Okay, so if a reunion is where you go to reminisce, can a 50th high school reunion have its own reminiscences? As usual, I'm ruminating over words. It wouldn't be my blog if I didn't.
By the way, 25 of the 51 original graduates came (many with spouses). At least 6 others who had been with the class at various times, but just not our senior year, were also in attendance. How nice.
I think for the benefit of my friends and family members who follow my blog (anyone still doing that?), I'd like to copy/paste the e-mail I sent out to classmates on Monday (after returning home from the reunion on Sunday). Here 'tis.
Dear Friends,
So, the 50th reunion of the Wyomissing High School Class of 1961 is over. In the history books, so to say. My own journey to this reunion, while fraught with many classic pre-reunion manifestations of anxiety, turned out to be a journey to joy.
I want to write about it, while your voices and images are still fresh. Strange to say – the moment I walked out of the Huyett’s door Sunday morning, I felt a pang of sadness. I truly believe God sent Roger out of that closed door for one more goodbye to relieve some of the pain. Thanks, Roger.
As I started my drive home, I was missing you all already, something I hadn’t honestly done, in the past. It seemed during our hours together that I was making new friends, with familiar vestiges hovering on the edges of conversations and observations. As I drove the seven hours back to my home, family, and current friends, I sensed a lingering heartache. I didn’t have enough time over the weekend to get to know you again, you superb and often zany concoction of men and women.
Did I want to get to know you better? Yes! You were part of my life at a vulnerable, confusing, maelstrom-filled season – adolescence. And now, as I had hoped, you are all grown up. Each one of you seemed to hold a segment of who I was back then. Each one added a new dimension to who I am now, by your life-stories, by the richness of your fully-formed personalities (and the counterpoint provided by your spouses), by your warm welcomes and affirmations.
The only component that would have made this reunion better would have been the presence of more classmates. Yes, Nevin, the turnout was phenomenal. But I missed Linda A., Tina, Karen, Sandy B., Aggie (now Ann), Susan, Cynthia, Cathy, Dee, Jan, Mary, Mary Bell, John, David F., Connie B., Ted, and Bob M. It was nice to hear the e-mailed “greetings” from some of the missing, but not the same as seeing you and getting/giving hugs.
And perhaps my greatest regret was not getting to see Barry, Carol, Rodney (my senior prom date, thanks to Mrs. Knipe), Marilyn (such a splendid friend), Jim S., Spin, Linda T., or Beverly one more time, during the last 50 years. When Char told me who had already died, I was stunned. Then we received news about Rodney’s passing on Sept. 30. So sad.
Okay, I’m going to make myself weepy, if I’m not careful here. Suffice it to say, I enjoyed myself; I had fun (in compliance with my children’s mandate). And I have you all to thank for that. Remember, I mentioned the "journey to joy" at the beginning of this epistle. Emphasis on "joy." You did it, each one in his/her own special way.
So that's all for tonight. I hope everyone made it safely to your next destination. I look forward to The Directory in early December and our 55th in 2016.
God bless.
I've had several nice responses.
My greatest takeaway from this event was that God can be trusted, in every season of my life. He has made me who I am, through all events, those I perceived as negative as well as the positive. He used the insecurities of my high school years. He used the confusion and emptiness of my early twenties. He used even the unwise choices I made, when I tried to fill the huge hole in my heart with people who eventually hurt me. He used the dark years, when I thought I would never see light again. He used the healing years, with the support and love of my amazing children and my tender brothers and sisters in Christ. He used, most of all, His very own Son, Jesus, to walk the journey with me, to take broken shards of glass and create kaleidoscopic beauty.
I give thanks to you, Abba-Father, for providing perspective, for letting me see both classmates and myself through your eyes during the weekend reunion. Thank you for each one who was there, each one who was absent. I pray you will meet them one-on-one, in a new and fresh way in the days ahead. They are precious to me, and even more so to you. Amen.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
The Silence is Broken
What could entice me back to my blog, you ask? And even if you don't ask, you know I'm going to tell you, anyway.
First, I want to write about "Andrea Bocelli: Vivere Live in Tuscany," a 2007 concert PBS (WOSU-TV) is replaying as part of their annual fund-raising effort. God met me here last Friday when I played hookey from Celebrate Recovery, and now it is on again. His first guest was Kenny G. Ah, Kenny G. Proof of God's drawing me to worship Him while listening to this gorgeous music. I hope no one takes offense to my worshipping God while listening to "secular" music. Yes, the lyrics are mostly Italian, but the harmonies and drama speak for themselves of the creativity of our Lord. Another perk: Bocelli sings two duets with Heather Headley, who is a believer. The second, "The Prayer," makes me weep. I thank you, Abba-Father, for teaching me freedom in Christ, for allowing me moments of rest where I can focus on you after spending time with family and friends. Thank you for reviving my soul.
Second, I want to write about a telephone call I had last evening. I've been discovered! You knew it was bound to happen...all this talent wrapped in one compact package. Oh, not that kind of discovery? No, come back into reality, Nancy. The call actually came from one of the organizers of the Wyomissing High School Class of 1961 50th Reunion. Through the marvels of modern Internet investgative technology, and through the kindness of my ex-husband in giving my current phone number, I was found, even though I didn't know I had been lost. The reunion is in October. I plan to attend for the first time in the 50 years since graduation.
Our class was small, just 51. I was startled and saddened to hear the names of eight who were no longer alive. So strange. Probably to be expected when we are all in our late sixties. But still, hard to grasp. I don't do well with keeping in touch. I have only one friend from college, even, with whom I have maintained a relationship over the years. Only one. And none from high school. Once again, I find my inner radar scanning the horizon of my life, looking for something to put in my guilt backpack. I should have stayed in touch with Marilyn, I find myself saying. We walked to school together almost every day. And now she's gone. So hard on myself, thinking what I do is Never Enough. Okay, I'll need to be content, right now, to pray for the families and friends of those who died. I'll need to be confident that God has been big enough to take care of all these classmates over the years. Yes, I can believe that.
Now, Let's see. I'll need to get a complete makeover, lose 30 pounds, buy some new outfits, and write a biography that makes me look successful and prosperous. Hmmmm. Not the Nancy you know? Doesn't sound like me, even to me. So maybe I'll let my girls take me shopping. That's one thing I haven't done in five or ten years that I think I could manage. Yeah. A couple of fall outfits, some new blue jeans, maybe a new pair of shoes. This is going to be fun. Thank you, Lord, for new experiences that will stretch me to trust you more.
This is not going to be fun. This is going to be scary. Me, the introvert. Nancy, the not-popular high school wallflower, returning to her first class reunion. After fifty years. What am I thinking? Do I have to do this? What will it be like? Will I connect with anyone? My life has been so out-of-the-ordinary. What is ordinary? What sorts of lives have others in my graduating class had? Hmmmm. Not the Nancy you know? Sounds like a version of the Nancy I know. The one you don't see too often. The one I see more often than you. The one Jesus sees. The one to whom Abba-Father says, "Be still, my Nina. Hush your silliness and take my hand. I have created you with gifts I have given to no one else. I have plans for you that will unfold with joy, if you will relax and trust me." Okay, Lord. Thank you for new experiences that will stretch me to trust you more. I place my hand in yours. Let's get ready! "That's what I'm talkin' about! Remember, I did make you yearbook editor right after you gave your life to me ." So you did. So you did, Lord. Here we go, again, then.
First, I want to write about "Andrea Bocelli: Vivere Live in Tuscany," a 2007 concert PBS (WOSU-TV) is replaying as part of their annual fund-raising effort. God met me here last Friday when I played hookey from Celebrate Recovery, and now it is on again. His first guest was Kenny G. Ah, Kenny G. Proof of God's drawing me to worship Him while listening to this gorgeous music. I hope no one takes offense to my worshipping God while listening to "secular" music. Yes, the lyrics are mostly Italian, but the harmonies and drama speak for themselves of the creativity of our Lord. Another perk: Bocelli sings two duets with Heather Headley, who is a believer. The second, "The Prayer," makes me weep. I thank you, Abba-Father, for teaching me freedom in Christ, for allowing me moments of rest where I can focus on you after spending time with family and friends. Thank you for reviving my soul.
Second, I want to write about a telephone call I had last evening. I've been discovered! You knew it was bound to happen...all this talent wrapped in one compact package. Oh, not that kind of discovery? No, come back into reality, Nancy. The call actually came from one of the organizers of the Wyomissing High School Class of 1961 50th Reunion. Through the marvels of modern Internet investgative technology, and through the kindness of my ex-husband in giving my current phone number, I was found, even though I didn't know I had been lost. The reunion is in October. I plan to attend for the first time in the 50 years since graduation.
Our class was small, just 51. I was startled and saddened to hear the names of eight who were no longer alive. So strange. Probably to be expected when we are all in our late sixties. But still, hard to grasp. I don't do well with keeping in touch. I have only one friend from college, even, with whom I have maintained a relationship over the years. Only one. And none from high school. Once again, I find my inner radar scanning the horizon of my life, looking for something to put in my guilt backpack. I should have stayed in touch with Marilyn, I find myself saying. We walked to school together almost every day. And now she's gone. So hard on myself, thinking what I do is Never Enough. Okay, I'll need to be content, right now, to pray for the families and friends of those who died. I'll need to be confident that God has been big enough to take care of all these classmates over the years. Yes, I can believe that.
Now, Let's see. I'll need to get a complete makeover, lose 30 pounds, buy some new outfits, and write a biography that makes me look successful and prosperous. Hmmmm. Not the Nancy you know? Doesn't sound like me, even to me. So maybe I'll let my girls take me shopping. That's one thing I haven't done in five or ten years that I think I could manage. Yeah. A couple of fall outfits, some new blue jeans, maybe a new pair of shoes. This is going to be fun. Thank you, Lord, for new experiences that will stretch me to trust you more.
This is not going to be fun. This is going to be scary. Me, the introvert. Nancy, the not-popular high school wallflower, returning to her first class reunion. After fifty years. What am I thinking? Do I have to do this? What will it be like? Will I connect with anyone? My life has been so out-of-the-ordinary. What is ordinary? What sorts of lives have others in my graduating class had? Hmmmm. Not the Nancy you know? Sounds like a version of the Nancy I know. The one you don't see too often. The one I see more often than you. The one Jesus sees. The one to whom Abba-Father says, "Be still, my Nina. Hush your silliness and take my hand. I have created you with gifts I have given to no one else. I have plans for you that will unfold with joy, if you will relax and trust me." Okay, Lord. Thank you for new experiences that will stretch me to trust you more. I place my hand in yours. Let's get ready! "That's what I'm talkin' about! Remember, I did make you yearbook editor right after you gave your life to me ." So you did. So you did, Lord. Here we go, again, then.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Thursday Morning in May
On cool crisp windy-cloudy morning
please send refreshment
O Lord
on your buoyant breeze.
Clouds move
at wind's breath
steadily slowly
no resistance
shapes changing
at weather's will.
Branches in treetops
sway and dance
firmly attached to trunk
yet lithe and limber
responding
to blustery embrace.
Come Holy Spirit.
Breathe waves of life
into these overcast thoughts.
Sweep my murky clouds
into shapes of grace.
I raise my arms
to you
my Jesus.
Please twirl my lethargy
creating zephyr-sweet gusts
of your joy.
Friday, July 9, 2010
Slow Lane - Retirement Reflections #2
Today while searching through my stash of new and partially used gift-wrap, gift bags, and tissue paper, I came upon a gift bag that was wan and wrinkled beyond usefulness. I don’t remember its history, whether I received it and saved it to re-gift, or whether I purchased it, but never discovered its occasion. I just remember keeping it, for many years, and seeing it every time I look through my supply.
It was originally one of those gift bags you order from the fund raisers for your co-workers’ kids’ schools or sports teams, because they are the least expensive item you can find, and you want to buy something, since your kid will probably have a fund raiser, too. These gift bags look really nice in the catalogue, but when your order comes in, you find out they are shaped like brown lunch bags, and the paper is – well, paper thin, not substantial like a real gift bag. They look as cheap as the price you paid for them. Serves you right. That would be “serves me right,” actually.
This one particular sad looking bag called out to me today, with its rust, gold, maroon and faded blue flowers, suspended on a dark chocolate background. It called out, not to be used. It just called out. The original design purported to be a tapestry of sorts – something like those screens you do cross-stitching on. It was pretty, but not very cheerful. The flowers seem to droop, or perhaps they were imprinted onto the master up-side down. Yes, I think that’s it, now that I turn the bag around.
Well, I knew I’d never put a gift in this bag. So I folded it lovingly, and placed it tenderly into my almost full trashcan. The gift bag seemed to solicit this sort of respect in its final hours. I found a comfy space for it between a collapsed packages-of-oatmeal box and the fliers that make their way weekly into my mailbox. You know the ones, from redplum.com “Coupons, Promo Codes, and Savings Tips – Find a Good Deal More.” Those.
Then, I started thinking about this item, how I’d kept it all these years, how it was in its own way a part of my family-of-origin’s frugal tradition of saving wrapping paper to be used a second, third, and fourth time, although it probably didn’t come from Mother, Daddy, or Margaret. And even though I know I won’t use it, I’ve grown attached to it. And, for goodness sake, I’ve now memorialized it in writing. How could I throw it away? So I’ve retrieved it from its sentence of doom, and here it sits beside me, as I am writing about it. What do I do with it now?
And what – you ask – makes this blog post fit into the retirement category? Well, ever since retirement was just a glimmer in my eye, I knew one of my first tasks would be related to my cluttered apartment. I call it: Clean Out and Clean Up, Search and Destroy, Organize and Arrange. Now that I am in my sixth week of retirement, I realize I have not started the daunting assignment I blithely said I’d take my first month to complete. My question is, how will I ever get rid of anything, if this silly little gift bag is any indication of My Propensities To Keep Stuff?
Stay tuned.
It was originally one of those gift bags you order from the fund raisers for your co-workers’ kids’ schools or sports teams, because they are the least expensive item you can find, and you want to buy something, since your kid will probably have a fund raiser, too. These gift bags look really nice in the catalogue, but when your order comes in, you find out they are shaped like brown lunch bags, and the paper is – well, paper thin, not substantial like a real gift bag. They look as cheap as the price you paid for them. Serves you right. That would be “serves me right,” actually.
This one particular sad looking bag called out to me today, with its rust, gold, maroon and faded blue flowers, suspended on a dark chocolate background. It called out, not to be used. It just called out. The original design purported to be a tapestry of sorts – something like those screens you do cross-stitching on. It was pretty, but not very cheerful. The flowers seem to droop, or perhaps they were imprinted onto the master up-side down. Yes, I think that’s it, now that I turn the bag around.
Well, I knew I’d never put a gift in this bag. So I folded it lovingly, and placed it tenderly into my almost full trashcan. The gift bag seemed to solicit this sort of respect in its final hours. I found a comfy space for it between a collapsed packages-of-oatmeal box and the fliers that make their way weekly into my mailbox. You know the ones, from redplum.com “Coupons, Promo Codes, and Savings Tips – Find a Good Deal More.” Those.
Then, I started thinking about this item, how I’d kept it all these years, how it was in its own way a part of my family-of-origin’s frugal tradition of saving wrapping paper to be used a second, third, and fourth time, although it probably didn’t come from Mother, Daddy, or Margaret. And even though I know I won’t use it, I’ve grown attached to it. And, for goodness sake, I’ve now memorialized it in writing. How could I throw it away? So I’ve retrieved it from its sentence of doom, and here it sits beside me, as I am writing about it. What do I do with it now?
And what – you ask – makes this blog post fit into the retirement category? Well, ever since retirement was just a glimmer in my eye, I knew one of my first tasks would be related to my cluttered apartment. I call it: Clean Out and Clean Up, Search and Destroy, Organize and Arrange. Now that I am in my sixth week of retirement, I realize I have not started the daunting assignment I blithely said I’d take my first month to complete. My question is, how will I ever get rid of anything, if this silly little gift bag is any indication of My Propensities To Keep Stuff?
Stay tuned.
Friday, July 2, 2010
Life in the Slow Lane - Reflections from Retirement (Installment #1)
One of the most astonishing aberrations of retirement is my suspension of belief in the days of the week. Today, for instance, seems like a Saturday. I’m not sure why. It is Friday in the real world, but my brain keeps saying “Saturday.” Actually, I can make it whatever day I want, so long as I don’t tell anyone. Or if I do tell, I’ll need also to suspend my reactions to repercussive remarks from reality-based relatives (and friends) (but using friends breaks that lovely alliterative streak I had going there).
I think today may present itself as Saturday because most of the other days of this week, I’ve arranged encounters with the outside world, lots of them. In other words, I've been busy, in the Fast Lane sense of the word. And today, I do have a task to be completed: preparing a crock pot supper for Celebrate Recovery leadership before the CR meeting tonight, making it Friday in the real world, by the way, Brain. However, today I deviated from my Retirement-Based-Schedule-of-Sorts. I didn’t take my morning walk. I didn’t have my daily Quiet Time prior to entering my day. I haven’t even showered or changed out of my PJs yet. And though it’s almost noon, I just realized I never took my oatmeal breakfast out of the microwave to eat it, and I’ve been up since 7:45.
I did prepare gobs of fresh green beans already, now bubbling their way to tastiness in the crockpot. And I was in the process of washing the red potatoes when this day kept saying "Saturday, Saturday, Saturday." I suspended the potato preparation to write for posterity what I had been writing in my head, lest it go the way of many of my best works – into Oblivion, because I never wrote them down.
And for those of you who are tracking my TV addiction thing, no, I haven’t had the TV on today. But I did finish reading the last 70 pages of Wally Lamb’s novel The Hour I First Believed. I even uttered anguished cries aloud at the most unexpected plot turn. “No, no, no! You can’t let that happen!” And then I wept quietly most of the way to the very end, savoring the well-crafted, character-changing outcomes and the successful tying up of all sub-plot strings. A slow, introspective, leisurely Saturday sort of activity.
Though I have completed five weeks of retirement, the pace and content of my days still surprise me. Several busy days followed by a day of comparative inactivity apparently shifts me back into a workweek mentality. So if it’s okay with you, I’ll just go ahead and make this Saturday. Well, actually, that won’t work, because if it’s Saturday, I should have just finished watching the Gahanna Fourth of July Parade, and I should be busily making deviled eggs for my granddaughter’s third birthday party at 5:00. Hummmm.
When people ask me how my retirement is going, I’ve been saying, “It’s a mystery.” Yup, it sure is.
I think today may present itself as Saturday because most of the other days of this week, I’ve arranged encounters with the outside world, lots of them. In other words, I've been busy, in the Fast Lane sense of the word. And today, I do have a task to be completed: preparing a crock pot supper for Celebrate Recovery leadership before the CR meeting tonight, making it Friday in the real world, by the way, Brain. However, today I deviated from my Retirement-Based-Schedule-of-Sorts. I didn’t take my morning walk. I didn’t have my daily Quiet Time prior to entering my day. I haven’t even showered or changed out of my PJs yet. And though it’s almost noon, I just realized I never took my oatmeal breakfast out of the microwave to eat it, and I’ve been up since 7:45.
I did prepare gobs of fresh green beans already, now bubbling their way to tastiness in the crockpot. And I was in the process of washing the red potatoes when this day kept saying "Saturday, Saturday, Saturday." I suspended the potato preparation to write for posterity what I had been writing in my head, lest it go the way of many of my best works – into Oblivion, because I never wrote them down.
And for those of you who are tracking my TV addiction thing, no, I haven’t had the TV on today. But I did finish reading the last 70 pages of Wally Lamb’s novel The Hour I First Believed. I even uttered anguished cries aloud at the most unexpected plot turn. “No, no, no! You can’t let that happen!” And then I wept quietly most of the way to the very end, savoring the well-crafted, character-changing outcomes and the successful tying up of all sub-plot strings. A slow, introspective, leisurely Saturday sort of activity.
Though I have completed five weeks of retirement, the pace and content of my days still surprise me. Several busy days followed by a day of comparative inactivity apparently shifts me back into a workweek mentality. So if it’s okay with you, I’ll just go ahead and make this Saturday. Well, actually, that won’t work, because if it’s Saturday, I should have just finished watching the Gahanna Fourth of July Parade, and I should be busily making deviled eggs for my granddaughter’s third birthday party at 5:00. Hummmm.
When people ask me how my retirement is going, I’ve been saying, “It’s a mystery.” Yup, it sure is.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Morning Walk Revisited
This morning I walked willingly
omitting obligation
a grumpy fellowtraveler
Left him at home
I breathed
rain-washed earth pungency
I sang God’s praise
with robins and sparrows
I felt wind’s unwavering urgency
I absorbed Holy Spirit colors:
Deep blue morning glories
cascading over trellis ladders
Lush dense grass
wild from overnight storm
Orange palette day lilies
springing open at sunlight
Grey clouds superimposed
on bright white billows
with clear blue sky patches
peering through
Jesus,
breathe all vivid colors
of who you are
into my spirit’s lungs
willing me to live free
as you paint your image
in me
Nancy Godfrey
June 6, 2010
omitting obligation
a grumpy fellowtraveler
Left him at home
I breathed
rain-washed earth pungency
I sang God’s praise
with robins and sparrows
I felt wind’s unwavering urgency
I absorbed Holy Spirit colors:
Deep blue morning glories
cascading over trellis ladders
Lush dense grass
wild from overnight storm
Orange palette day lilies
springing open at sunlight
Grey clouds superimposed
on bright white billows
with clear blue sky patches
peering through
Jesus,
breathe all vivid colors
of who you are
into my spirit’s lungs
willing me to live free
as you paint your image
in me
Nancy Godfrey
June 6, 2010
Morning Walk - 2006
The air is still.
Morning mist hangs heavy
In the trees.
Step after step after step
She treks the sidewalks
Hoping to exchange lethargy
For health
Hoping excess pounds
Will fall from her aging frame
Hoping her Lord will infuse
Her fainting spirit with His fire.
She passes houses that
Do not divulge their secrets
Willingly.
But cluttered lawns
And unswept sidewalks betray
Their owners’ indifference.
Neatly manicured bushes
And flowerbeds suggest
Their owners’ orderly lives.
This is a timid emotionless neighborhood
Judging by random gardens.
Sparsely-sown shy flowers
Dot heavily mulched plots.
No lavishly-painted day lilies
Sing their songs in these yards.
No proud hostas
Parade their rich variety
Of greens here.
A single geranium now and then
A few neat clumps
Of impatiens
Purple morning glories climbing
A mailbox or two
Suggest muted lives.
One house remains
Permanently placid –
A puzzle to the morning walker.
An upright wooden organ rests
Upon the porch.
A second story window
Stays ajar at the same distance
Day after day.
No car in the driveway.
No porchlight left burning
Into the early hours of dawn.
Does anyone live here?
Who abandoned this house,
Not for sale
But definitely dormant?
Who lives behind
The cryptic faces
She sees each day?
What signs can she detect?
What insights?
Lord of the lost,
Show her who resides
Inside gnarled lives
Along her way.
Is the house abandoned
Or is its resident hiding?
Do perfectly edged lawns mean
Hearts in harmony with you?
Will you show her snarled souls
Inside masked countenances,
Drawing them to yourself
Through her?
Will you place in her hands
Vivid seeds
With kaleidoscopic possibilities
To be sown in fertile soil?
You have answered her prayer
For fire-infused power.
You will stretch
Her morning walk
Into a daily pilgrimage of praise.
Unneeded excess stuff
Is falling from her soul.
Her eyes are open to see
The creativity of your love
Surrounding her journey.
Astound her with the brilliance
Of your gardens
As she walks the path
Of her destiny.
Nancy Godfrey
August 20, 2006
Morning mist hangs heavy
In the trees.
Step after step after step
She treks the sidewalks
Hoping to exchange lethargy
For health
Hoping excess pounds
Will fall from her aging frame
Hoping her Lord will infuse
Her fainting spirit with His fire.
She passes houses that
Do not divulge their secrets
Willingly.
But cluttered lawns
And unswept sidewalks betray
Their owners’ indifference.
Neatly manicured bushes
And flowerbeds suggest
Their owners’ orderly lives.
This is a timid emotionless neighborhood
Judging by random gardens.
Sparsely-sown shy flowers
Dot heavily mulched plots.
No lavishly-painted day lilies
Sing their songs in these yards.
No proud hostas
Parade their rich variety
Of greens here.
A single geranium now and then
A few neat clumps
Of impatiens
Purple morning glories climbing
A mailbox or two
Suggest muted lives.
One house remains
Permanently placid –
A puzzle to the morning walker.
An upright wooden organ rests
Upon the porch.
A second story window
Stays ajar at the same distance
Day after day.
No car in the driveway.
No porchlight left burning
Into the early hours of dawn.
Does anyone live here?
Who abandoned this house,
Not for sale
But definitely dormant?
Who lives behind
The cryptic faces
She sees each day?
What signs can she detect?
What insights?
Lord of the lost,
Show her who resides
Inside gnarled lives
Along her way.
Is the house abandoned
Or is its resident hiding?
Do perfectly edged lawns mean
Hearts in harmony with you?
Will you show her snarled souls
Inside masked countenances,
Drawing them to yourself
Through her?
Will you place in her hands
Vivid seeds
With kaleidoscopic possibilities
To be sown in fertile soil?
You have answered her prayer
For fire-infused power.
You will stretch
Her morning walk
Into a daily pilgrimage of praise.
Unneeded excess stuff
Is falling from her soul.
Her eyes are open to see
The creativity of your love
Surrounding her journey.
Astound her with the brilliance
Of your gardens
As she walks the path
Of her destiny.
Nancy Godfrey
August 20, 2006
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Bum Thumb, Loose Screws, and GERD
Okay, so discussing one’s own medical maladies is admittedly a dangerous topic. Do you, like me, practice your ho-hum eye roll whenever someone says, “Let me tell you about my operation”? But wait! This blog piece will rivet you to your computer screen; it will bring smiles and chuckles. Uh-oh. I just typed the second most dangerous way to begin a blog post – self-announcing how entertaining the topic will be. Well, you be the jury. I have thick skin (and a bum thumb and GERD).
This story begins when my middle daughter was hospitalized week before last, for what turned out to be her gallbladder. From Wednesday morning until Friday afternoon I undertook a text frenzy from her bedside, keeping “family group” updated on her condition and treatment, as well as answering multiple individual texted responses. It wasn’t until the weekend that I paid attention to the fact that my formerly enlarged and ouch-y left carpal-metacarpal thumb joint (nearest the wrist) was now constantly crying and complaining, with moments of lightning pain and numbness, accompanied by increased swelling and redness. Something was wrong.
Dutiful patient that I am, I saw my family physician on Wednesday. She said probable tendonitis on top of already existing arthritis. Ice it three times a day, purchase and wear a left wrist splint for two weeks, and take Aleve for the inflammation. Oh, that’s right; you have GERD, so an anti-inflammatory will probably damage your stomach lining. Well, try acetaminophen, for the pain. And no more texting! (Yeah, like that’s going to happen…) Oh, yes, GERD is gastroesophageal reflux disease, also known as gastric reflux.
Fast forward to Thursday (oh, that would be the next day), when my left ankle started whining. Now granted, I have hardware in that joint, from when I fractured it about 15 years ago. Hardware – that’s what medical people call the metal that orthopedic surgeons install on a broken bone to stabilize it for healing. Sometimes they take it out later; sometimes they leave it there. (Mine’s still there.) Some people with hardware have increased pain during cold or rainy weather; some don’t (I don’t). So I’m wondering why my ankle is whimpering more than usual; it’s raining, but that’s never been a problem before. After getting home from Bible Basics at Vineyard, I inspect the ankle more carefully. I notice how it’s red, swollen, and tender to the touch. I wonder what’s going on.
Friday at work, I discuss my symptoms with the RNs at my company; they are case managers, pre-certification and utilization review nurses. They suggest varying causes for my symptoms, but all agree I should call my doctor. When she calls me back, she thinks I might have a loose screw. She orders an immediate X-ray, ice to the ankle, and Aleve even though I have GERD, with a follow-up appointment on Monday. When I report back to the nurses at work, one has the nerve to say, “Well, we could have told you that, without your doctor’s opinion!” The hardware, you see, is a metal plate attached by 7 or 8 screws. Perhaps the funniest part of this story concerns the order written by my MD and faxed to the X-ray facility. It said, “Left Ankle X-ray – Loose Screw.” I kid you not. You have to understand my doctor is A Real Person With a Wonderful Sense of Humor. I love her.
In the continuing sub-plot of the bum thumb, I found it necessary to actually purchase the splint. See previous paragraph where I mention the second appointment with Dr. T. She would not be happy about non-compliance. Besides, she is Always Right. I found a lovely thumb splint at Wal-Mart and obediently applied it on Saturday. Now, until you can’t use your left thumb, you cannot fully appreciate how many daily tasks require one. I clearly empathized this morning with my oldest daughter. First, you have to understand that when God was creating body parts for His children, He forgot a left hand for this beautiful, accomplished woman. (That would be ICD-9 Code 755.21 – congenital absence of forearm including hand.) So, my daughter, I’ve witnessed you deftly put on pantyhose (along with all the other daily routines you skillfully perform with only one hand), but help me now: how do you fasten your bra?
Update: I just spoke with Daughter #1. She says, "No, Mommy. God doesn't forget anything. That's the way He made me." And, "I fasten it in front. You taught me to do it like that." Interesting, how much I have forgotten in life.
Well, we have yet to confirm for sure whether I have a loose screw or not. Opinions do not count. We’re looking for medical evidence, here. Screws in orthopedic hardware do work themselves loose. In my own defense, no test has been ordered on my brain.
We’ll find out about my ankle tomorrow morning.
This story begins when my middle daughter was hospitalized week before last, for what turned out to be her gallbladder. From Wednesday morning until Friday afternoon I undertook a text frenzy from her bedside, keeping “family group” updated on her condition and treatment, as well as answering multiple individual texted responses. It wasn’t until the weekend that I paid attention to the fact that my formerly enlarged and ouch-y left carpal-metacarpal thumb joint (nearest the wrist) was now constantly crying and complaining, with moments of lightning pain and numbness, accompanied by increased swelling and redness. Something was wrong.
Dutiful patient that I am, I saw my family physician on Wednesday. She said probable tendonitis on top of already existing arthritis. Ice it three times a day, purchase and wear a left wrist splint for two weeks, and take Aleve for the inflammation. Oh, that’s right; you have GERD, so an anti-inflammatory will probably damage your stomach lining. Well, try acetaminophen, for the pain. And no more texting! (Yeah, like that’s going to happen…) Oh, yes, GERD is gastroesophageal reflux disease, also known as gastric reflux.
Fast forward to Thursday (oh, that would be the next day), when my left ankle started whining. Now granted, I have hardware in that joint, from when I fractured it about 15 years ago. Hardware – that’s what medical people call the metal that orthopedic surgeons install on a broken bone to stabilize it for healing. Sometimes they take it out later; sometimes they leave it there. (Mine’s still there.) Some people with hardware have increased pain during cold or rainy weather; some don’t (I don’t). So I’m wondering why my ankle is whimpering more than usual; it’s raining, but that’s never been a problem before. After getting home from Bible Basics at Vineyard, I inspect the ankle more carefully. I notice how it’s red, swollen, and tender to the touch. I wonder what’s going on.
Friday at work, I discuss my symptoms with the RNs at my company; they are case managers, pre-certification and utilization review nurses. They suggest varying causes for my symptoms, but all agree I should call my doctor. When she calls me back, she thinks I might have a loose screw. She orders an immediate X-ray, ice to the ankle, and Aleve even though I have GERD, with a follow-up appointment on Monday. When I report back to the nurses at work, one has the nerve to say, “Well, we could have told you that, without your doctor’s opinion!” The hardware, you see, is a metal plate attached by 7 or 8 screws. Perhaps the funniest part of this story concerns the order written by my MD and faxed to the X-ray facility. It said, “Left Ankle X-ray – Loose Screw.” I kid you not. You have to understand my doctor is A Real Person With a Wonderful Sense of Humor. I love her.
In the continuing sub-plot of the bum thumb, I found it necessary to actually purchase the splint. See previous paragraph where I mention the second appointment with Dr. T. She would not be happy about non-compliance. Besides, she is Always Right. I found a lovely thumb splint at Wal-Mart and obediently applied it on Saturday. Now, until you can’t use your left thumb, you cannot fully appreciate how many daily tasks require one. I clearly empathized this morning with my oldest daughter. First, you have to understand that when God was creating body parts for His children, He forgot a left hand for this beautiful, accomplished woman. (That would be ICD-9 Code 755.21 – congenital absence of forearm including hand.) So, my daughter, I’ve witnessed you deftly put on pantyhose (along with all the other daily routines you skillfully perform with only one hand), but help me now: how do you fasten your bra?
Update: I just spoke with Daughter #1. She says, "No, Mommy. God doesn't forget anything. That's the way He made me." And, "I fasten it in front. You taught me to do it like that." Interesting, how much I have forgotten in life.
Well, we have yet to confirm for sure whether I have a loose screw or not. Opinions do not count. We’re looking for medical evidence, here. Screws in orthopedic hardware do work themselves loose. In my own defense, no test has been ordered on my brain.
We’ll find out about my ankle tomorrow morning.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Nana and the Nutcracker – A Christmas Story
Once upon a time, not too long ago (on Tuesday, actually), a particular Grandma (let’s call her Nana) invited her six-year-old grandson (let’s call him Travis) to stay overnight with her and spend the next day together, while his mother (her daughter – let’s call her Marie) attended In-Service Training. As Nana considered what they would do the next day, Travis’ cheerful chatter convinced her they would put up her Christmas tree, though hardly anyone ever comes to her small home any more, and she hasn’t decorated at Christmas for years. (The family always holds Christmas festivities at Marie’s older sister’s house, also Nana's daughter, of course. We won’t give the sister a fake name, because she doesn’t appear in this story again.)
The next day, when Nana brought out the Christmas tree, she remembered Why She Avoids Decorating Christmas Trees. Though the Christmas Stuff Section of her highly-organized walk-in closet was replete with strings of Christmas lights – five, to be exact – only one worked. Three did not light up at all. A fourth had no lit bulbs from the plug to the middle of the string, but all bulbs were fully functional from the middle to the end. A mystery. A brief telephone consult with Uncle Carl – all-wise fixer of most mechanical, electrical, and automotive problems – failed to solve the issue of the half-lit string of lights.
Now you must understand that this was a small tree. Picture a four-and-a-half-feet tall, artificial green tree-like object (just a tad taller than Travis, if you bend the top branch down, which he did). The point is, one string of lights would not do. So off Nana and Travis traveled to the Dollar Store to find a multi-colored second set to match the aforementioned only working set of Christmas tree lights.
You remember the part “she hadn’t decorated for years”? Well, the Dollar Store wasn’t exactly the right place to find a match for her retro Christmas lights. But she found some inexpensive ornamental balls; you know how someone’s always dropping them, or stepping on them, into smithereens. She was about ready to leave, when Travis discovered the Nutcrackers – yes, the brightly-painted wooden images of the soldier from Tchaikovsky’s ballet. Travis was fascinated. There were two sizes, the $1 size and the $5 size. Nana allowed him to choose between the red or blue uniformed $1 figures (“Red, please, Nana”), and she put one in their basket.
Then (violins playing in a minor key), Travis pulled a $5 Nutcracker from the shelf and began to inspect it – manually – but with his gloves on. Of course, it fell to the floor and broke. More specifically, a foot broke off. Travis was almost in tears. How much trouble was he in? “It just slipped out of my hand, Nana,” he said, shifting culpability to the Nutcracker. When Nana told him he was not in that much trouble, he became philosophical. “I think it was because of my gloves.” Since she is such a nice Nana, she told Travis she understood it was an accident, but that he must be more careful. And she forcefully reiterated The First Rule for Children in Stores: No touching or picking up anything, because of The Second Rule: If you break it, you pay for it.
Now, Nana had a moral dilemma. It was possible to place the foot back on the Nutcracker (he was standing on a base, you understand), and leave it on the shelf, looking quite undamaged. Until someone else came along and picked it up, that is. At which time, Nana and Travis could be long gone. But, as you have probably guessed by now, Nana did The Right Thing. She took the $5 Nutcracker to the checkout, confessed to the clerk that Travis had accidentally broken it, and she paid for it.
The end of the story has almost unfolded. All that’s left is what should Nana do with the damaged Nutcracker? Should she find some Super-Glue, put the foot back on, and send it home with Travis? “No,” says Marie when she comes to pick him up. “I’m not going to make a big deal of this, but he doesn’t get to have the big Nutcracker, just the little one.” So, should Nana set the Nutcracker out at her house, with one foot missing? The foot is black (a boot). The base is black. It isn’t all that noticeable. And the instructions printed on the bottom of the knick-knack clearly state “This is not a toy. For decoration only.”
Then Nana remembers the “white elephant” gift exchange her work-team is having on Friday. The gift must be under $10 (check). It can be something someone else gave you that you don’t want. (Not an exact match, but she definitely didn’t want it. Check). And wasn’t there something in the Nutcracker story about the toy’s being broken, anyway? (Yup! See the Goggled synopsis of the first act below.***)
So, she finds some two-sided tape in her junk drawer, performs minor surgery on the foot, wraps the item in several layers of tissue paper, and places it lovingly in a gift box. To assuage her guilt about passing off a broken “decoration” as a present, she includes a lovely gold and green Christmas tree ornament (purchased last year after Christmas). And yes, she will confess at the gift exchange the whole truth about the Nutcracker’s accident. Perhaps she will direct whoever ends up with the gift to her blog, where this story will be posted.
She hopes you are enjoying the Christmas season with your family, too.
***It's Christmas at the Stahlbaum home. There's a huge tree, and many guests arrive to celebrate with the family. Clara's godfather, Herr Drosselmeyer, makes magical toys. He entertains the guests with two life-sized dolls that dance around the room. Then he gives gifts to the children, and gives Clara a very special gift of a nutcracker. Her brother, Fritz, is jealous, grabs the nutcracker, and it gets broken! Clara is very upset, so Herr Drosselmeyer repairs the doll before handing it back to her. http://wiki.answers.com/Q/What_is_story_of_nutcracker
The next day, when Nana brought out the Christmas tree, she remembered Why She Avoids Decorating Christmas Trees. Though the Christmas Stuff Section of her highly-organized walk-in closet was replete with strings of Christmas lights – five, to be exact – only one worked. Three did not light up at all. A fourth had no lit bulbs from the plug to the middle of the string, but all bulbs were fully functional from the middle to the end. A mystery. A brief telephone consult with Uncle Carl – all-wise fixer of most mechanical, electrical, and automotive problems – failed to solve the issue of the half-lit string of lights.
Now you must understand that this was a small tree. Picture a four-and-a-half-feet tall, artificial green tree-like object (just a tad taller than Travis, if you bend the top branch down, which he did). The point is, one string of lights would not do. So off Nana and Travis traveled to the Dollar Store to find a multi-colored second set to match the aforementioned only working set of Christmas tree lights.
You remember the part “she hadn’t decorated for years”? Well, the Dollar Store wasn’t exactly the right place to find a match for her retro Christmas lights. But she found some inexpensive ornamental balls; you know how someone’s always dropping them, or stepping on them, into smithereens. She was about ready to leave, when Travis discovered the Nutcrackers – yes, the brightly-painted wooden images of the soldier from Tchaikovsky’s ballet. Travis was fascinated. There were two sizes, the $1 size and the $5 size. Nana allowed him to choose between the red or blue uniformed $1 figures (“Red, please, Nana”), and she put one in their basket.
Then (violins playing in a minor key), Travis pulled a $5 Nutcracker from the shelf and began to inspect it – manually – but with his gloves on. Of course, it fell to the floor and broke. More specifically, a foot broke off. Travis was almost in tears. How much trouble was he in? “It just slipped out of my hand, Nana,” he said, shifting culpability to the Nutcracker. When Nana told him he was not in that much trouble, he became philosophical. “I think it was because of my gloves.” Since she is such a nice Nana, she told Travis she understood it was an accident, but that he must be more careful. And she forcefully reiterated The First Rule for Children in Stores: No touching or picking up anything, because of The Second Rule: If you break it, you pay for it.
Now, Nana had a moral dilemma. It was possible to place the foot back on the Nutcracker (he was standing on a base, you understand), and leave it on the shelf, looking quite undamaged. Until someone else came along and picked it up, that is. At which time, Nana and Travis could be long gone. But, as you have probably guessed by now, Nana did The Right Thing. She took the $5 Nutcracker to the checkout, confessed to the clerk that Travis had accidentally broken it, and she paid for it.
The end of the story has almost unfolded. All that’s left is what should Nana do with the damaged Nutcracker? Should she find some Super-Glue, put the foot back on, and send it home with Travis? “No,” says Marie when she comes to pick him up. “I’m not going to make a big deal of this, but he doesn’t get to have the big Nutcracker, just the little one.” So, should Nana set the Nutcracker out at her house, with one foot missing? The foot is black (a boot). The base is black. It isn’t all that noticeable. And the instructions printed on the bottom of the knick-knack clearly state “This is not a toy. For decoration only.”
Then Nana remembers the “white elephant” gift exchange her work-team is having on Friday. The gift must be under $10 (check). It can be something someone else gave you that you don’t want. (Not an exact match, but she definitely didn’t want it. Check). And wasn’t there something in the Nutcracker story about the toy’s being broken, anyway? (Yup! See the Goggled synopsis of the first act below.***)
So, she finds some two-sided tape in her junk drawer, performs minor surgery on the foot, wraps the item in several layers of tissue paper, and places it lovingly in a gift box. To assuage her guilt about passing off a broken “decoration” as a present, she includes a lovely gold and green Christmas tree ornament (purchased last year after Christmas). And yes, she will confess at the gift exchange the whole truth about the Nutcracker’s accident. Perhaps she will direct whoever ends up with the gift to her blog, where this story will be posted.
She hopes you are enjoying the Christmas season with your family, too.
***It's Christmas at the Stahlbaum home. There's a huge tree, and many guests arrive to celebrate with the family. Clara's godfather, Herr Drosselmeyer, makes magical toys. He entertains the guests with two life-sized dolls that dance around the room. Then he gives gifts to the children, and gives Clara a very special gift of a nutcracker. Her brother, Fritz, is jealous, grabs the nutcracker, and it gets broken! Clara is very upset, so Herr Drosselmeyer repairs the doll before handing it back to her. http://wiki.answers.com/Q/What_is_story_of_nutcracker
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Being Still
Becoming accustomed to silence
Again
Emptying out
All detritus
Stuffed
Into empty spaces
In my soul
Asking God
To teach me
About the caverns –
Created by circumstances
Or congenital?
Welcoming cessation of sound
Giving peace opportunity
To reign
Over scattered thoughts
Stream of consciousness
Unending conversations
In my head
Ceasing
Calming
Quieting
Resting
Only by tranquility
Can I hear
Softness of Savior’s voice
Whispering sweet words of sanction
Hush now
Be still
Again
Emptying out
All detritus
Stuffed
Into empty spaces
In my soul
Asking God
To teach me
About the caverns –
Created by circumstances
Or congenital?
Welcoming cessation of sound
Giving peace opportunity
To reign
Over scattered thoughts
Stream of consciousness
Unending conversations
In my head
Ceasing
Calming
Quieting
Resting
Only by tranquility
Can I hear
Softness of Savior’s voice
Whispering sweet words of sanction
Hush now
Be still
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Reconnecting
Lord, you never
never
disconnected
from me.
It was I
who said goodbye
see you later
whenever I can figure out
what I’m escaping from
what I’m withdrawing
to avoid.
Nina, my silly, silly child,
trying to find answers
apart from me
author of the universe
lover of your soul.
How did you
think to disconnect
from me
when I indwell you
go before you
walk beside you
on your right hand
and your left,
when I protect
you from behind?
So my silence on written page
my reluctance
to open the book you’ve
already written to me
formed no barrier between us?
My love knows
no boundary.
I do not recognize
your disconnection.
Bring your questions
to me.
Though I may not answer,
you can trust me
to listen and love.
We will journey together
to your destiny’s end.
Along the way
you will fall more and more
in love with me.
Love is my desire for you,
not that you match your actions
to your own ideas
of what I want.
Walk with me
not by precept
but by proximity.
Set no standards for success
except our mutual joy.
I take your hand
my Lord.
My heart is yours.
I delight
in our dance.
Nancy Godfrey
June 25, 2006
never
disconnected
from me.
It was I
who said goodbye
see you later
whenever I can figure out
what I’m escaping from
what I’m withdrawing
to avoid.
Nina, my silly, silly child,
trying to find answers
apart from me
author of the universe
lover of your soul.
How did you
think to disconnect
from me
when I indwell you
go before you
walk beside you
on your right hand
and your left,
when I protect
you from behind?
So my silence on written page
my reluctance
to open the book you’ve
already written to me
formed no barrier between us?
My love knows
no boundary.
I do not recognize
your disconnection.
Bring your questions
to me.
Though I may not answer,
you can trust me
to listen and love.
We will journey together
to your destiny’s end.
Along the way
you will fall more and more
in love with me.
Love is my desire for you,
not that you match your actions
to your own ideas
of what I want.
Walk with me
not by precept
but by proximity.
Set no standards for success
except our mutual joy.
I take your hand
my Lord.
My heart is yours.
I delight
in our dance.
Nancy Godfrey
June 25, 2006
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Your Word Lives
Your word
lives
my Lord
As I peruse
its sentences and paragraphs
chapters and books
you inhabit every syllable
you infuse every letter
of every word
with Holy Spirit strength
you create rhema words
that leap off the page
into the core
of my soul
The more I read your word
Abba-Father
the more it reads me
I find myself
in your writings
You tucked me
into every line
every story
every truth
Some days
when I open your word
it sifts my motives
challenges my thoughts
pierces my heart
I come away
exposed
wounded
torn apart
But because you energize
your word
with healing power
the pain is safe
When I am open
defenseless
naked before you
only then can you
reshape reform remake me
into the image
of the one
who indwells each segment
of your word:
Jesus.
Nancy Godfrey
Hebrews 4:12-13
February 13, 2007
lives
my Lord
As I peruse
its sentences and paragraphs
chapters and books
you inhabit every syllable
you infuse every letter
of every word
with Holy Spirit strength
you create rhema words
that leap off the page
into the core
of my soul
The more I read your word
Abba-Father
the more it reads me
I find myself
in your writings
You tucked me
into every line
every story
every truth
Some days
when I open your word
it sifts my motives
challenges my thoughts
pierces my heart
I come away
exposed
wounded
torn apart
But because you energize
your word
with healing power
the pain is safe
When I am open
defenseless
naked before you
only then can you
reshape reform remake me
into the image
of the one
who indwells each segment
of your word:
Jesus.
Nancy Godfrey
Hebrews 4:12-13
February 13, 2007
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Today's Wings
A day stretches its wings
before me
bidding me to mount
and glide.
before me
bidding me to mount
and glide.
No stipulations.
No necessity.
No demands.
Just
Let’s fly.
I hardly know
how to say
Yes.
Can I banish
my to-do list?
Can I relinquish
my hesitancy to dismiss
my shoulds and oughts
from this day?
Can I soar
on eagle’s wings
breathlessly
expectantly
without guilt
into unexplored realms
of renewed strength?
How to let go
my own stilted conventions
and find God’s freedom
is no small task.
Even vocabulary
of spontaneity
in intimacy with Him
hides from me.
My ways have acquired
chore contours
the order of my days
constructed by lists
and shoulds and oughts -
when I do organize
when I’m not evading
eluding
No necessity.
No demands.
Just
Let’s fly.
I hardly know
how to say
Yes.
Can I banish
my to-do list?
Can I relinquish
my hesitancy to dismiss
my shoulds and oughts
from this day?
Can I soar
on eagle’s wings
breathlessly
expectantly
without guilt
into unexplored realms
of renewed strength?
How to let go
my own stilted conventions
and find God’s freedom
is no small task.
Even vocabulary
of spontaneity
in intimacy with Him
hides from me.
My ways have acquired
chore contours
the order of my days
constructed by lists
and shoulds and oughts -
when I do organize
when I’m not evading
eluding
lists
and shoulds
and oughts.
Guilt lurks
at conscience’s edge
stabbing
probing
needling
until each uncertain step
and shoulds
and oughts.
Guilt lurks
at conscience’s edge
stabbing
probing
needling
until each uncertain step
leaves bleeding footprint.
No wonder
I escape the shape
of days
I’ve fabricated
from bricks of blame.
So just for today
(and maybe tomorrow)
I’ll say
No wonder
I escape the shape
of days
I’ve fabricated
from bricks of blame.
So just for today
(and maybe tomorrow)
I’ll say
Yes.
I’ll sail
on Holy Spirit’s pinions
into abandon’s
unknown
uncharted
zone
Into Jesus’ smile.
NG
Sunday, July 5, 2009
It's a Long Road from Insight to Change
No posts since June 9. Hmmm. Where is the fervor with which I started this blog? Granted, I'm still thinking blogically. Several ideas have presented themselves. One has lingered and taken shape in my Quiet Time. I'll need a bit of courage to post it, because the topic lays me bare and challenges me to change - not my favorite activity in life.
So here goes.
In the main women’s restroom at my workplace, there are three sinks for hand washing. My habit is to use the one on the right, closest to the paper towel dispenser. To understand this story properly, you must know that the faucets operate by motion sensors. Place your hands under the spigot and voila! The water magically emerges. (My habituation to this phenomenon has led to numerous semi-embarrassing moments in public restrooms whose faucets do not automatically dispense water, as I place my hands under the spigot and wait and wait, until I remember to turn the water on.)
Enough for background information. About two weeks ago, the fixture on Sink #3 (reading left to right) became totally inoperable. I can place my hands under the spigot for however long I want, but the water never comes forth. Now, you’d think I’d remember this and choose Sink #1 or Sink #2, but habit motivates my behavior more than I care to admit. And more often than not, I head straight for Sink #3, cup my hands, and wait in vain.
As I was pondering this development, I realized it is a snapshot of another habit I’m struggling with. I’m addicted to the TV. One of the manifestations of this addiction is that I can sit on my couch for large chunks of time, remote in hand, flipping from channel to channel, trying to find a program of interest. At the end of each such session, I’m faced with the truth that I’ve watched nothing. Nothing comes forth from the TV to satisfy whatever need has led me to it. Nothing.
You’d think I’d catch on. You’d think I’d cease-and-desist from a behavior that has no payoff. No water, choose a different sink. No emotional or spiritual reward – put down the remote and turn the TV off. Well, actually, that’s not the parallel action, is it? No reward – don’t turn on the TV.
Unfortunately - so far - the insight afforded by this analogy has not produced significant or lasting behavioral change in either the hand-washing or the TV-watching venues. But fortunately I have a resource in my Abba-Father, whose influence goes well beyond my own ability to alter conduct.
"Kaleidoscope - The Lord of the universe transforms broken pieces of glass into images of infinite beauty and colorful delight." I've placed the emphasis on the broken pieces in this writing. But my focus remains fixed on the Lord of the universe. I have consummate confidence in His desire and ability to perfect the transformation of this image - little by little. Find hope and encouragement here, Nancy, and remember to laugh.
So here goes.
In the main women’s restroom at my workplace, there are three sinks for hand washing. My habit is to use the one on the right, closest to the paper towel dispenser. To understand this story properly, you must know that the faucets operate by motion sensors. Place your hands under the spigot and voila! The water magically emerges. (My habituation to this phenomenon has led to numerous semi-embarrassing moments in public restrooms whose faucets do not automatically dispense water, as I place my hands under the spigot and wait and wait, until I remember to turn the water on.)
Enough for background information. About two weeks ago, the fixture on Sink #3 (reading left to right) became totally inoperable. I can place my hands under the spigot for however long I want, but the water never comes forth. Now, you’d think I’d remember this and choose Sink #1 or Sink #2, but habit motivates my behavior more than I care to admit. And more often than not, I head straight for Sink #3, cup my hands, and wait in vain.
As I was pondering this development, I realized it is a snapshot of another habit I’m struggling with. I’m addicted to the TV. One of the manifestations of this addiction is that I can sit on my couch for large chunks of time, remote in hand, flipping from channel to channel, trying to find a program of interest. At the end of each such session, I’m faced with the truth that I’ve watched nothing. Nothing comes forth from the TV to satisfy whatever need has led me to it. Nothing.
You’d think I’d catch on. You’d think I’d cease-and-desist from a behavior that has no payoff. No water, choose a different sink. No emotional or spiritual reward – put down the remote and turn the TV off. Well, actually, that’s not the parallel action, is it? No reward – don’t turn on the TV.
Unfortunately - so far - the insight afforded by this analogy has not produced significant or lasting behavioral change in either the hand-washing or the TV-watching venues. But fortunately I have a resource in my Abba-Father, whose influence goes well beyond my own ability to alter conduct.
"Kaleidoscope - The Lord of the universe transforms broken pieces of glass into images of infinite beauty and colorful delight." I've placed the emphasis on the broken pieces in this writing. But my focus remains fixed on the Lord of the universe. I have consummate confidence in His desire and ability to perfect the transformation of this image - little by little. Find hope and encouragement here, Nancy, and remember to laugh.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Clutter
This is a piece I do not want to write. But the topic keeps flitting across my consciousness, harassing me with its clattery insistence.
My resistance arises from fear. I fear writing about the clutter I can see because inevitably, inexorably, it will lead to writing about the clutter I can’t see – the clutter inside.
Clutter is cleverly unobtrusive in its assault tactics. A pair of earrings on the living room end table. A few dirty dishes left in the sink. A sweater on the back of a dining room chair. Unsorted mail stacked on the couch arm. It all adds up. It quietly accumulates, one piece at a time. Nothing major. Just a little here, a little there. A box of Lincoln logs abandoned by the grandchildren. A ball. A stuffed toy. A sewing box on the sofa.
What happened to my perfectly de-cluttered apartment!?!?!
My resistance arises from fear. I fear writing about the clutter I can see because inevitably, inexorably, it will lead to writing about the clutter I can’t see – the clutter inside.
Clutter is cleverly unobtrusive in its assault tactics. A pair of earrings on the living room end table. A few dirty dishes left in the sink. A sweater on the back of a dining room chair. Unsorted mail stacked on the couch arm. It all adds up. It quietly accumulates, one piece at a time. Nothing major. Just a little here, a little there. A box of Lincoln logs abandoned by the grandchildren. A ball. A stuffed toy. A sewing box on the sofa.
What happened to my perfectly de-cluttered apartment!?!?!
Friday, May 29, 2009
Hmmmmmmm...
Here’s a strange phenomenon.
My wireless mouse, my cell phone, my cordless land phone, and my TV remote all resemble each other. A lot.
My motif is black with silver trim, and I didn’t even plan them all to match. The mouse and land phone were gifts from my oldest daughter. The remote was donated by my youngest daughter. My cell is so old, it’s just a few centimeters shy of being as fat as the mouse (think 3-year-old Samsung flip up).
So far, I have tried to move my cursor with my cell phone, and I once tried to answer my mouse. I guess my confusion may arise from the fact that I keep them beside me, as I sit on my couch with my laptop on my lap (where else?).
You see, I spend much of my time at home as follows: typing my conversations with God, writing blogs, reading blogs, reading the Bible (though not as much as I should, which I must confess, lest I have to write an apology post for trying to make myself sound more spiritually-disciplined than I am), reading my current novel, watching TV, and not watching TV – the pastimes I carefully weave into the weekday evenings and weekend morning-to-afternoon tapestries of my life.
But in my own defense, so far, I haven’t tried to mute my TV with my cordless, though it does have a mute key. And I haven’t tried to answer my remote, though I do talk to my TV.
Is there any hope for me? Is this phenomenon an early sign of Alzheimer’s? Should I purchase a pet? One I can train to discern the subtle differences among my small battery-driven devices?
As I travel further along in blogdom, I’m no longer waking up at 4:00 AM thinking about what I will write, but for a while, I will continue to play with a silly idea and see how it turns out. It’s my blog, after all. I can make up my own rules.
NG
My wireless mouse, my cell phone, my cordless land phone, and my TV remote all resemble each other. A lot.
My motif is black with silver trim, and I didn’t even plan them all to match. The mouse and land phone were gifts from my oldest daughter. The remote was donated by my youngest daughter. My cell is so old, it’s just a few centimeters shy of being as fat as the mouse (think 3-year-old Samsung flip up).
So far, I have tried to move my cursor with my cell phone, and I once tried to answer my mouse. I guess my confusion may arise from the fact that I keep them beside me, as I sit on my couch with my laptop on my lap (where else?).
You see, I spend much of my time at home as follows: typing my conversations with God, writing blogs, reading blogs, reading the Bible (though not as much as I should, which I must confess, lest I have to write an apology post for trying to make myself sound more spiritually-disciplined than I am), reading my current novel, watching TV, and not watching TV – the pastimes I carefully weave into the weekday evenings and weekend morning-to-afternoon tapestries of my life.
But in my own defense, so far, I haven’t tried to mute my TV with my cordless, though it does have a mute key. And I haven’t tried to answer my remote, though I do talk to my TV.
Is there any hope for me? Is this phenomenon an early sign of Alzheimer’s? Should I purchase a pet? One I can train to discern the subtle differences among my small battery-driven devices?
As I travel further along in blogdom, I’m no longer waking up at 4:00 AM thinking about what I will write, but for a while, I will continue to play with a silly idea and see how it turns out. It’s my blog, after all. I can make up my own rules.
NG
Monday, May 25, 2009
My Hairs Are Numbered
Remember how I said my mind keeps pouncing on random toughts and tweaking them into possible blog entries? Well, here's an example of a thought that actually turned into a blog post.
As I was brushing my hair this morning and pulling the hairs out of my brush to throw away, I thought of the time when Jesus said God knows how many hairs I have on my head. Indeed, the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Luke 12:7(NIV)
Then I noticed hairs still clinging to my Goody Self Holding Rollers ("Adds Body and Lift – No pins or clips" in English, French and Spanish); the hairs remained from when I ripped the rollers out of my newly-washed-and-dried locks two days ago.
Now, my brain was on a roll. I remembered the hairs I recover from the carpet by my bedside (by moistening my fingertips and moving my hand in circles on the rug; yes, I throw them away; yes, I do vacuum my carpet). Not to mention the hairs that cling to my fingers as I’m washing my tresses (but I just did – mention them, that is) – the ones I have to rescue from going down the drain, lest I find myself having to call Rotor Rooter.
Well, I think you have the picture (too much of a picture, perhaps?).
Bottom line: keeping track of the number of hairs on my head would be a full time job, if you weren’t God.
But I wanted to know more about this hair-numbering metaphor used by Jesus to tell me how intimately God knows me.
So I went to the context (always a great idea when studying God’s word). The hairs-on-your-head image in Luke 12: 6-7 is also found in Matthew 10:29-31. It comes in the middle of some warnings and encouragements Jesus gave solely to His disciples before addressing a crowd of thousands. He warned the twelve against the hypocrisy of the Pharisees and against those who have the power to "throw you into hell." Then He encouraged them with His familiar phrase "fear not." He started with another metaphor, the one used in the song "His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me." Jesus said, "Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground apart from the will of your Father." Matt 10:29 (NIV)
So here’s the parallel – God sees every sparrow that falls to the ground, and similarly God knows every hair that detaches, separates, disconnects from my head. And the good news is that I am "…more valuable to God than a whole flock of sparrows." (NLT)
When I ponder how much God knows about me – even down to the number of hairs on my head – it astounds me. How can He do that? How can He know everything about me and then duplicate the phenomenon with every person He placed on this earth?
Then I realize, if He knows such a minute statistic about my physical body, how much more He must know the details of my inner being – the place where He lives, by the presence of His Holy Spirit. He must know my thoughts, my longings, my emotions, as well as the details of my relationships.
Over and over again in my life, my Abba-Father takes me to Psalm 139, to tell me who I am and to further refine my experience of who He is to me.
1 O Lord, you have examined my heart
and know everything about me.
2 You know when I sit and when I rise;
you perceive my thoughts from afar.
3You sift and search out my path and my lying down,
and You are acquainted with all my ways.
4 You know what I am going to say
even before I say it, Lord.
5 You both precede and follow me.
You place your hand of blessing on my head.
6 Such knowledge is too wonderful for me,
too great for me to understand!
Indeed, He knows me completely. This attribute is His omniscience, a big word for "He knows everything." I echo David’s response – such knowledge is beyond me. "It is high, I cannot attain it." (NKJV) But I can be comforted by Jesus’ words, "Don’t be afraid." God’s knowledge of me is not a fearful thing, because of the value He has accorded to me as His beloved. He has placed His hand of blessing on my head.
I bow down and worship Him – for knowing me completely and for touching me with His blessing of love.
NG
P.S. Psalm 139 verses are from the following translations : 1 NLT, 2 NIV, 3 Amplified, 4-6 NLT.
As I was brushing my hair this morning and pulling the hairs out of my brush to throw away, I thought of the time when Jesus said God knows how many hairs I have on my head. Indeed, the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Luke 12:7(NIV)
Then I noticed hairs still clinging to my Goody Self Holding Rollers ("Adds Body and Lift – No pins or clips" in English, French and Spanish); the hairs remained from when I ripped the rollers out of my newly-washed-and-dried locks two days ago.
Now, my brain was on a roll. I remembered the hairs I recover from the carpet by my bedside (by moistening my fingertips and moving my hand in circles on the rug; yes, I throw them away; yes, I do vacuum my carpet). Not to mention the hairs that cling to my fingers as I’m washing my tresses (but I just did – mention them, that is) – the ones I have to rescue from going down the drain, lest I find myself having to call Rotor Rooter.
Well, I think you have the picture (too much of a picture, perhaps?).
Bottom line: keeping track of the number of hairs on my head would be a full time job, if you weren’t God.
But I wanted to know more about this hair-numbering metaphor used by Jesus to tell me how intimately God knows me.
So I went to the context (always a great idea when studying God’s word). The hairs-on-your-head image in Luke 12: 6-7 is also found in Matthew 10:29-31. It comes in the middle of some warnings and encouragements Jesus gave solely to His disciples before addressing a crowd of thousands. He warned the twelve against the hypocrisy of the Pharisees and against those who have the power to "throw you into hell." Then He encouraged them with His familiar phrase "fear not." He started with another metaphor, the one used in the song "His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me." Jesus said, "Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground apart from the will of your Father." Matt 10:29 (NIV)
So here’s the parallel – God sees every sparrow that falls to the ground, and similarly God knows every hair that detaches, separates, disconnects from my head. And the good news is that I am "…more valuable to God than a whole flock of sparrows." (NLT)
When I ponder how much God knows about me – even down to the number of hairs on my head – it astounds me. How can He do that? How can He know everything about me and then duplicate the phenomenon with every person He placed on this earth?
Then I realize, if He knows such a minute statistic about my physical body, how much more He must know the details of my inner being – the place where He lives, by the presence of His Holy Spirit. He must know my thoughts, my longings, my emotions, as well as the details of my relationships.
Over and over again in my life, my Abba-Father takes me to Psalm 139, to tell me who I am and to further refine my experience of who He is to me.
1 O Lord, you have examined my heart
and know everything about me.
2 You know when I sit and when I rise;
you perceive my thoughts from afar.
3You sift and search out my path and my lying down,
and You are acquainted with all my ways.
4 You know what I am going to say
even before I say it, Lord.
5 You both precede and follow me.
You place your hand of blessing on my head.
6 Such knowledge is too wonderful for me,
too great for me to understand!
Indeed, He knows me completely. This attribute is His omniscience, a big word for "He knows everything." I echo David’s response – such knowledge is beyond me. "It is high, I cannot attain it." (NKJV) But I can be comforted by Jesus’ words, "Don’t be afraid." God’s knowledge of me is not a fearful thing, because of the value He has accorded to me as His beloved. He has placed His hand of blessing on my head.
I bow down and worship Him – for knowing me completely and for touching me with His blessing of love.
NG
P.S. Psalm 139 verses are from the following translations : 1 NLT, 2 NIV, 3 Amplified, 4-6 NLT.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Writing as Destiny
Now, it's time to get serious. Do you believe me? Do I believe me?
What I'm going to try to do here (in case anyone out there is following this blog like a story, like a series of writings that are actually connected day by day) - I'm going to transition into a thoughtful, less playful topic.
So here's my problem. I have a seriously serious side. Truly, I do. But even that facet is laced with tinges of humor. Is that contradictory? Ummm... No. It's the way my Father created me.
And He created me to be creative. Is that redundant? Ummm... No. In His creativity, He imparted His innovative, spontaneous wonder-filled nature to this little creature. He gave a special gift of His love. He gave writing. He gave words. He gave innovative, spontaneous, wonder-filled combinations of words.
I don't boast. (I hope, I don't. Maybe I do.) I'm often as surprised by what I write as those who read my pieces. When I read over past writings, I sometimes say, "Wow, that's good stuff!" Like someone else wrote it. And someone else (and I) did write it.
What I'm trying to say is that I couldn't write without the inspiration of the Holy Spirit, God's indwelling presence-of-Jesus, in my life. It started with the first Adam, when God breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and he became a living being, the first creature made in His own image, one with the capacity for relationship with Him.
When He breathed life into me, He conferred creativity in a shape never seen before, never to be seen again. Because of that special breathing, because of God's desire for me to be intimately connected to Him, I feel compelled to keep writing, to combine words over and over again into the shape of my life, into the unveiling of my relationship with Him. My destiny, the purpose for which He created me, lies in writing my heart out. (Get it? Writing my heart out.)
So you see, I can be serious. Thoughtful and serious. Oh, but I must give credit to KL Knight for helping me think about (be thoughtful and serious about) this topic last night at the Psalm 45:1 gathering. Afterward, we were discussing the coming and goings of our writing seasons. And I discovered the fragility of my identity apart from writing. Hence, I needed to write about it, tonight.
I thank my Abba-Father that He's not conflicted or in need of bolstering about who He made me. I am delighted that He's always closer than a whisper to inspire me with the person of Jesus, with His desire to speak the Word of life to me, then through me. I thank Him for my destiny.
NG
What I'm going to try to do here (in case anyone out there is following this blog like a story, like a series of writings that are actually connected day by day) - I'm going to transition into a thoughtful, less playful topic.
So here's my problem. I have a seriously serious side. Truly, I do. But even that facet is laced with tinges of humor. Is that contradictory? Ummm... No. It's the way my Father created me.
And He created me to be creative. Is that redundant? Ummm... No. In His creativity, He imparted His innovative, spontaneous wonder-filled nature to this little creature. He gave a special gift of His love. He gave writing. He gave words. He gave innovative, spontaneous, wonder-filled combinations of words.
I don't boast. (I hope, I don't. Maybe I do.) I'm often as surprised by what I write as those who read my pieces. When I read over past writings, I sometimes say, "Wow, that's good stuff!" Like someone else wrote it. And someone else (and I) did write it.
What I'm trying to say is that I couldn't write without the inspiration of the Holy Spirit, God's indwelling presence-of-Jesus, in my life. It started with the first Adam, when God breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and he became a living being, the first creature made in His own image, one with the capacity for relationship with Him.
When He breathed life into me, He conferred creativity in a shape never seen before, never to be seen again. Because of that special breathing, because of God's desire for me to be intimately connected to Him, I feel compelled to keep writing, to combine words over and over again into the shape of my life, into the unveiling of my relationship with Him. My destiny, the purpose for which He created me, lies in writing my heart out. (Get it? Writing my heart out.)
So you see, I can be serious. Thoughtful and serious. Oh, but I must give credit to KL Knight for helping me think about (be thoughtful and serious about) this topic last night at the Psalm 45:1 gathering. Afterward, we were discussing the coming and goings of our writing seasons. And I discovered the fragility of my identity apart from writing. Hence, I needed to write about it, tonight.
I thank my Abba-Father that He's not conflicted or in need of bolstering about who He made me. I am delighted that He's always closer than a whisper to inspire me with the person of Jesus, with His desire to speak the Word of life to me, then through me. I thank Him for my destiny.
NG
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Blogging Overtakes My Thoughts
This is Day Twelve of my blog. I've now told family and friends about it. And I've received some encouraging remarks. One comment came by e-mail from a friend who didn't post it, but I'm going to repeat it anyway because it make me laugh: "I have read your blog. I like your blog. I expect to continue to read your blog. Don't you just love to write and say blog?" (Yes, I do.)
Pretty soon, I may stop thinking about my blog and talking about it so much, and I may start instead to post more entries. That would be the point, actually. So this post is just a few more remarks about blogging, and then maybe I'll get the topic out of my system (no promises).
I've found recently during my stream-of-consciousness string of thoughts I often stop and wonder whether a particular thought is blog-worthy. I begin to rephrase in my mind how I would say it on my blog. I mull it over and over, not just as a thought, an idea, or an internal conversation, but I examine it for Kaleidoscopic possibilities.
Now, I've always been a proponent of all those Wonderful Suggestions to People Who Aspire to Become Real Writers. One such recommendation that I've never incorporated into my everyday life is to carry around a notebook where I could jot down ideas. Not consistently, at least. So now, I'm going to do it. Do you believe me? I'm trying to believe me. I even have one in my purse. I even wrote down something in it during breakfast. That's a start - for this season.
And I'm trying to decide how or whether to add my poems (at least some of them) to my blog. I guess I can make up my own rules. It's my blog, after all. I'll have to see if I can archive them immediately in a section all their own. They like being together. And I think current posts should reflect current writings. I don't know why I think that, though. It's my blog, after all. I can make up my own rules.
NG
Pretty soon, I may stop thinking about my blog and talking about it so much, and I may start instead to post more entries. That would be the point, actually. So this post is just a few more remarks about blogging, and then maybe I'll get the topic out of my system (no promises).
I've found recently during my stream-of-consciousness string of thoughts I often stop and wonder whether a particular thought is blog-worthy. I begin to rephrase in my mind how I would say it on my blog. I mull it over and over, not just as a thought, an idea, or an internal conversation, but I examine it for Kaleidoscopic possibilities.
Now, I've always been a proponent of all those Wonderful Suggestions to People Who Aspire to Become Real Writers. One such recommendation that I've never incorporated into my everyday life is to carry around a notebook where I could jot down ideas. Not consistently, at least. So now, I'm going to do it. Do you believe me? I'm trying to believe me. I even have one in my purse. I even wrote down something in it during breakfast. That's a start - for this season.
And I'm trying to decide how or whether to add my poems (at least some of them) to my blog. I guess I can make up my own rules. It's my blog, after all. I'll have to see if I can archive them immediately in a section all their own. They like being together. And I think current posts should reflect current writings. I don't know why I think that, though. It's my blog, after all. I can make up my own rules.
NG
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Adventures in Blogdom
Okay, so last night I woke up at 4:00, unable to go back to sleep for all the blogthoughts that raced through my head. Who's going to read what I write? What topics are okay for me to write about and which ones should I keep undercover? Should I write about the silly thoughts that come to me day after day, or is this a Serious Blog? Kaleidoscope - Find hope and encouragement here, I say. Is that too pretentious, too self-absorbed? Can I write fluffy stuff here? On the other hand, if The World comes to my blog, do I want just anyone knowing my deepest fears and longings?
When I mentioned the 4:00 AM insomniac episode to my 8 year old grandson this morning, commenting that I wasn't sure what I should write about, he suggested, "I really, really love potato chips." I countered, "That would be great, except I don't love potato chips. But can I quote you on my blog?" I hope he said yes. He's a computer savvy kid (besides being fond of potato chips). I expect he'll find my blog. I saved it as a favorite on his mother's computer on Mother's Day. She found it yesterday and became my first Follower. See her picture?
Aside to my other three children: No sibling squabbling, now. Daughter #1 just means she was born first. She'll tell the rest of you how to get on board. Of course, you can probably figure it out for yourselves, too.
First Daughter asked me last evening why I hadn't e-mailed all my friends and family with the link to Kaleidoscope. "Are you shy?" she asked. I don't think so, not if waking up at night thinking about what I will say is any indication. But then, why haven't I told more people? (Refer to Second Reflections for more thoughts on this topic.)
Creating the blog has actually given me new impetus to write. (More on this later... sometime... maybe.)
But here's another blog-barrier. I'm still figuring out blogquette. For instance, I've noticed some of my writer friends with Blogspots appear desirous of remaining anonymous. No real names. No real pictures. So am I allowed to refer to them by their real names when I leave comments, or when I write about them here? Some - on the other hand - have real names and many pictures adorning their pages. I certainly don't want to be blogically incorrect.
My mind is fried. My eyes sting. I am sleepy. (Duh!)
When I mentioned the 4:00 AM insomniac episode to my 8 year old grandson this morning, commenting that I wasn't sure what I should write about, he suggested, "I really, really love potato chips." I countered, "That would be great, except I don't love potato chips. But can I quote you on my blog?" I hope he said yes. He's a computer savvy kid (besides being fond of potato chips). I expect he'll find my blog. I saved it as a favorite on his mother's computer on Mother's Day. She found it yesterday and became my first Follower. See her picture?
Aside to my other three children: No sibling squabbling, now. Daughter #1 just means she was born first. She'll tell the rest of you how to get on board. Of course, you can probably figure it out for yourselves, too.
First Daughter asked me last evening why I hadn't e-mailed all my friends and family with the link to Kaleidoscope. "Are you shy?" she asked. I don't think so, not if waking up at night thinking about what I will say is any indication. But then, why haven't I told more people? (Refer to Second Reflections for more thoughts on this topic.)
Creating the blog has actually given me new impetus to write. (More on this later... sometime... maybe.)
But here's another blog-barrier. I'm still figuring out blogquette. For instance, I've noticed some of my writer friends with Blogspots appear desirous of remaining anonymous. No real names. No real pictures. So am I allowed to refer to them by their real names when I leave comments, or when I write about them here? Some - on the other hand - have real names and many pictures adorning their pages. I certainly don't want to be blogically incorrect.
My mind is fried. My eyes sting. I am sleepy. (Duh!)
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