The many colors of Joy

I was sitting in Bible Study more than a week ago, guilty of letting my mind wander in and out of our discussion, as the little bird on my left shoulder who has memorized my to-do list squawked and screeched into my ear.   When the discussion wandered into the realm of Glory, and how we have been called to live so as to give an estimate of what God truly is through who we are and what we do, the little bird really started to make a ruckus.  But I perked up, took out my mental baseball bat, and whacked the bird over the head so I could focus and listen more closely to this interesting conversational thread.

And my first response:  How was I, who couldn't even manage to be on time to Bible study, going to give an estimate of who God is through my daily life?  The whole idea of doing so seemed not only beyond my understanding but well outside my reach.  

Fortunately, before I could ponder this impossibility even further, the discussion turned in another direction... toward how we express the joy inside of our own hearts to others. Joy was one form of "the estimate of God" that I could relate to, because undeserved as I am, I definitely have moments and sometimes even days, where joy takes root inside of me, and bursts forth in a myriad of ways.

Yet, as one of the women in my group soon pointed out and correctly so, we put a set of rather narrow expectations on ourselves of how joy should be expressed.  Surely, if we are joyful, we will be bouncy and exuberant... singing, dancing, or performing some other very dynamic expression of that inner joy (which simultaneously consumes a great deal of calories and keeps us fit and trim).

If that were true, though, the Biblical call to express our joy in our relationship with God would be confined to those who possess the uncommon talent of singing at a level that does not dismay or alienate others (as my own singing most certainly does) or who are extraverted enough to dance in front of others without turning multiple bright shades of red and tripping over their own feet (again, as my own dancing would do).

Thank goodness that God has a much broader vision for the many ways that joy can be expressed by the many unique children He has put on this earth.   As I look around me in my daily life, both within my church community and outside of it, I see such a range of expressions of Joy that I can leave any expectations that I must sing and dance my joy into the world well behind me.  Whew, what a relief!

To some of those who have shown me the many colors of joy in our world --

My husband Barry -- for a laugh so filled with warmth and joy that it stays in the room long after you have left it for another room or another place.

My friend Dawn -- for having such a joyful way of saying "Hi" when you pick up the phone that I feel like I am the most interesting and appealing person on planet Earth.

My friend Marilyn -- for tirelessly pouring joyful words of encouragement and affirmation in my direction even when I am doing my very best and prolonged imitation of Eeyore and 'woe is me.'

My friend Ken -- for giving me an endlessly patient and listening ear which offers its own unique and colorful joy.

My friend Kelley -- for suddenly sending forth humor at some of the most unexpected of times, releasing joy from laughter as if it were a jack in the box.

My friend Thad -- for repeatedly reminding me that joy can and will break through the walls of academia and university life.

And the list goes on... from those who laugh, dance, and sing to those who are quieter and more serious.   No matter what you think about your joy, please believe me when I say it escapes from you, unbidden.

I see it. I enjoy it. I thank you for it.

Statistically Speaking, I've done nothing.

I've often shared with friends that I don't mind working hard.  I mind working stressed.   Well, I also mind working hard for little or no impact on the people (or planet) that I've signed up to serve.   When it comes to work that involves statistics, therein lies a problem.

Here is the way the story goes.   In the beginning, there is excitement and enthusiasm. A grant has been funded, the required approvals to study people have been obtained, the starting gate opens, and data collection begins.   In the background, I may even hear pieces of 'My old Kentucky Home' playing.   If I am truly lucky, I may even be wearing a stylish hat.

But, I digress.

Once out of the starting gate, things may go as planned or they may get a little strange. But, it’s not my job to push for one horse to win over the other.  Instead, it’s my job to watch, unemotionally, as the results unfold, and to keep bias and cheating out of the race and whatever equations may enter the race.   I have the assigned role of data warden, driving hard for more (data) to be collected, spending many careful hours evaluating the results, often falling deeply asleep on my keyboard in the wee hours of the morning.   

At the end though, it’s no bother and no hard feelings as long as what comes of the race is knowing something that we didn’t know before.   Whether positive or negative, if we’ve identified something, whether what we expected and liked or what we didn’t expect and may not like, at least we’ve done the thing we were supposed to do in academic research:  advance the state of knowledge; provide a nugget that in the long run, can benefit people and society.   

But, over the years, this seemingly simple race to advance knowledge for the benefit of someone, somewhere.... has become increasingly muddy.  The track is a mess.   The rules of the game have gone awry.  

In the present day, we can now spend hundreds and hundreds of hours collecting data, analyzing that data, trying to create something meaningful from the effort, and in the end, run into the statistics police who are blocking the home stretch to the finish line, and ultimately, I accomplish absolutely nothing.

In their most common form, the statistics police are those who review manuscripts submitted for publication in this or that academic journal.   Over the years, they have become increasingly fearful that we might possibly make a conclusion based on the data that is not a 100% certainty.   They seem to have forgotten that statistics are inherently, by their very definition, uncertain and there is always a possibility of misinterpreting the data.  Instead of allowing such uncertainty into the hallowed pages of the academic journal with appropriate statements to that effect, the statistics police will often push our conclusions back into one of two corners.  Corner 1 allows us to say that we have proven the obvious.  Corner 2 allows us to say that we have proven nothing at all.   

Either corner defeats the entire purpose of the whole process of research.   

When did it become worse to suggest what could be true and provide food for thought rather than restrict ourselves to what is true and obvious and therefore not worth reading in the first place?   

Is it not better to say what we can with the sample sizes we have rather than wait to fund a sample size we will never have?

In reviewing my publications over the years, I can safely say that Statistically Speaking, I’ve done almost nothing… which is a mockery of the hundreds of hours spent on research not just by me but by the many all over the country who take on academic research to expand horizons, to serve society, to advance knowledge… and all that corny rhetoric that used to make academic research noble and worth doing.     

I would rather run a race and lose than run a race and be stopped short of the finish line… in spite of the fact that I am not a horse, nor do I own a Derby hat.   

Statistically or otherwise, that sounds like good sense.   

driving along a dark road

he put the car keys in my hand.
i snatched them.
threw them back
with all of my body,
all of my anger,
rolled into one.

i aimed at his face.
i didn't care about hurting him.
in fact, i wanted it.
to hurt him.
badly.

by the supernatural,
he caught the keys in mid-air,
smirked,
and
brutally forced them back into my hand,
where we had started.

"NO... I don't want your car.
 NO... I am not driving.
 Go AWAY."


my anger boiled.
i threw the keys on the ground
turned to walk
then to run,
the other way.

but halfway round,
in the corner of my eye,
i saw her.
my best friend
huddled in the passenger seat
woeful eyes
looking my way,
willing me to stay

my heart sank,
my will broke,
my shoulders collapsed.
i stopped, turned,
stepped into the car
started the engine
put the car in gear
and drove away.

in the rearview, i saw him
smiling, smirking,
delighting in our despair
i slammed the accelerator to the floor
until i could see him in the rearview
no more

now, safe for a time
we drove
the light faded into dark
we drove
the night stretched on
we drove

hours turned into days
days into months
months into seasons
we drove

my dear passenger
spoke less
we drove
grew weaker
we drove
finally
no longer wished to greet me

and one day,
along the dark road
we drove
a brief flash of light
a sign
a call
a beckoning

then her weakness
turned to despair,
and failure
into an ending

my heart broke,
my hands shook,
i wrenched open the handle
kicked her out the passenger door
and heard her bounce onto death's floor

for a moment
darkness
was complete,
all consuming.

then
a flash of bright eternal light
in the rearview mirror
as her body
came to rest
along the side of a very dark road
that lay right next to
Home

i turned the car round
began the long drive back home
into the many months of emptiness
that lay before me
driving back along the dark road
toward the lesser light of home
without her

Belle (July 4, 2000 - June 2, 2015)

I miss you.

murder is ok

murder is ok
with elderly
already on their way

murder is ok
when alzheimers
steals the day

murder is ok
when morphine
paves the way

murder is ok
once hospice
has its say

murder is ok
when healthcare
goes astray

murder is ok
but there remains
hell to pay

written in memory of Grandma Charlotte, who passed away at 102 years old, 11 months, when her healthcare providers, rather than her God, decided that she was done with this world.   

no doubt, Charlotte was ready to move on from this world and head toward Home, but do any of us, including our increasingly dysfunctional healthcare system, have the right to determine precisely when?

or should we instead leave it to natural timing and natural rhythms that are designed to bring about death when the dying are precisely ready?

should we wait patiently or act palliatively?

why not both?

Love is..

What is love?

If you "cheat" and look up the answer in 1 Corinthians, you'll find this answer:

"Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.  Love never fails."

Paul set the standard for love with these words, one that I may strive for, but almost always,  fall short, day in and day out. While love never fails, I do... and quite frequently. But, I am digressing (again).  

If I were to put my Bible away and close my eyes, the first words that would come to mind with regard to love would simply be:

"Love is complicated"

Even in the simplest of situations... Should I be "kind" by letting the driver turn into traffic in front of me or by proceeding without such a delay to be "kind" to the driver behind me?

Should I be "patient" with the student in my office at the expense of not having additional time (or patience) to offer to the four waiting outside the door?

And in the more difficult of situations:   

When is the right time to take a beloved pet's life?  At what point does she have too much pain to bear?  When is the pacing, back and forth on the floors at night too frequent?   When does the pendulum swing on quality of life?

If I am to keep no record of wrongs, how am I to judge when someone has crossed the line from simply having one too many bad days to being abusive?  How can I make the right decision about when to stay and when to walk away?

Where is the line where seeking balance and rest for self is necessary to offering meaningful love to others?  Where does too much service offered in too many different directions dilute the impact of the loving heart so much that it becomes almost meaningless?

What is the point of keeping house?  Of tending gardens?  Of planting trees?  Many of these tasks, things to do, keep the rhythm of the heart in the right balance, so love given is more readily received, but when is there too much, too little... or just right?

Is a bubble bath self-seeking?  A strong resume boastful?  Walking out on a meeting run late dishonorable?

Has love failed in an abusive marriage?  Is standing by one while leaving another vulnerable failing to be protective?  Is skepticism with all range of business transactions and interactions a withholding of trust?  Or is it wise?

Finding the point of balance in a culture enamored with being busy, with having more, with rationalizing all manner of "white" lies, and with doing ever more additional.... turns a desire to love and act on love into a complicated mess.  Waking up every day determined to love one another takes ongoing reflection and dozens of daily decisions, big and small.   It takes trying to understand where to be patient, how to be kind, when to openly rejoice in the truth and with what words.... and the list goes on. And on.

I think Paul may need to write an entire book to explain the logistics of his beautiful verses about love.

I'll be one of the first to read a copy.

  

Sleeping with Fifty Shades of Green

There is something about living rural that changes a person.  It goes well beyond the uptick in manual labor that is required of living on a rural property, including but not limited to the thrills of hauling your own trash, disposing of all kinds of animal feces (domestic and wild), mowing ad nauseam, and developing expertise in the use of a wide array of power tools.   

I have lived in a rural area now for over five years, in a house and home that sit on top of a hill, surrounded by trees that seem to irritate the satellite TV companies, but thrill me to no end.  

The change that the land, woods, and water surrounding our home on Frogwater road started creating in me over five years ago extends in many directions, ranging from the practical to the spiritual. This morning, what rests most noticeably on my grateful heart is the impact of the silence.  A silence that emanates from the land with grace and beauty  

In the silence, I sleep more deeply, have more transforming dreams, draw more readily to God, and find more joy in the night than any other place on earth.    I awaken more often with a profound sense of peace than any other resting place in my life history, most of which invariably involve the sounds of people being people, dominating their environment with technology, infrastructure, and their many urban habits.   

The interesting part of the silence in the Frogwater night is that the decibel level often keeps pace with that found in urban settings.  Yet, the sounds of the night march on in such harmony that silence of the mind and heart are easily found, held close, and woven into a deep, peaceful sleep that we were all designed to have, but so few of us achieve in our "advanced", fast-paced modern society.   

As I turn off the lights and rest my head on the pillow, I will first hear the harmony cast by thousands of frogs singing their chorus in the wetland below, crafting a symphony that will last well into the wee hours.  Their symphony celebrates what they do in the night, most of which can be distilled very simply into.... a lot of sex.   In their many shades of green, they will indulge in as many mating, courtship, and procreative rituals as it takes to perpetuate the species in their still healthy and thriving habitat:

Occasionally, the chorus will be interrupted by a predator, detected by one of the many frog Scouts surveying the land, on guard for the others.   When the Scouts sound the siren, all will fall momentarily silent... allowing the other sounds of the night to emerge.   Sometimes, a predator may make its question clear:  "Who?  Who, will be my dinner tonight?". Other predators may be more cryptic, howling deep into the night for an often unapparent reason that invariably stimulates the dogs in the area to do the same.   Still other predators will strive to remain silent, their stealth interrupted only by the invariable snapping of twigs and the brushing past the many shades of green that grow in the forest:

Though often silent outside of the forests, the wind will also find its voice here. Sometimes, it will simple whisper:   "Sweet dreams to you."  Other times, it will howl, stirring turbulence and trouble among the tallest of the trees and rushing through the underbrush as if late to a very important date.  

No matter.  The frogs will return, the sounds will continue.   In each unique combination, they will generate a never-ending series of lovely symphonies that pacify the heart and bring rest to the mind.  

Erotic, amusing, and deeply moving, Fifty Shades of Green can possess you and stay with you forever, just as the other Fifty Shades advertises, but without the R rating.    

  

Personally, I prefer Green to Gray... any day, any way. 

Seeds of Care

Many who have been around a Bible for any length of time have read about the mustard seed. It is the main character in a parable about planting faith in the world. Why the mustard seed?  Because it is incredibly small: 

The mustard seed, in fact, is so small that it is hard to believe it ever germinates in soil subject to the whims of rain, wind, erosion, and a myriad of other nutrient deficiencies. Yet, the stoic and tenacious, wee little mustard seed marches on, growing into a remarkable tree, sometimes even doing so in inhospitable soil:

Jesus Christ wanted us to believe that the same was possible with seeds of faith.  No matter how little the seed, how futile the effort, how shut the door appears to be, spreading light around the world is supposed to have an impact, much like the mustard seed.   This is a wonderful parable about a little bit of the right effort traveling far and wide.   

Yet, so many times in my life, what I see from my vantage point is different.   I see so much effort gone to waste.  So much hope for so much change gone dashed.  But, of course, that is where faith steps in once again.  I have to count on a bigger picture that I cannot imagine, much less see.   

While the mustard seed exemplifies the little bits of faith we are designed to plant wherever we go, I imagine a much bigger seed to represent something different but equally important:  the seed of Care. 

  

The seed of Care resonates particularly loudly during this time of my life.  My grandmother Charlotte is 102 years old and has gradually declined over the years to the point that her quality of life is as close to zero as can be imagined.   Over the past two months, in particular, she has alternated among --

speaking of  how much she hurts, physically and emotionally, 

and

begging me to take the hurt away,

and 

pleading with God to take her home.   

I can fix none of the hurt nor grant any of her wishes.  How I wish I could.  Yet, I can’t even make a dent in the problem, no matter how much I flail and wish to do so.   Instead, with her compromised cognitive function making all communication uncertain at best and non-existent at worst, the only thing I seem to be able to do is hold her hand, rub her shoulders, and use my voice to offer some small (and often inadequate) comfort to her as she walks through these last days of her life.

My walk with Grandma Charlotte has been complicated by the fact that just three days ago, I had to leave her, mostly alone in her ALF in Dunedin, Florida.   Although the staff at A Rose Garden take very good care of her despite the Medicaid tattoo she bears, there are no more family or friends in Florida to visit.  Everyone has passed away or moved away.  And, just three days ago, it was my turn to do that to her as well... leave Dunedin to come back to Washington State and my job at the University.  A University which cannot survive if I were to take a day off (just ask them).  

On the road now, traveling the many miles between the southeast corner of America to the northwest corner, I can only hope that God has a counterpart to the mustard seed.  I can only hope that the days and hours spent by her side by not only me but my sister and the caring staff at A Rose Garden... have planted a seed of Care deep within Grandma Charlotte that will hold her close and safe through to the end of her stay here in this world.  

Just two short days after I left for Washington State, Grandma Charlotte aspirated part of her dinner and immediately contracted pneumonia and a 103+ degree fever.  She has been transferred to a hospice care facility, where nothing and no one are familiar to her.   

She is alone and my hands are tied along the many miles of interstate between us.   

We must have more than the mustard seed for Grandma Charlotte now, because her time is now so short.

Therefore, I demand the biggest seed of Care in the world for her ….

please

no sooner did i ask than my prayer was granted ... by dear friends in Florida, carrying the seed of Care along to the end of this journey with Grandma Charlotte.  

Cheese, Please

Of the many entertaining things to do while driving through the state of Missouri (a full list of which can be made available on request), one of our favorites is stopping at Osceola Cheese, about midway between Springfield and Kansas City:

One might ask:  Why would a simple thing like cheese hold such fascination?   For starters, both preceding and following Osceola on Highway 13 are vast swathes of somewhat monotonous scenery. And, no matter how pretty natural scenery may be, mile after mile of the same such scenery can cause the eyes to droop, often to the detriment of keeping a vehicle between the painted lines on the road.  

But also... truthfully, who doesn't love cheese? Especially when it comes in over 150 different varieties with free, unlimited tasting.   Onion and chive, Apricot and ginger, Smooth and sharp, Black pepper jack, and so on and so forth.   All these enticing tastes, remembered clearly from last year's trek across the country, brought forth some pleasant memories that caused us to risk life, limb, and Osceola delay devices (aka the Missouri State Police) to speed through Missouri and across the Osage river into Osceola Cheese just before closing time:

After eating far too much cheese and deliberating far too long over which three to purchase and take along with us, we left, with much regret, for Kansas City.  But, the cheese will live on.  Despite getting smaller and smaller with each passing day, there will still be enough cheese to share once we finally arrive back on our very favorite island in the Pacific Northwest.

First Day on the Road

There are some first days on the road that really should be last days ... marked by a wise turning around of the vehicle, headed back to where one started followed by a stubborn refusal to drive said vehicle for a least 48 hours.

Today was such a day.

We should have recognized something was amiss when both of us awoke this morning, sick as dogs (while the dogs, ironically, woke in contrastingly good health).   With my head trying to explode under the influence of raging sinuses and my husband's GI tract trying to explode with comparable force, it was difficult to even roll out of bed, much less finish packing six animals, two people, and a hootload of stuff in a minivan headed for the west.   We pondered the thought of staying in bed until our bodies were more cooperative, but alas, we stupidly and stubbornly dragged ourselves onto the road anyway.

We were again tempted to turn around and return to our place of origin when it took four hours to travel 140 miles.  All too soon, we discovered that the massive volumes of people we had seen at Clearwater beach only 24 hours prior were now all headed back north alongside of us.   Traffic inched and crawled forward at a maddening inconsistent and slow pace, worsened by increasingly impatient drivers up to their usual interstate tricks.

At the very moment that we broke free from the log jam on the interstate, our cat Kickstand recognized the mistake she had made by not partaking of the litterbox one last time this morning.   In celebration of this mistake, The Howling went on for at least ten minutes, followed shortly after by The Smell, followed not so shortly thereafter by the rest area, where said mess was cleaned and bedding replaced, so that poor kitty could refrain from The Howling during the many miles that still lay ahead of us.

Tired already, we decided to get lost, fooled by a U.S. highway sign that surely must have been terribly shy and decided to hide behind a tree at the very moment that we passed it.   Another forty minutes wasted, we relocated the errant highway and proceed west into Alabama.

Alas, Kickstand was not yet down with her carsickness drama.  The drama suddenly resumed somewhere in Alabama. It began with more of The Howling, followed by strange noises that made us wonder where the nearest vet could be found, and finally, headed into a crescendo of puke.  Then, more Howling, more Smell, and so on and so forth.

I swear that Montgomery, Alabama moved west today, trying to evade our poor hapless, loaded minivan.  However, when we finally caught up with the moving city of Montgomery... we were almost not too surprised to find we had been placed in a smoking room.  With my allergy to cigarette smoke and relentless head cold, I suspected an evening equally as joyful as the day's road trip lay ahead.  I again thought about turning the car around and heading back to Clearwater, Florida.

Instead, I rolled out of the van, leashed a rather anxious Lucky and restless Lady, and ventured out upon a long walk... during which L & L ran into an episode of Big Sticky Thorn followed by Silly Bystander who, seemingly unaware that my dogs are large, protective, and canine... proceeded to challenge Lady to come after her.   Although I am still putting my shoulder back into its socket, I was able to keep Lady from rising to the challenge.  Really -- who challenges an unknown big black dog and expects good things to come from it?   Sigh.

Although, my head still feels like a full explosion is near... this is what the reaction to today's high stress and drama was among our household:

That's what I love about this crew.  They just let it all roll off of 'em as if days like today never happened.  

A Parable of the Home Builder

Some sources say that the word "parable" should only be applied to the stories that Jesus Christ told in the new testament in order to point out a moral or spiritual lesson.  I hereby disclaim that I am only using this particular word because it sounds a great deal better than "allegory" or "analogy".  Maybe I am just not in the mood for "a" words.  I am certainly not up to the eloquence or wisdom of Jesus Christ.

Here we go:
A man once endeavored to build a house.  Or was that a woman? Either way... the house was to be built.   So, he found many helpers to (yes, that's right) help him.  He found helpers who could pour foundation, helpers who could lay flooring, helpers who could paint, and so on and so forth.  At the end of the first week, the man was delighted at all his helpers and their expertise.

So, during the second week, the man began to build the house.   He prepared the ground for the foundation and looked to his helper who had experience laying foundation.   Alas, the helper had to wash her hair during the second week, so she could not assist with the laying of the foundation.  So, the man picked up his DIY manual and spent the second week reading about how to lay a foundation, and watching YouTube videos to confirm what he read.

During the third week, the man began to apply his newfound knowledge and lay the foundation for the house.  In the middle of the messiest part, when the man had somehow managed to land knee deep in fresh concrete, the foundation laying helper appeared with shiny, clean hair.  She observed the process before her and began a critique of the man's foundation.  She pointed out many flaws and stood apart from the foundation, waiting for the man to fix them.  And so, the man fixed them, one by one, until the foundation lay, almost perfect, in the middle of the chosen plot of land.  And so ended the third week of building the house.

During the fourth week, the man began the framing for the house.  This was his area of expertise, so he required no help, no DIY manuals, and mercifully, no further input from YouTube.  At the end of the fourth week, his helpers came and assessed the structure, its integrity, and so on.   The man listened and applied the knowledge he thought relevant and nodded his head at the rest.

During the fifth week, the man began the plumbing, the electrical, and the HVAC. Again, he called on his helpers with the right expertise for the job.   His helpers were busy.   They were important people.  They could not help.   The man retreated to the land of DIY manuals and YouTube, studying carefully each step in this phase of building the house.   This process took several weeks, almost months, because his helpers remained busy elsewhere.  Magically, when the plumbing was complete, the plumbing helper stopped by to offer a detailed critique of his work and wrote up many pages of corrections to bring the plumbing up to his standards.  The electrical and the HVAC helper did the same.

The story continued and bit by fitful bit, the house rose from what before, was merely a patch of dusty, hapless land.    After months of tireless effort, the man finally screwed the last piece of drywall in place, applied the finishing touches on the paint, and declared the home building process complete.

He stepped back to admire his work, but was so tired from all that he had done that he could bear to be on his feet only a few seconds before collapsing, less than fortuitously, onto one of the many agave plants his landscaping helper had critiqued into position just a few days earlier.

While attempting to extract himself from the myriad of spines and thorns on the agave, he noticed a great crowd had gathered on the lawn.  Upon further inspection, he noticed that the crowd consisted of two groups of people:  (a) his many "helpers" and (b) a crowd of onlookers who had gathered around the helpers to congratulate the helpers on a job hard won and well done.

Invisible and exhausted, the man retired inside his house, lay down on the floor, and slept for a half an eon.

When finally, the man awoke from his deep slumber, he immediately noticed the eyes of his many "helpers" staring down upon him, expectantly, waiting.   When the helpers were sure that the man was awake, conscious and responsive, they uttered only these words:

"Let's build another one."

Such is the far too common story of authorship on scientific publications.   

The Color of Evil

I am surprised at how often and in how many places, situations, and circumstances around the world, so many individuals want to put a color on the face of evil.

Evil is White.
Should we conclude that all Caucasians are inherently racist?

or
Evil is Black
Is it true then that black Americans are the only source of serious crime and poverty in our cities?

or
Evil is Brown
Migrant workers from Mexico are the root of our economic woes?

or
Evil is American
Our standard of living and addiction to global policing is the ultimate source of all ongoing global conflict?

or
Evil is Christian
Without Christians, the world would be a more tolerant and therefore more peaceful place?


or
Evil is Liberal
With less tolerance, we would have no crime and no sin in the world?

or
Evil is Muslim
The Islamic faith is the driver of all religious fanaticism and violence?

or
Evil is Bill Belichick
Who ever thought of a Superbowl with an asterisk next to it until Mr. Bill stepped onto the scene with the New England Patriots?

While clearly, some whites are racist, some blacks are criminals, some illegal immigrants steal jobs from american citizens, some christians forget to be Christlike, some liberals advocate tolerance as a cure-all, some muslims do very bad things, and bill bellichick has issues, none of these problems should be painted with the very narrow brush stroke that so many choose to use.

The narrow brush stroke restricts the capacity for evil to only one class of people, when in truth we would be better to paint the portrait of evil with a much broader brush... creating a stroke so broad that it would cover the hearts and minds of every single soul on the planet.

Evil is in not one, not two, but all colors.  We all have the capacity for evil thoughts, evil choices, evil acts.  Every moment that we believe ourselves immune is another moment where we become more vulnerable to evil itself.

ISIS beheaded twenty Christian laborers from Egypt this week.   They released a video of this unspeakable evil act for the whole world to watch.

How easy it would be to say 'I would never do a thing like that ... ever.'

Instead, I hope that I can and will bow down in humility and pray that God keep whatever is dark inside of me from ever, ever growing into something that is even a fraction as unspeakable as this.

The Real Reason behind Falling Fertility in the United States

In 2010, fertility rates in the United States dropped to 1.9 (children per women) which is well below the rate of 2.1 often quoted as that required to replace our population in the next generation.  

Some blame the great recession for the decline.  Some theorize it has to do with the fact that American women are increasingly self-involved. Some blame the increasing stress from the rapidly advancing pace of society.   Some blame God. Some blame Satan.  Some don't care.

Today, I discovered the real reason for falling fertility rates.  Here it is:

This is the Wood Stork, the only breeding stork in North America.  Unfortunately, because Americans are increasingly interested in moving to Florida (so much so that it is now the third most populous state in the country, behind California and Texas), the wetlands of the Sunshine State have been degraded, destroyed, and otherwise maligned to make room for the next greatest subdivision and the next and the next.

Unfortunately, the Wood Stork has a particular predilection for Florida wetlands, because during the dry season, bodies of water remain plentiful.  After all, you would expect nothing less from a state whose land is mostly ten feet above sea level or less.

But, as importantly, these ponds, lakes, and other assorted bodies of water do dry up somewhat during the dry season, thereby providing the ideal feeding and breeding ground for the unique Wood Stork.  Under these conditions, the little fishies in the water become quite concentrated, and the Wood Stork can just insert his (or her) bill into said body of water, open up, and Voila .... lunch!

With a deficit in ponds and the fishies that populate them, two things happen.  First, the obvious -- the Wood Stork babies starve.  And, second, the not so obvious.  The water under the trees where these birds nest disappears and the raccoons take the newly arrived dry land as an excuse to climb a tree and have Wood Stork eggs for lunch.

After this happens a few too many times, the Wood Stork lands himself on the Endangered Species list.  Bless Florida's heart, however, for taking an earnest interest in its poor Stork and replenishing some of its wetlands well enough that as of June 2014, the Wood Stork migrated from the Endangered Species list to the Threatened Species list (progress, at last).

It's about time Florida received accolades for doing something right.  As anyone who reads national news knows, Florida is all too often on the other side of the headlines.

So, next time you celebrate the arrival of a new baby among your family and friends, look out onto the front lawn... quickly so you don't miss it ... and remember that the Wood Stork who just made your special delivery may well have come from a restored wetland in none other than the Sunshine State.

Wait and see ... will U.S. fertility rates recover as a result?

God is not a big football fan

After this season's NFC Championship game, Green Bay Packers quarterback Aaron Rodgers had this to say after the game:  

"I don't think God cares a whole lot about the outcome. He cares about the people involved, but I don't think he's a big football fan."

I wasn't a big professional football fan either (although I have been long known to be glued to the TV during college football games which involve select, beloved teams), until I turned around and saw my home team, the Seattle Seahawks, doing far more than just playing football and making umpteen million dollars a year doing so.  Instead, I saw a group of people who were playing football on a heady and inspiring combination of faith (in God), positive energy, mutual affirmation, AND determination to play as a true team.  The Hawks' team mentality goes well beyond a series of loose connections among elite athletes who just happen to be wearing the same color uniform when Sunday afternoon rolls around.  

Aaron Rodgers is right.  God cares about the people involved.   And because He is God and He cares, of course He cares about the outcome.   But, I believe that Aaron Rodgers is also right in saying that God is not a big football fan.  Of course not.  Football fans can't control the outcome of a game.   Cochess can.  Especially all powerful, all loving, all knowing ones.

Move over Pete Carroll.  You have company.   

So, where exactly was God during the Superbowl?   How could a team that He seems to have propelled through the last three minutes (plus overtime) to victory during the NFC championship game then lose via a history-making, heartbreaking last play during Superbowl 49? Did He just turn His back on the Seahawks and decide to focus solely on managing the New England Patriots instead, thereby cleverly diverting all the press from Deflategate?    

While the latter part may be true, the possibility that God decided to go to the NFC championship and then skip the Superbowl is untenable.  No, He was not too busy to attend.  

Instead, many who have walked in faith with God at some point in their lives have lived the answer to the question of "Where was He, when...?  When individual hopes, prayers, longings, and hungers are cast aside... neglected, ignored, shattered... there is usually only one reason.  

A greater purpose.  A longer story.   Another ending. 

the grand coach, having read well beyond management 101, orchestrates a larger vision that anyone ... even the 12th man... could possibly imagine.   

and, that is exactly the kind of God I want on my team.   

I am Peanut Butter

I feel a certain sisterhood with peanut butter.  I know some people cannot relate to this, because they seem to be capable of putting 1.37 million tasks on their plate without being any worse for the wear. I, on the other hand, would spend my life an inch wide and a mile deep if I could get away with it:

I like nothing more than a day spent with a to-do list that is one-item long.  No matter how much of my attention, time, intelligence, creativity, or heart that one item needs, focusing on only one thing to do is like a breath of fresh air in this crazy-paced world we now live in.

Writing fits this bill.  It may be stressful to get started.  After all, how many awful words can you possibly say to a blank computer screen before it cooperates and words begin to appear?   I have sought the answer to this question many times over.  Once the words are finally rolling from the keyboard to the screen though, I can serenely meditate through the hours it takes to put words on paper (provided a steady stream of coffee remains nearby).

Analyzing data fits the bill too.  Even when such data is being amazingly uncooperative and accompanying code to process it seemingly uninterested in the debugging cycle, the analysis itself is still only one thing to do.  Like a few other odd folks in the world, I am quite happy to spend my day doing math, as long as the math = 1 ball up in the air at a time.

In these and a few other rare instances, I am indeed, happy peanut butter in the magical world of work.   But, once the University of Washington or some other element of the crazy world out there breaks in, the situation quickly degrades, as, like peanut butter, I am spread a little bit thinner across a larger area, to no great advantage:

No longer am I happy peanut butter, but instead am downgraded to a thinly put together affair that has obvious signs of insufficient and often sloppy resources allocated to the tasks at hand.  This situation may not be attractive but it is not so bad.  I can handle a few more things on my plate than one.  Really.

Unfortunately, the 'only a few more things to do' scenario is not at all stable.  Instead, it has a widespread reputation of snowballing into the 1.37 million things to do situation described earlier.   Then, we have trouble:

Unhappy peanut butter is not a good thing.  Someone should remind the managers of the world of this profound truism so rapid steps can be taken to alleviate the situation wherever it may arise.

Such are my deep insights for the day after the most heartbreaking Superbowl ever.  

NOTE:  No peanut butter was harmed or wasted in the production of this blog.  All materials were repurposed and donated to the Wilson Fur Facility.

True Kindness

I appreciate kindness in my life, but am finding more and more that, without truth, kindness loses its charm.  

I recently participated on a graduate student's exam committee when on exam day, the graduate student simply appeared to be having a bad day.  She did not answer questions in the usual specific, articulate, and inspiring way which I had come to expect from her.  Behind closed doors, the conversation among the student's committee members reflected this same sentiment.  While otherwise a strong and intelligent student worthy of a PhD, on this day, the student wasn't quite performing at or beyond the bar.  While the committee decided to issue a pass to the student, I was surprised when on returning to the room, she was greeted with "Congratulations" (accurate and appropriate) and "Great Job" (not so accurate or appropriate).   I agreed with passing her, as there was no point in delaying her degree or punishing her for an ill timed bad day.  But, the effusive bouquet of top-notch compliments that followed the congratulatory remarks seemed out of place and confusing.  What good could possibly come of telling a student she did a great job when neither we nor she believed it?  

As a professor, I spent years receiving annual merit reviews that were replete with favorable remarks about my work and productivity.  The positive far outweighed the negative, yet year after year, I was passed over for promotion.  The net result of more than a decade of this pattern is that I no longer believe what my colleagues tell me about my work, good, bad, or in between.   While academic culture may believe the best thing for me is a hearty dose of sunshine pills doled out on an annual basis without regard to circumstance, I beg for something a little simpler: the truth.   

I welcome hearing the truth about who I am and what I do, when such truth is delivered in a basket of kindness.  When kindness follows in the wake of words which may not be what I hoped for, my defensiveness, anger, frustration may still follow, but will ebb much more quickly, allowing me to move on to tasks of a more serious nature.... figuring out how to fix and improve this problem named Denise that I often become in my journey through this world.

So, whether you like me in the littlest or the biggest of ways or not at all, may I appeal to you to share those ways with words embellished only by true kindness and nothing more?

Ha Ha....

Let it be said that, for the record before the rest of this blog comes rolling off my tongue pen, in general, I strive to avoid being obnoxious -- that is, at least in front of other people... what my dogs know about me, they'll never tell.

But, here I may make an exception.

On Sunday, January 18, 2015, for 57 minutes of regulation game time, the Seattle Seahawks orchestrated one of the most unexpected and discouraging strings of fumbles, interceptions, three-and-outs, and assorted other foibles that caused the steepest rise in the use of TUMs ever recorded in an American football game.  Dread filled the heart, nausea the gut, and defeat the mind of the collective 12th man, as never before, even in Seahawks history.    Some plays were so awful that even the eyes of Green Bay Packer fans must have filled with pity for the blue and chartreuse team roaming across Century Link Field in Seattle.

While I don't presume that any member of the Green Bay Packer football team was actually laughing at the Seahawks, I do have my suspicions.  These suspicions are especially strong for the young man, Mr. Clinton-Dix, who intercepted two of Seahawks quarterback Russell Wilson's passes in the first half of the game, a half which at one point was so horrible that the Green Bay Packers had caught infinitely more of Russell Wilson's passes than Seahawks receivers.   Each time that an interception from Mr. Clinton-Dix was announced, I heard a subtle "Ha Ha" in the background.   My husband tried to tell me that "Ha Ha" was Mr. Clinton-Dix' first name, but I continued to believe, in my NFC championship game induced despair, that the sound I heard come from the sportscaster's mouth was instead the entire city of Green Bay, Wisconsin laughing at our poor struggling Seahawks.

Ha Ha.

As the game marched relentlessly on, I sank further into the couch, tempted to drink yet another beer, but too riveted to the unfolding trauma on the television to go to the refrigerator and get one.  The minutes of the game ticked away, and I kept hearing:

Ha Ha.

Finally, the last four minutes of the game came and went.  Overtime came and went.   As I watched this funny shaped brown thing with laces on it sail threw the air and land in Jermaine Kearse's hands (this time with no Mr. Clinton-Dix available to intercept), I no longer heard:

Ha Ha.

from the sportscaster.

Yet, a moment later, when the game was over and the television volume muted during a seemingly unending string of commercials, I heard it again:

Ha Ha.

Strange.
I looked at my husband, who was looking at me strangely (which is not at all uncommon).
I asked:  "Do you hear that?"

Ha Ha.

"What is that noise?  Where is it coming from?"

My husband's eyes rolled back into his head as he responded:
"My dear ...
that noise is coming out of your mouth"

Ha Ha.

The author of this blog wishes to acknowledge that she makes no assumptions whatsoever about the outcome of the upcoming SuperBowl, recognizing that the opposing team could quite possibly do a similar number on the Seahawks as was done on the Indianapolis Colts... only this time with properly inflated footballs.   

Some Assembly Required

Whatever happened to the phrase "Fully Assembled"?

Did it disappear with the twentieth century?

Is it simply old-fashioned and out-of-date?

Did it get lost in China?
(No, I  don't have anything against China, but shipping anything halfway around the world even marginally assembled seems to be as impossible a feat as my surviving a week without coffee).

I often wonder which corporate entity first decided that the ordinary consumer needs to be greeted, right after purchasing a new piece of furniture, with the ominous words "Some Assembly Required."?

The phrase "Some Assembly Required" is itself replete with half truths:

"Some"
Hmmm ... seems to be all that lies in The Box is the raw materials and that ALL assembly is actually required of whichever poor member of the household first gets tired enough of looking at the box, breaks down, and opens it.

"Assembly"
This word implies that the pieces actually fit together as designed, and the use of a supplementary hammer and related force fitting tools are not at all needed during the course of assembly.

"Required"
It'a amazing how long our household can leave all those parts all by their lonesome selves in the big (ominous) cardboard box.  Assembly becomes optional, a task to be done only when a rainy day arrives and when patience indoors is as plentiful as the clouds are outdoors.

This time around, with our purchase of what appeared to be a very simple wall unit, I had high hopes in Costco.  After all, The Box looked just about the right size to contain the fully assembled version of the desired furniture.  But, as I gave in to the impulse to peek inside The Box, my hopes were again dashed, my renewed faith in corporate America, however slight, was quickly doused as I opened The Box, and a seemingly endless stream of wood slices, metal pieces, and jingling hardware bags issued forth, equalled in part only by the equally endless packaging from which they were to be extracted.  An hour passed, and finally all the pieces lay on the carpet, chuckling among themselves.  Another hour passed, and the assembly progressed:

Even after the rain ceased outside, the assembly marched on inside:

Finally, as we marched stubbornly and determinedly toward the finish, we found ourselves at Step 21 of 21 in the lengthy, multi-lingual instruction manual (in retrospect, the language in which the instructions were written didn't seem to make much of a difference).    Step 21 read "Adjust the leveling foot until the top shelf surface is level."   The designers of said furniture had included every tool and piece of hardware in creation EXCEPT a level.   So, we did what all exasperated consumers do.  We looked all over the garage, in every toolbox, storage container, and crevice for the level that we don't own. After 20 minutes of searching in vain, we gave up, and like any other self-respecting homeowner, hacked a solution:

Welcome to the latest design of a level.  Formerly, a favorite cat toy, it has now found a new purpose in life.   After some adjustment to ensure the ball ('level') did not roll off the top shelf without provocation, our latest Some Assembly Required project became complete:

Amazing, how much more grateful we are for this piece of furniture than if we had just pulled it out of the box, stood it up, and plugged it into the wall.

Do you ever wonder what your mother would have done if you had come forth from the womb with the words "Some Assembly Required" tattooed on your arm?