stone from the pile. Back around the van, I watched myself head towards the man. I was two-thirds of the way there, when he looked up and began walking toward me. I’m not comfortable saying I was out of my body, but I was watching the scene unfold with fascination, wondering what was going to happen.
We met. I put out my hand with the stone, and he put out his hand to receive it. I can’t tell you for sure what I said to him. I think it was something like, “This is an anniversary for me. I brought extra stones and thought you might need one.” I suddenly noticed a lot of details. The Metallica t-shirt, starch-ironed jeans, the wedding ring, the fact that the stone ended up face up on his palm without my planning it that way. I missed a lot of details, too. His hair might have been black or brown, maybe a mustache, maybe not. And that’s all there was to it. I turned and walked away quickly, and slowly; deliberately not looking back.
Back in the van, my driver looked at over at me and drove us out of there. It took me a good mile or so before I could speak.
“I never took my sunglasses off,” I said
“I don’t know why I did that,” I said.
“I didn’t do that,” I said.
And I knew it was true. I don’t normally accost strangers in cemeteries and hand them cross stones on the eve preceding the anniversary of my husband’s death. I don’t even talk to strangers. I barely talk to acquaintances. I’m never bold. I’d never been moved. Until now. The realization shook me, shaking me. Hands trembling, tears stalled, I played the vignette over and over in silence. What did he think? I was in a marked van! Did he see where I came from? Would he read Jeff’s marker? “Don’t doubt your self,” my friend said. “You’re regretting it, aren’t you? Don’t over analyze it. Just accept it.”
It stayed on my mind for the night, the next morning, throughout the day. After work on Wednesday, I had some time between my last drop off and the beginning of bible study. I went to the cemetery. Actually, that’s not quite true. I headed for the cemetery, slowed to turn in, saw the red car in exactly that same spot it had been in the previous day, and panicked. I did not make the turn. I did notice that the man was inside the car. Was he waiting? Couldn’t be. I drove past the entrance, took a right and drove around the block to calm myself. I sat at a stop sign and considered my options. I decided to go back.
I parked on the cross path from the red Challenger. I sat for a few seconds. I heard the engine start and dared to look left as the car passed me on its way out. I wasn’t relieved. I felt like I had missed something. In being scared, and reluctant, had I missed an opportunity? I waited a few minutes, checked to see how many stones were left, and headed off to bible study. I had to round the circle tree again, and as I drove over where the red car had been parked, I looked again at the graves there. A new stuffed animal had been added. I wanted to get out of the car and investigate the site; maybe take away names I could pray for.
But again, I was scared. Suppose he came back and I was on “his” graves? It would feel like trespassing. In some ways it already did. I wanted to believe he didn’t believe I was some sort of weird cemetery stalker. I had a right to be there, especially on that day. Why had he waited? Or, was it just coincidence, again? Or was it a removed acknowledgment of my gift? To see if I had been real? To prove he was real?
I went to bible study. I wanted to share my story, but again, I was afraid. Afraid it would seem like boasting for affirmation, afraid that I would seem over-eager to be blessed, afraid that I would be marked as being used by GOD. In the end, I couldn’t help myself. I was disturbed, and needed reassurance. I felt the chill when I finished speaking. I felt the heated flush of embarrassment begin. I felt foolish and fool hardy.
“You let the spirit move you.” Pastor said firmly, quietly, deeply, when I paused. “But I fought it, too.” I replied. I finished telling the story. That got me all around silence. That made me uncomfortable. I’m still not sure sharing was the best idea. I received a few hugs after class. For my anniversary or for my distraught thoughts? Don’t know, but I no longer feel like I am part of that group. And that is making me very sad.
Posted by jaselin at 01:59 PM | Comments (0)
September 08, 2008
Adversity: Written and Shared
I've had a lot of people asking me how, why, and when I find the time to do this thing.
So, I thought I'd address that this go-round. Guess what? In doing so, I managed to get a new perspective on my current place, re-evaluate some of my feelings,and learn a little something about myself. Thanks again for somehow turning the tables on me!
Adversity is an interesting thing...
I'd never really thought to define my life as one of adversity, but apparently it has been. Actually, all of our lives have been wrought with adversity, and will probably continue to be. From all the reading I've done on the phenomenon , it appears that without adversity none of us would have any character!
I’ve practiced writing my whole life; poetry, stories, journals. I wrote a lot about finding myself, being lost, searching, especially in my teens and twenties. I tried writing about love, but wasn’t very good at it. Perhaps, that was because I hadn’t experienced it. I wrote less as I got older. Maybe it was because my job was more demanding, maybe it was because relationships took more of my time, or maybe it was because I had nothing new to write about and just got tired of that.
I didn’t write much after I met my husband. I was too busy, too happy. I had no more questions about where I was supposed to be; I was already there. I wish I’d thought to write about the happy times while I still had them. Writing about them now is bittersweet and painful. I find myself laughing and crying recalling the hilarious, the deadly serious, and the everyday situations we found ourselves blessedly together in.
I read an interesting interview the other day. It contained a revelation that made me stop and consider its truth for me.
Country artist Gary Allen related a conversation he had with the late Harlan Howard, where Harlan told him, “that [he] could write, but [he] didn’t have anything to say.? After the passing of his wife, Gary says, “I guess I liked it better when I didn’t have as much to say, but now I understand what Harlan meant.?
I don’t know for sure that I have all that much more to say these days. I just don’t have anyone to say it to on a daily basis, so it ends up in my writing; newsletters, blogs, poetry, greeting cards, any way I can find to share the words I want to speak, but rarely have the opportunity to. It’s just not the sort of stuff that lends itself to casual conversation.
In the basic human design, we are all facing an end to our earthly being, and therefore we will cause and be caused grief. When losses occur, GOD gives us ways to cope with grief. After all, he gave us tear ducts and memories. HE allows us grief and grieving, which equips us to better help others who will inevitably be coming into grief at some point in their lives.
That’s a blessed cycle: working a flaw into a gift. I’m trying to use mine. I hope at least one someone understands that the pain is necessary for bringing us higher into HIS world. By attending others with more compassion than we previously had, and by guidance through their grief, we can offer healing and GOD’s love.
jak
Posted by jaselin at 08:15 PM | Comments (0)
July 21, 2008
Bouncing (45)
I’m not sure how to interpret this change in my faith. Previously, either constant or non-existent, now I’m just bouncing around. Not even daily: more like hourly. I almost prefer not to be in faith than this constant yo-yoing. It’s always been tiring to have to work at re-inspiring myself. But, this situation is leaving me exhausted, and nearly shut-down.
The dishes are piling up; the chores list is getting longer. I have things to do, and a list to track my progress. It’s the only way I get the little things done. Like mail a card, or file papers, or update my blog-book.
I keep making plans. I don’t know if that qualifies as optimism or fatalism. Clear out the laundry room closet, the linen closet, the tool closet, the tool chest from the shed, the guest room shelves, the guest room closet, price out the DE collection, organize and thin-out pots and pans, outline ME newsletters, devise format and plans for Monthly Tech newsletter, have my teeth work finished, keep up the treadmill, make a few pairs of pants, work on jewelry project, finish the cathedral windows quilt, read the dozens of books lying around the house, shop for a used car, look for a condo.
I missed the UM Gift of Arts deadline again this year. That was disappointing. I had some great ideas. I guess I can add that to my list of things to do over next winter. Never did get my salsa garden started. I suppose I could still do that if I got over to the garden center this week-end. I don’t know, though. It seems like it would just be another thing to keep track of, another chore to do.
Maybe I’m just tired of having to keep pushing myself. I want to simplify, but I don’t want to give anything up. I want less stuff, less space, and more newness. I contradict myself daily, hourly, and from minute to minute. I’m guess I’m not handling 45 well. Loved 40, but now 45 is halfway to 50 – say, what??? Mid-life crisis? Pre-life crisis?
I’m not giving up, but to borrow from Lifehouse:
The broken clock is a comfort, it helps me sleep tonight
Maybe it can stop tomorrow from stealing all my time
I am here still waiting though I still have my doubts
I am damaged at best, like you've already figured out
I'm falling apart, I'm barely breathing
With a broken heart that's still beating
In the pain there is healing
In your name I find meaning
So I'm holding on, I'm still holding,
I'm holding on, I’m still holding,
I'm barely holding on to you
I'm hanging on another day
just to see what you will throw my way
And I'm hanging on to the words you say
You said that I will be ok
So I'm still holding
I'm still holding
I’m still holding on to you.
I'm barely holdin' on to you
Posted by jaselin at 08:00 PM | Comments (0)
June 22, 2008
Motivation
What Motivates Me?
On any given day, I might have at least three different answers. One might be profound, one may silly, one could be terribly desperate.
The key to staying motivated, through any task or goal, is to know what motivates you. I place my goals into categories: first, second, and third. You could also call them high, medium, and lower goals.
First/High goals are those which need to stay constantly with you and near the top of your priority list. This may not be your biggest or most monumental goal. It is better described as the goal that will require the most motivation.
Second/Medium goals remain in your mind daily. These are the ones you run through each evening as you check your progress for the day.
Third/Lower goals are not necessarily the least significant, but ones that are easily attained on a daily basis without too much effort. They’re more like good habits you know you will achieve.
I find that tracking my goals is my best motivation. I like to see progress and that keeps me motivated.
Lack of progress motivates me, as well. I know that’s unusual. It hasn’t always been that way. Lack of progress used to mean “I might as well give up.? It meant that I had broken a promise to myself. Then, one day, it occurred to me: when someone breaks a promise to me, I usually confront them and challenge them follow through on whatever it was. I began to challenge myself by requiring that I meet the same standards I expect of others.
Keeping goals separate also makes me more likely to succeed. Doing poorly on a First goal cannot effect my performance on a Second or Third goal. Many days I succeed in a Second or Third and struggle with a First. The very reason I made that goal a First is because I recognized it would take more dedication. Therefore, my intention remains intact.
I take comfort in knowing that each day, in fact each minute, GOD gives me another moment to start over; I always have the opportunity to follow through on my intentions.
Knowing this, I allow myself this healing mantra: If not now, then later. If not today, then tomorrow. If not this road, then another. If it's GOD's will, then I will.
jak
Posted by jaselin at 08:27 AM | Comments (0)
Goals
What is a Goal?
It turns out that while researching this question, I wasn’t so much interested in a goal, but rather an intention.
Merriam-Webster offers these definitions of “intention?: a determination to act in a certain way: RESOLVE 2: IMPORT, SIGNIFICANCE 3 a: what one intends to do or bring about b: the object for which a prayer, mass, or pious act is offered 4: a process or manner of healing of incised wounds 5: CONCEPT; especially : a concept considered as the product of attention directed to an object of knowledge 6 plural : purpose with respect to marriage.
If we consider this definition, a goal becomes a marriage within you, a part of your being. Your intentions become a process of healing, and a process of change.
Process is also a key word. It indicates a plan is needed, a journey must be taken, and it’s going to take some time and effort to arrive at your intended destination.
jak
Posted by jaselin at 08:26 AM | Comments (0)
April 14, 2008
Cats and Connecting
I don’t know why I am obsessed with putting myself out there. The tendency is to say it’s a noble attempt to help others. The truth is that I am hoping to connect.
I love my cat, especially because she is so independent.
She doesn’t need unending attention; she walks away when she has had her fill. Every once in a while though, I would like a little jump up-in-my-lap and show me you really love me attention. Every extremely rare once-in-a-while she decides to do just that. She never stays for more than a few seconds; unless I quickly grab her and hold her close and tight. She never struggles to get away, but the moment I relax my hold, she’s off to do whatever it is she had in mind to start with.
We’re a lot alike in other ways, too. We both don’t talk much, love taking naps in the sun, adore shrimp, and don’t require much fanfare. She faithfully watches over me at night when I lay down to sleep, and then quietly moves away as I drift off. I can understand her reasons for that.
Truthfully, she moves off because I tend to flip really quickly in my sleep. My abrupt bed flips have resulted many times in an unwilling-to-be, but inevitably, flying cat.
I’ve had the same catapulting experience when people have flipped on me, so I watch carefully for signals that it’s time to slide over and get out of the way. I don’t ever really go away, though. I just hang outside of reach until I’m ready to reconnect, and it’s safe enough to go back for more.
jak
Posted by jaselin at 12:29 PM | Comments (0)
April 07, 2008
Spiritual Guess
April 7, 2008
I couldn’t finish The Purpose Driven Life. I was getting way too confused. I’m sure I was over analyzing the exercises, but it was too much for me. The struggle to find my purpose became depressing. I couldn’t see it. I know what I like to do. I know what I’m good at. But I didn’t see a useful purpose for any of it. It’s not the sort of stuff “leadership? is made of.
Even so, when the next Sunday school series, “Spiritual Gifts,? was announced, I had an interest. Yep, it was that good ol’ pit bull mentality coming out in me. I wanted the answer so badly I was still hanging on; lock jawed and blurry eyed, and probably way too close to the problem.
About half way through class, we were given permission to open our “gifts? from the group leader. The packages were cute, brightly colored, ribbon festooned and tube like. Inside was a “self-guided? questionnaire entitled, “Finding Your Spiritual Gifts? by C. Peter Wagner.
The first few pages held 135 questions. In the center of the booklet was one of those dreaded “bubble? answer sheets, just like the ones we used in grade school. The type that required a # 2 lead pencil, and complete accuracy in filling in the dizzying columns of numbered little ovals. With a mounting horrific pressure on your little adolescent head, you knew that if you ended up just one little bubble off course, you were bound to fail the exam and ruin your entire future.
The very first question stumped me.
“I have a desire to speak direct messages that I receive from God in order to edify, exhort or comfort others.?
Um, could someone clarify this, please? Was this supposed to be literal? Did this mean speaking with voices or could speaking through writing be considered? Exhort? Oh, boy. I was in trouble here. I asked, and amazingly enough, just like in grade school I heard, “Just go with your first reaction.?
Unfortunately, “Panic? wasn’t one of the choices! I soldiered on, but Sunday school was short and no one was able to finish their evaluation exercise. We would have to complete them at home.
My first reaction, since I was instructed to act upon it, was to leave the thing in the car to brown and curl in the falsely multiplied heat of a Michigan early-spring sun. However, it somehow made it in to the house despite that intention. I made myself a sandwich, and some iced tea, and decided if I was going to torture myself, I could at least multi-task. Out to the porch I went; food, pen, pamphlet, and all. I finished it in about an hour. I got off the bubble marks a few times, both numerically and physically. But, I kept at it. The sheet wasn’t pretty, but at least it was done.
Another 20 minutes or so, and all the little blackened in number were subtotaled at the end of each line. Then came the page-flipping dance to try and determine what my Spiritual Gifts might be. Another 20 minutes or so, and the results were there in blue and white. And red, as I realized that my normally pale skin had turned into a patchy lobster colored mess.
I went in to take a cool shower to try to lower the damage to my skin, and to keep my brain from frying as well. I don’t think I have ever been so excited, or God-smacked, in my life as when I went back to that booklet a little later to see what my Spiritual Gifts were guessed to be. I haven’t made it to the suggested reflective scriptures yet, but I am sure I am pleased so far.
Spiritual Gift 1: Administration.
“The gift of administration is the special ability that GOD gives to certain members of the Body of Christ to understand clearly the immediate and long-range goals of a particular unit of the Body of and to devise and execute effective plans for the accomplishment of goals.?
Once, at a company retreat, I was asked to identify myself with an animal and explain my reasoning. I chose to describe myself a giraffe. Keep in mind I am only 5’3?or so tall, so there was some confusion about this. I sometimes miss what is happening right below my feet, because I have a tendency to focus farther ahead and find myself planning for those goals and issues.
As far as the devising and executing of plans goes… well, yeah! That’s me!
Spiritual Gift 2: Knowledge
“The gift of knowledge is the special ability that GOD gives to certain members of the Body of Christ to discover, accumulate, analyze and clarify information and ideas which are pertinent to the Body of Christ.?
Research, lists, spread sheets: I live for this stuff. Analyzing and clarifying? Remember, I got stumped at question # 1. That’s me!
Spiritual Gift 3: A Tie!
How typical of me… Helps and Service.
Helps: “The gift of helps is the special ability that GOD gives to certain members of the Body of Christ to invest the talents they have in the life and ministry of other members of the Body, thus enabling those others to increase the effectiveness of their own spiritual gifts.?
Service: “The gift of service – sometimes called the gift of volunteer –is the special ability that GOD gives certain members of the Body of Christ to identify the unmet needs involved in a task related to GOD’s work, and to make use of the available resources to meet those needs and help accomplish the desired results.?
What I find strange is that though they are similar, the two are considered to be different. The explanation offered is, “The gift of helps may be confused with the gift of service. Someone with the gift of helps usually aids one individual, while a person with the gift of service is willing to do whatever is necessary for a cause or project.? Yet, for me they are equal, in that they are supportive and enabling. Helping the one person helps the entire cause. It’s all inter-related. I’m not sure if this way of thinking can be considered a gift or not, but that’s how I think. That’s me!
This is how exactly how I have been desiring and imagining my mission service to be.
jak
Posted by jaselin at 12:34 PM | Comments (0)
March 06, 2008
Bear-ly Deconstruction
My sister-in-law made a darling quilt for a friend’s daughter, and I offered to make a matching Teddy Bear from the scraps.
I have a pretty tight deadline for this project, and I really needed to get a lot of that bear completed last night. However, nothing was going well.
The sewing machine tension decided to over-tense, the upper thread tangled in the bobbin works, the leader foot kept jamming, the thread broke numerous times, I ran out of bobbin thread, and finally the sewing machine needle broke.
It was then that I noticed I forgot to include the bear’s ears while sewing her head, and her back seam was not in line with her front seam. Here I was trying to do something nice, and all I got was frustration.
I threw everything into an angry pile on the dining room table and gave up. I walked away thinking, “Really, LORD! What am I supposed to be learning from this??
Before I left for work this morning, I grabbed the sad semi-assembled bear and threw it in my tote bag planning to deconstruct everything during my lunch hour.
Happily, I found I had some time to spare while waiting to pick up my first passenger of the morning. So, I grabbed the ear-less head and my brand new seam ripper hoping to get the mistake undone quickly.
It should have been a fairly easy task, but even with the sharp new ripper, I had to painstakingly remove each over-tensioned stitch one by one. Being extra careful not to accidentally tear the fabric, I wasn’t getting anywhere fast.
That’s when the “Oh!? of realization hit me.
It’s sort of like what the LORD must be going through with me.
I am stitched so tightly to my past that each thread must be gently and slowly torn from me. Ripping away my foundation too quickly would just leave me with tiny tears and in scattered pieces. All of my parts need to be patiently repositioned, and realigned, so I may be re-made, re-souled, and re-minded.
jak
Posted by jaselin at 09:39 AM | Comments (0)
March 04, 2008
No Brakes! (2)
So, a near accident started me thinking. (See Humor: That's Random: No Brakes!)
Whenever I would say to Jeff, “I’ve been thinking, and…? He would roll his eyes in an exaggerated expression of fear, and say, “Oh, no, here we go!? It was a funny little joke between us because sometimes I can come up with some really bizarre theories about things. (Reference: Humor: That's Random: Linguistic Obesity)
So, here I am trying to reduce my heart rate after a traffic incident, and Linda’s making me laugh by mock-yelling, “Everyone look out! No Brakes!? Once the continued ride home settled down a bit, I start thinking about what could happen if I committed to living my life that way. “No Brakes!?
There’s a song that I have been listening to over and over lately that really says what I’ve been struggling with. From Casting Crowns, the lyrics are “Just how close can I get, Lord, to my surrender, without losing all control??
I know that answer to this one is “not very close.? Surrendering means loss of all control, and then continued, constant recognition of that loss. I realize that I’d have to choose “No Brakes!? to get to where I want to be spiritually; to move me from this place, to a deeper one in my heart and soul.
This leads me to another great song, “Look Heart, No Hands.? recorded by Randy Travis. It’s a song that I’ve known for years and have loved since the first time I heard it. Only now it has a brand new meaning for me in the context of having a child-like trust in God.
“I remember how it used to feel
Ridin' down ol' two mile hill
Tennis shoes up on the handlebars
Payin' no mind to the passin' cars
No doubts, no fears
Just like when you are here.
No chains, no strings
No fences, no walls
No net, just you
To catch me when I fall
Look heart, no hands.?
So, the way I see it, trusting God enough to take your hands off the handle bars, and putting your foot flat on the floor away from the brakes in your life are the same idea.
Ok, so I had the moment of clarity. But, I’m still on the crest of the hill trying to decide if I’m going to let loose and fly down it, or continue to hold on to my ever-present fear of losing all control.
jak
Posted by jaselin at 03:38 PM | Comments (0)