Thought for a Sunday

Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp, or what's a heaven for?

— Robert Browning

I'm taking Sunday off. I'll see you all tomorrow.

Sinless, but not a Perfectionist

The day after the musings I recorded in yesterday's post, I bumped into another passage in John I find difficult:

After this Jesus went about in Galilee. He did not wish to go about in Judea because the Jews were looking for an opportunity to kill him. Now the Jewish festival of Booths was near. So his brothers said to him, “Leave here and go to Judea so that your disciples also may see the works you are doing; for no one who wants to be widely known acts in secret. If you do these things, show yourself to the world.” (For not even his brothers believed in him.)

Jesus said to them, “My time has not yet come, but your time is always here. The world cannot hate you, but it hates me because I testify against it that its works are evil. Go to the festival yourselves. I am not going to this festival, for my time has not yet fully come.”

After saying this, he remained in Galilee. But after his brothers had gone to the festival, then he also went, not publicly but as it were in secret. John 7:1-10

Two years ago, in my pastor's Bible study group, we were going through the gospel of John. On the week that we came to John 7, we read the chapter aloud as we always do. Then Father Clyde asked, "Does anyone have any initial reactions?"

I sat there with fear tightening my throat and making my hands feel cold because of what I was about to say, . . . but I couldn't hold it in.

"He lied," I said. "Jesus told his brothers that he wasn't going to the festival, but then he went in secret."

In that brief moment of seeing something in the Bible I had never noticed before, I felt the cosmos crashing around me. If Jesus lied, he wasn't perfect. And if he wasn't perfect, he couldn't be divine, and if he wasn't divine but was just a human teacher, then everything I'd based my life upon was gone.

Then I added, "I've been developing a more liberal faith and understanding of the Bible, but I can't get to a place where I no longer believe in Jesus' divinity. I wouldn't survive that."

Then I burst into tears and cried quietly on and off for an hour even as Bible study continued around me.

Seeing my distress, Father Clyde reassured me that he still believed in and taught Jesus' divinity.

Then we talked about what it means that Jesus was sinless. Perhaps there are times when telling a lie isn't a sin, and perhaps—since Jesus' life was at stake—this was one of them. Or perhaps the story illustrates something even more complex. Father Clyde reminded me that Jesus was fully human as well as being fully God. There were times when he was tired, hungry, angry, disappointed. Sometimes he seems to have acted from pure emotion.

Since the night of that Bible study, I've thought about this issue occasionally, and I've concluded that Jesus was not as hung up on being a perfectionist as I am. So often, humans do face situations in which there are no perfect choices to be made. The passage in John describes one of those times. People are out to kill Jesus, and his life will be endangered if he goes to the festival openly. And his family, who ought to be protecting him, are trying to goad him into a rash public act because they don't believe in his ministry. Maybe they even want to see him taken down a peg. (It can't have been easy to have a brother who never sinned and who kept causing public uproars.)

In cases where there are no perfect solutions, I think we just have to make the best choice we can, weighing the options against God's values. And perhaps, even when the choice we make is less than perfect, God still sees it as being sinless because of our efforts. Maybe Jesus said what he did because it was the only way to get his brothers off his back. I grew up in a family with four brothers, so I can imagine a situation like that.

The story in John still troubles me, however. I don't like it that Jesus misled his brothers instead of saying frankly, "I'm going to go about this my way, not yours." But I like it that he refused to let them manipulate him into doing what they wanted when it wasn't the right thing.

That's the lesson I want to take away from this particular gospel lesson. And maybe someday when I have more perfect communion with my Lord, I might just understand the rest of it.

Eat My Body, Drink My Blood

Have you ever read something that is as familiar to you as your own address, but suddenly you realized that it's been a long time since you thought about what it means? I had that experience with my Bible reading earlier this week. What this post contains is a record of how I struggled to reach new understanding about an overly familiar passage. It is not meant as definite teaching or firmly established theology. I offer it as an exploration. Please read it as such and feel free to add your own thoughts in the comments.

Each morning, I try to read the scriptures for the Daily Office. If I can't read all of them, I try to read at least the psalms and the gospel. This week, my readings have included these verses:

"I am the bread of life. Your ancestors ate the manna in the wilderness, and they died. This is the bread that comes down from heaven, so that one may eat of it and not die. I am the living bread that came down from heaven. Whoever eats of this bread will live forever; and the bread that I will give for the life of the world is my flesh.”

The Jews then disputed among themselves, saying, “How can this man give us his flesh to eat?"

So Jesus said to them, “Very truly, I tell you, unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood, you have no life in you. Those who eat my flesh and drink my blood have eternal life, and I will raise them up on the last day; for my flesh is true food and my blood is true drink. Those who eat my flesh and drink my blood abide in me, and I in them. Just as the living Father sent me, and I live because of the Father, so whoever eats me will live because of me. This is the bread that came down from heaven, not like that which your ancestors ate, and they died. But the one who eats this bread will live forever.” John 6:48-58

God alone knows how many times I've read and heard and sung "I am the bread of life" during my lifetime. This time when I read it, I pulled up short and thought, Huh?! What did Jesus mean when he said to eat his body and drink his blood? What does that mean really?

Yes, of course, I know that it refers to communion. Many Christians view communion as simply a reminder of Christ's sacrifice, which saves us. Others have a more sacramental theology and believe either that the bread and wine actually do become his body and blood, or that they are transformed to contain his Real Presence in a mysterious way. That last view of Eucharist is the one I hold. I feel the Real Presence of Christ when I partake of the consecrated Eucharist, and I believe that taking the sacraments has power to transform us at a deep level we don't fully understand.

But the passage has to mean something more than just the physical action of taking communion. I don't believe that we have a faith based on magical superstition, so I don't think Jesus was saying, "Go get your morsel of bread and your sip of wine, and you will live forever." I think this was one of those complex teachings that is symbolic on multiple levels.

So I sat there wondering for a while, and as I thought about the passage, I remembered other verses, other passages. 

"One does not live by bread alone, but by every word that comes from the mouth of God." Matt. 4:4

"I have food to eat that you do not know about. . . . My food is to do the will of him who sent me and to complete his work." John 4: 32, 24

Jesus offered us his body and his blood to sustain us, to give us communion with him, to bring us life. According to the two passages I just cited, the things that most sustained Jesus were the word of God and the act of doing God's work and bringing about his kingdom.

Is it possible then that when Jesus instituted communion, he meant it not just to be a reminder of or even a re-enactment of his sacrifice? Perhaps it is that and something more. Perhaps the Eucharist is also an ongoing invitation to partake of the "bread" that sustained Jesus—doing the work of God's kingdom, as laid out in his word. These musings led me to another passage:

What to me is the multitude of your sacrifices? says the Lord; I have had enough of burnt offerings of rams and the fat of fed beasts; I do not delight in the blood of bulls, or of lambs, or of goats. When you come to appear before me, who asked this from your hand? Trample my courts no more; bringing offerings is futile; incense is an abomination to me. New moon and sabbath and calling of convocation— I cannot endure solemn assemblies with iniquity. Your new moons and your appointed festivals my soul hates; they have become a burden to me, I am weary of bearing them. When you stretch out your hands, I will hide my eyes from you; even though you make many prayers, I will not listen; your hands are full of blood.

Wash yourselves; make yourselves clean; remove the evil of your doings from before my eyes; cease to do evil, learn to do good; seek justice, rescue the oppressed, defend the orphan, plead for the widow. Come now, let us argue it out, says the Lord: though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be like snow; though they are red like crimson, they shall become like wool. Isaiah 1:11-18

This passage and others like in the Old Testament tell me that God has little tolerance for the performance of religious rites just for the sake of doing ritual. When he invites us to communion, he isn't just asking us to partake of a liturgical meal and then go on our merry way. He wants the other kind of communion--an act of sharing thoughts and feelings with another person. He wants to abide in us so that we think his thoughts and carry out his deeds.

At least, that's how I'm understanding the Bible this week. How about you?

* HT to Margaret at Leave It Lay Where Jesus Flang It. This post helped shape my thoughts this week.

Miscellaneous Blog Business

First, for anyone who has contributed to the Never-Ending Story meme—or who would like to contribute later when you have more time—I've created a permanent home. There is now a box at the bottom of this page that will be the permanent repository of chapter links (until the meme dries up and falls off the blog of its own accord. LOL). Feel free to add an additional chapter two at any time. (You'll have to link to the original post to leave me a comment though.)

Also, if any of you wrote a chapter two and you'd like to create a chapter three (or four or five) for someone else, feel free. Just don't write a sequel to your own chapter, ok? The meme is designed to encourage creative cross-pollination.

Second, I received two blog awards this week. Jay at thedeppeffect gave me a "Top Commenter" award, and CJM-R at My Personal Lens gave me a "Blogging Friends Forever" award.

I'm very grateful for the honor. Both of these bloggers have been interesting blogs of their own, and have been wonderfully encouraging of mine and several others. I'm really touched by the awards.

For once, I'm going to break the rules and not pass these on because of the nature of the awards. So many of you have been faithful about commenting and so supportive of this blog that I can't pick my five best blogging friends or the ten top commenters. I value each and every one of you who visits here.

Thank you, all.

P.S. I also have another post from this morning just below this one with "purty pitchers." 

Morning Dew

No time to write this morning. I have to take Smokey to the vet AGAIN. This is the fifth time in less than a month. It's nothing threatening life or limb, but he does have a serious ear infection. Poor little guy. (I think he's decided to single-handedly spend all our income as fast as Michael and I can earn it.)

I know I owe some of you visits--especially those who updated the never-ending story. I'll get to it after I come home. In the meantime, here's some shots from the garden this morning.



Europeana




Crown Princess Margareta




Prairie Sunrise




Prairie Sunrise




Eglantyne





Louise Odier

Wednesday Overview

Good morning. I'm late posting today. Usually, I write my post the day before and put it in the scheduler, but I didn't have time, so I'm doing it today.

Yesterday, I finished a writing assignment and e-mailed it to the editor I'm working for. Michael and I are waiting for a long project to start, and I thought I was going to have about 4 weeks off before it does, but yesterday a different publisher contacted me about a short assignment. I told her I couldn't start until September 8 because I have to have some days off. All of the jobs I've had this summer have been very demanding, and mentally, I'm tired. I'm slightly disappointed that my time off has been shortened so much, but it's been a tight year financially, and this new job will help a lot. Plus, it's a subject area that I'm excited to be doing, so that will help. Oh, and she has enough work for Michael too.

Today, I have to tie up some loose ends: return library books, send a mountain of documentation (copies of source material) off to the publisher, mail my invoice, etc.

Smokey still seems to be doing well. I'll probably call the vet today just to check in. It does look like we'll be able to postpone surgery for him. He hasn't had any knee issues in more than two weeks, praise God.

I'll leave you all with a recipe. Remember the healthy carrot cake I made for Michael's birthday? (Probably not, but that's ok.) Well, I adjusted the recipe a bit more and made it for a church group last night. And they liked it even though it's health food. LOL. So here it is if anyone wants to give it a whirl:

Whole Wheat Carrot Cake

1-1/2 c. Hodgson's Mill Stone Ground Whole Grain, Whole Wheat Graham Flour
1 t. baking powder
1-1/4 t. baking soda
1-1/4 t. cinnamon
1/2 t. salt
3/4 c. honey
2/3 c. unsweetened applesauce
2 large egg whites
1 c. finely shredded carrots
1/2 cup crushed pineapple, drained (use packed in juice, not syrup)
1/2 c. chopped walnuts or pecans

1/2 c. raisins
1 t. vanilla extract

Preheat oven to 325.

Lightly grease an 8 x 8 or 9 x 9 square pan. (If you want a 13 x 9 sheet cake, double the recipe.)

Sift dry ingredients. Make a well in center.

Add all the other ingredients. Mix just until moistened. Spoon batter into pan.

Bake 30 to 35 minutes, or until toothpick inserted in center comes out clean. Allow to cool.

Cream Cheese Icing

One 8 oz. pkg of Philadelphia reduced fat cream cheese, softened. (Don't use fat free.)
About 1/4 to 1/3 c. honey . . . or to taste.
1/2 t. vanilla extract.

Mix thoroughly. Frost top of cake. Cut into 9 squares.

(This originally came from a Hodgson's Mill cookbook, but I made four or five changes to the recipe.)

Another shot of Prairie Sunrise. I just love this rose.

Taking Back the Process

Yesterday, I became absolutely, unreasonably flipped-out furious. Many things about modern political campaigns enrage me because they violate decency, morals, and ethics. Today, I'm not talking about any of those things. Instead, I'm talking about a political practice that annoys me on a petty, mosquito-nipping-at-my-throat level.

I'm talking about the automated campaign telephone call.

Does anyone find it convincing when you get a call from George W. Bush or Bill Clinton? Does it make you feel all warm inside to have some tape-recorded pol call you friend?

I didn't think so.

Yesterday, after a particularly long day writing, I went to the grocery store. I had just walked in the house with my arms full of groceries, when I received the following phone call:

"Hi, friend. I'm Steve Greenberg, and I'm running for Congress from the 8th district."

Not 15 minutes later, I received a second call from the same campaign, and I blew my top. Seriously, it's August, people. Isn't it a little bit early to be so aggressive?

So first, I looked up his web site. He's a Republican, running against my current representative, whom I actually happen to like. I sent Greenberg the following email:

Are you trying to antagonize voters? Because if you are, you're succeeding. It is only August 25. I just received TWO phone calls in the last ten minutes. This is outrageous. Stop it.

I still felt angry, so I called the campaign office and left a similarly furious message on the answering machine.

Still not feeling satisfied, I sent a second email:

You'll be happy to know that I just sent money to the Obama presidential campaign. Every time my phone receives an automated call from your campaign, I will send money to Melissa Bean (the incumbent and Greenberg's Democratic opponent) or Barack Obama. This isn't spite. I'm voting for them anyway. I just want you to know that the despicable practice of automated campaign calls is going to cost you.

P.S. You're also going to be the topic of my blog tomorrow. 

I know I went overboard, but surprisingly I don't feel embarrassed about either my outburst or my actions. I'm sick of politicians bludgeoning us and badgering us and lying to us and tarring us with their venom. I won't make the "campaign donation to your opponent" threat every time I get an automated call this year, but I do intend to complain about them at every opportunity.

Let them get a string of phone calls they'd rather not listen to, and maybe they'll figure out how it feels.

Anyone else want to play?

Surrender to Sabbath

I'm feeling that I really need a Sabbath, so I'm not going to read blogs today. I'll probably hit the "Mark all read" button on my reader.

If you've posted something that you'd really like me to read--for whatever reason--please feel free to email me or leave a comment. Otherwise, I'll be back to reading your blogs tomorrow.

In the meantime, here are some roses that were blooming in my garden Saturday. I hope you have a blessed Sunday.

CROCUS ROSE (a David Austin rose)

PRAIRIE SUNRISE (a Griffith Buck rose)

Never-Ending Story Meme: Play It Forward

Since so many of us enjoy creative writing, I've had an idea for a different type of meme for several weeks. But I couldn't come up with the inspiration to get it started. Then LJ at Presbyterian Gal posted a very vivid dream that featured God as a character, and it reminded me of an old one-page start to a novel that was sitting in my files. I decided to use that.

So here goes. The goal is to write a story that branches off into different possibilities and to see how long bloggers can keep it going. I'm going to post the start of a story. Anyone who wants to participate may write a version of the next chapter, provided you leave it unfinished and ask your own readers to carry it on.

If you decide to play, please follow this procedure.

1. Put a link back to this post. Label the Link "Chapter One."
2. Write your own installment and label it "Chapter Two." Remember to leave it unresolved. 
   
3. Come leave a comment on this post when you're done. I will list links to all possible versions of the second chapter at the bottom of this post.
   
4. Invite your readers to create possible versions of Chapter Three, following the same procedure. They should link back to you and link back to me.
   
5. Anyone who writes a version of Chapter Three should leave it open-ended and invite people to create Chapter Four. Etc, etc.
   

Let's see what happens and how far this goes. 

P.S. There is no time limit on doing this, but this post will drop into the archives in about a week. Just so you know. And if you have any suggestions for improving the mechanics of how this works, feel free to put them in the comments. I never created a meme from scratch before.

CHAPTER ONE

One night a few years back, I dreamed I was playing gin rummy with God and my father. God was the dealer, of course. He didn't look at all the way I expected him to. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, his tie was askew, and a pencil was stuck behind his ear. Even so, I knew he was God. As soon as the Lord finished dealing, my father put down a run containing the two of hearts, three of clubs, and four of diamonds. I stared at it for a moment before saying, "That's not right. Those cards aren't from the same suit."

Neither one of them answered. My father winked at me and then laid down the rest of his hand. None of the cards went together, but clearly, he thought he had won.

I hadn't even had a turn and was still holding the hand I'd been dealt. When Daddy started to total his points, I said, "You can't count those; they're wrong. We have to go over the rules and start again."

Before I could gather up the cards, God said, "We'll talk about the rules later. At half time."

Half time? I thought. In a card game? Is he crazy too?

That's when I started screaming, "I can't play like this. I don't know what's going on. We have to make the rules clear." Taking a deep breath, I bellowed in God's face, "Do you hear me?"

He gave me the kind of look a parent gives a child who is throwing a tantrum. "I hear you," he said and held out his hand for my cards.

My rage leaked away like air from a punctured tire. Even though my indignation was justified, I could see that God wasn't going to yield to my demands just because I was shouting at him. So I threw my cards down on the table and walked away.

But now I sort of wish I hadn't. Although it was just a dream, it was the first time I'd seen my father since he died when I was eight. Would it have killed me to humor him?

THE REST OF THE STORY (Please Note: I'm listing subsequent chapters with the "string" they follow):

THE REST OF THE STORY (Please Note: I'm listing subsequent chapters with the "string" they follow):

1. Chapter 2 at The Soul on Every Path

Chapter 3-1 at The Wizard's Apprentice

2. Chapter 2 at A Feather Adrift

Chapter 3-2 at Midlife by Farmlight

Chapter 4-2 at Rhymes with Plague.

Chapter 5-2 at Remembrances of an Arkansas Stamper

3. Chapter 2 at Fiwaese.

4. Chapter 2 at Faith in Community

Chapter 3-4 at Prairie Light

Chapter 4-4 at A Home for My Words

Accepted with (and from) Grace

 

Grace of the blog Jesus Wept has graciously awarded me a second Kick-Ass blogger award. Thank you, Grace. I encourage everyone to visit her blog.

Here are the rules.
1) Choose five other bloggers that you feel are “Kick Ass Bloggers”
2) Let them know that they have received an award.
3) Link back to both the person who awarded you and also to www.mammadawg.com
4) Visit the Kick Ass Blogger Club HQ to sign Mr. Linky and leave a comment.

Here are today's nominees.

Christy of The Soul on Every Path, who puts it all out there with great vulnerability as she examines her own life

Missy of Missy's Big Fish Stories, an insightful and funny blog I recently started reading

Bob of rhymes with plague, whose posts are witty and often historical

Underthere from Under the Overpasses, whose posts about running a homeless shelter always make me think

Mompriest at Seeking Authentic Voice, who recently posted an amazing ten-part series about her journey to becoming an ordained priest

I think some of you may already have received the award from other bloggers and some of you may not be comfortable with the salty language of the award's name. So please know that I think every one of you deserve it, but I'm awarding it without the usual mandate that you have to post it or pass it on. Do whatever is comfortable for you.

NOTE: Friday's regular post appears below this one.

All Things Work Together for Good

I really haven't kept up with my garden work this year, and the weeds are out of control.

It's nice to know that someone appreciates my lack of discipline. (NOTE: Clicking on the photos enlarges them slightly so you can see the visitor better.)

Why I'm Not an Olympic Medalist

In case any of you are wondering why I'm not competing in Beijing, I thought I'd tell the story of my truncated gymnastics career.

Before I start, let me explain that with my 12-15 miles a week on the treadmill and occasional bike ride, I am the athlete in my immediate family. I don't think I've ever seen my brothers even take part in a pick-up softball game at a picnic. In other words, the Hulls are not an athletic people. And when I was a kid, I was the least athletic of all of us. I was good at doing front somersaults, but that was about it as far as the normal kid tumbling and romping went. I never did figure out how to do cartwheels because I was terrified that my arms wouldn't be strong enough to hold me and I'd land on my head.

Needless to say, PE was not my best subject. By the way, does anyone remember gymsuits? The picture at the top is pretty much what ours looked like except that they were sleeveless and our name was embroidered over the vest pocket. Hideous, huh?

So let me set the stage. In spite of the retro outfit, the year is 1970. I'm in 7th grade. The Jackson 5 are singing "I'll Be There" on every radio station, and while we're standing around in the gym, we're all gossiping about what's going to happen when Michael Jackson's voice changes. (It never did, but that's an entirely different story.) My gym teacher, Miss Whatsername (sorry, I can't remember), is a young African-American woman with an afro that would do Angela Davis proud.

The time came for us to do our gymnastics unit. We were all supposed to learn a move on the uneven parallel bars. I don't remember the name of the skill, and I'm not even sure my memory of it is correct, but I'll describe it as best I can. If I recall correctly, we were supposed to place our feet on the lower bar and grasp the upper bar with our hands. The we would kick our right leg up, one, two, three times, and the momentum was supposed to somehow propel us around the top bar. And that's where my memory fails me. Did we end up back where we started, or did we somehow end up balanced on the top bar? I have no idea, and there's a good reason for that.

I remember being nervous as I stood in line watching my classmates, mentally rehearsing how I was going to do the move and scared spitless that I wouldn't be able to go up and over that bar. When my turn came to get on the apparatus, I took my position and kicked my leg up, up, up. But when I tried to push myself over the top, I just froze and gripped that top bar as though I were in danger of falling into the grand canyon. My teacher had to get a chair and pry me down off the uneven parallel bars.

That's all I remember from the entire gymnastics unit, just clinging as if my life depended on it to that top bar and having to be rescued because I was too paralyzed to follow any of the instructions that Miss Whatsername called out for how to get down.

At the time, I felt mortified. Can you imagine making such a fool of yourself at the age of 12 years old? But as an adult, I've been grateful for having had that experience. Many times, when facing something that almost paralyzes me with fear, I think of myself glued to the top bar of the apparatus, and I know I don't want to humiliate myself that way again. Whether it was learning to be vulnerable with Michael shortly after ending a devastating relationship or taking the risk of going freelance, the memory of that terrified little girl has helped me to take the step I needed to avoid paralysis.

So while I'm not competing in Beijing this week, but I'm still trying to compete in life.

The Generosity of Strangers

Sometimes people are amazingly generous.

I mentioned in a couple of other posts that I was making things for a bake sale for my friends with the sick children. Here's a newspaper article that describes how the bake sale went. If you read it, you'll understand my remark about generosity. The story brought tears to my eyes.

Here's a recent photo of Evan with a therapy dog. He still has a long battle ahead of him.

If any of you live near Kenosha, WI, there will be a benefit there this Saturday:

Saturday, August 23rd starting at noon ( and going til about 8 PM) Where: Kenosha Band Shell, Pennoyer Park 3601- 7th Ave. Kenosha. WI What: Music by Cosmic Railroad, Macyn Taylor, American Folk, Rusty Horse, Madison is a Rockstar. There will be raffles, games and much more. This is a child friendly event. Donation: $10

Guest Post by Smokey

Smokey thinks my blog needs more humor. I think that's a case of the schnoodle calling the kettle black because he's not a real jokey dog. But he really liked this email that I received from my cousin, so I'm humoring him by sharing it with you. I think it's a dog thing.

Little Red Riding Hood is skipping thru the forest road when she sees the big bad wolf crouched down behind a log.

'My, what big eyes you have, Mr. Wolf.'

The wolf jumps up and runs away.

Further down the road Little Red Riding Hood sees the wolf again, and this time he is crouched behind a bush.

'My what big ears you have, Mr. Wolf.'

Again the wolf jumps up and runs away.

About 1/4 mile down the road Little Red Riding Hood sees the wolf again and this time he is crouched down behind a rock.

'My what big teeth you have Mr. Wolf.'

With that the wolf jumps up and screams, 'Will you knock it off! I'm trying to poop!' 

Haiku of a Baptism

Yesterday, we had a baptism in church, and I found myself thinking of the significant moments of the liturgy in terms of haiku. One thing I love about haiku is its ability to capture an instant of time or a fleeting but significant emotion.

Except for the first one, I'm not entirely happy with these as poems, but I decided to share them anyway. ( I have another set of haiku that I like much better here: Haiku of the Incarnation.)

Logan's scrunched-up face,

an attempt to keep sleeping

as our priest takes him.

Water on forehead,

name of Father, Son, Spirit,

child's eyes pop open.

Then comes the chrism,

cross of holy-scented oil,

mark of adoption.

To the front of church,

and face the congregation.

All applaud welcome.

Casablanca at Dusk*

Taken yesterday evening. I wish you could smell them.

Have a blessed Sunday.

* These are Casablanca oriental lilies.

Dog Parables, Part XI: Do Not Go Gentle

As anyone who has animals probably knows, when they are seriously hurt or ill, their instincts tell them to withdraw and be alone. I'm not sure why that is--perhaps a mechanism designed not to endanger the pack by slowing it down? For whatever reason, on the two days that Smokey was feeling the most pain, he didn't want to be with us. Both times, I found him hiding in a dark, empty bathroom. To a human owner, this behavior can sometimes feel like rejection, but it really isn't. When Smokey withdrew from us, I had to tell myself not to take it personally.

When humans do the same thing, it's much harder to accept. My oldest brother was 16 years older than me, and even though the age difference kept us from being very close, we did have a special bond. The day Mom was scheduled to have me by cesarian section, Carl called home from the high school between classes. He couldn't wait to find out whether he had a little sister at last. Seven years later, he named his daughter for me.

One afternoon in June 2000, I received an emergency phone call at work. My brother had gone into shock because of a ruptured abdominal aneurysm, and he was being transported to a hospital in Urbana. Surgeons operated on him to repair his aorta, but he had a very rough week in ICU. He was delirious, and no one could figure out why.

After he was released from the hospital, he also had a difficult recovery. The doctors restricted his activities to give him time to heal and told him to give up smoking. (If you are a male over the age of 50, smoking greatly increases your risk of abdominal aneurysm. So does high blood pressure. So does family history. This condition is rampant in my family--one aunt, four uncles, and my brother. Only one uncle has survived it, and he is still struggling with complications.)

Carl was unable to quit smoking. And as soon as the doctors gave him permission to drive, he overdid it by driving all the way to Oklahoma to see my niece because they had been estranged.

In December of that year, he got up out of his easy chair one Sunday night and felt a sharp pain in his abdomen. When he spoke to our mom the next day, he promised to go see a doctor if he didn't feel better by Friday.

Carl bled to death that Wednesday night. He was only 58. When they found him, he was near a table where he'd been organizing his money and personal papers. We think he knew he was dying and just gave up rather than go through another surgery.

For a long time, I was very angry with him. He chose to leave us and didn't even bother to tell us good-bye. After a time, I came to understand that as someone looking at his life from the outside, I have no way of knowing how difficult a struggle recovery might have appeared to him. I have no way of guessing how weary he might have felt.

So this parable is one that has a two-pronged moral. If you are facing serious illness and pain, I encourage you to keep on fighting, both for yourself and for the people you love. They'll miss you if you go.

But for those of us who have lost loved ones and feel angry at choices they made--whether to give up the fight or withdraw from relationship--maybe it's time to let go of the anger and replace it with compassion. We'll never know what went on in that other person's heart.

Oh, and if you are over the age of 50 and either smoke or have high blood pressure, please ask your doctor if your abdominal aorta can be screened. It's completely painless; I've had it done even though my risk factors are low. Having this checked can definitely save your life.

I'd like to leave you with my favorite Dylan Thomas poem "Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night," but it's still under copyright. However, you can go here and either read it or hear Dylan Thomas himself recite it by clicking on "Play." You won't be sorry.

Buffeted but Still Aloft

Cheryl at Ladeda asked me to follow up on the Tagged disaster. And others have asked about Smokey. So I'm going to do a general update post.

The good news about Tagged is that several people I haven't heard from for a long time emailed me because of the "invites." And no one has seemed too annoyed, although I realize it's possible that really irritated people might have just deleted the email.

However, two problems have emerged. First, one of my friends says that she has received extra spam since the Tagged invitation arrived. If I inadvertently caused that, I feel really bad.

The second problem is more amusing. I uploaded the same photo I have here on the blog to the Tagged account, and about seven guys sent me messages that they were interested in me. Obviously, I didn't reply. (Michael would not find that amusing.) I hope I didn't break any male hearts. Ha ha.

Between the possible spam and the "social" interest, I was feeling really uncomfortable. So I deleted the account and changed my AOL password (which they used to access my address book).

Smokey felt better today. He's doing well on his current pain pill, and we're trying to rest his leg as much as possible. He hates it that I'm trying to lift him on and off furniture instead of letting him jump. He just gives me this look that clearly says, "Mom, I want to do it myself." And he's been perky enough to want to play fetch. I'll be working, and he'll come bang my leg with one of his rubber bones. I won't play along, though, so he's been lying around giving me the guilt-eye.

Still, his condition is so much better than it could have been. Wednesday, the vet had us come in to test him for Addison's Disease. I was very upset and frightened for a good bit of the day, and I asked several people to pray. But the blood work came back ok. All his symptoms seem to be either pain related or bad reactions to certain meds.

It's been a rough week for me in several ways. I lost two days of work because of the house painting on Monday and the health scare for Smokey on Wednesday. So I'll probably have to work a partial day on Saturday. The Tagged incident was embarrassing, and the same night that happened, I received an email with stinging criticism about the blog.** (It doesn't matter what it was. I'm dealing with it.) All of this combined to leave me feeling pretty stressed this week.

Thursday, though, I saw something that lifted my spirits. I was in the yard moving the sprinkler. It was a gusty afternoon. As I looked up, I saw a black swallowtail flying through the garden. The wind was buffeting it and pushing it back, but it continued trying to reach my dark red daylilies. I just stood and watched it for a few seconds, and afterward I felt cheered. Just like that butterfly, I have been buffeted by outside forces this week. But with God's help, I'm going to keep on flying too.

** EDIT: I don't want to give a false impression. It wasn't an unprovoked attack. I emailed someone to ask if I'd offended her, and her remarks about the blog were in the context of her reply. I'm still pondering them to see what I can learn about how to improve.

Needy Needy Meme

It's time for a little silliness. I got this idea from LJ at Presbyterian Gal.
And if you're not in the mood for a meme, you can skip to the post below.

Google your name and the word needs after it. Put the text string in quotes to limit your search. (i.e. "Deb needs") List the first 10 items where your text string shows up in a complete sentence (assuming of course that they are G-rated...) and see what you get!!

1. Ruth needs a husband.
(No thanks. I like the one I have just fine.)

2. Ruth needs our help!
(Help! I need somebody. Help! Not just anybody. Help!)

3. Ruth needs your vote.
(Didn't you know? I'm running for president, and I approved this message.)

4. Ruth needs moolah moolah!
(Presidential campaigns are expensive, you know.)

5. Ruth needs public search listing.
(But private searches are so much more fun.)

6. Ruth needs ashtray on boat deck.
(The Titanic is sinking, so I'm showing my nonchalance by puffing away.)

7. Ruth needs only 10 homers in 47 games to break record.
(I guess it's time to hit the steroids.)

8. Ruth needs hugs!
(Nobody loves me, everybody hates me. Guess I'll go eat worms.)

9. Ruth needs support.
(Yeah, like a good sports bra to wear while I'll hitting all those home runs.)

10. Ruth needs pistol.
(But I'm a Democrat who supports gun control. This can't be right.)

If you read this and like it and wanna do it - consider yourself tagged.

Thursday Link Love

I haven't done this for a while, so I decided it was time to send you on a scavenger hunt to visit other blogs.

If you want to read a poem about motherhood with vivid imagery, go to this post at Diane's blog Coexist.

For a touching story about a little boy who's perhaps taken the first baby step to leave childhood behind him, read this post at Dawn's blog Renaissance Mama.

For a funny photo gag, go here to LJ's blog Presbyterian Gal.

If you want to read a thought-provoking post about choices, go here to Under the Overpasses.

Have fun.

Windhover

Nothing much to say today. I need a little time to reflect on some things. So I'll share with you a photo and a poem I like.

The Windhover

To Christ our Lord


I CAUGHT this morning morning’s minion, king-
dom of daylight’s dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding
Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding
High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing
In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing, 
As a skate’s heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding
Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding
Stirred for a bird,—the achieve of; the mastery of the thing!

Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here
Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion 
Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier!

No wonder of it: shéer plód makes plough down sillion
Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,
Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermillion.

Tag, you're it, . . . and I'm humiliated.

Sigh. I can't keep up with all this modern crap.

My niece just sent me an invitation to Tagged, one of those social networking sites. I also got one from my cousin last week, but I ignored it. However, I haven't heard from my niece in months--and she's deaf so calling her is way complicated--so I decided to click on it, try the registration process, and see what it's all about.

But of course, the instructions are virtually nonexistent. And somehow I ended up sending Tagged invitations to everyone in my email address book.

So what's the big deal?

I haven't cleaned out my email address book in ages, if ever. Every literary agent whom I've ever emailed a query to is in there. (AOL automatically enters people you email.) Every editor I've ever worked for is in there. An ex boyfriend is in there. A friend who unceremoniously dumped me without explanation a month ago is in there. A couple of people whose relationships with me have broken down are still in there. My congresswoman and senators are in there (one of whom happens to be Barak Obama). Several customer service reps of companies I use are in there.

And every single one of them just got a pathetic email from me saying, "Will you be my friend?"

Just take me out and shoot me. Now. Please.

A Long and Winding Day

Two things combined to overturn the plans I had for Monday, which was supposed to be a heavy writing day.

First, Smokey had a serious relapse Sunday. We don't know when he did it, but somehow, he manage to cause his knee substantial pain. To make the situation worse, we had just started giving him glucosamine on our doctor's orders, and it made him throw up twice. The second time, he lost his entire supper all over the teal damask loveseat where I sit whenever we watch TV. That, of course, left me with a big cleanup job. I scrubbed the cushions with damp towels and hoped for the best. (More about that in a moment.) Poor Smokey was in so much pain that he shuddered for most of the evening and even after we went to bed. His instinct was to be alone at the end of the bed, but when I moved him to his normal place next to me, he settled down enough to sleep.

Second, we had hired contractors to repaint the trim on our house this summer. They were supposed to come the 18th. Instead, they came yesterday. Have you ever tried to write about the Age of Revolutions with an electric sander whining and Mexican radio blaring just outside your office window? No, I didn't think so. Well, I gave up even trying to write. Instead, I scrapped the work plans and just did things around the house that needed to get done.

So here was my day. I talked to the vet, yet again. I cleaned the loveseat cushion—twice more—because I could still see traces of Smokey's dinner. I made banana bread for the bake sale that is being held to raise money for the family at church with two critically ill children. In addition, I cleaned the kitchen counter, did laundry, changed our sheets, vacuumed, spent an hour printing / copying research for the writing I have to do tomorrow, and went to the grocery store.

So now I'm back to being behind on my daily writing quotas, even though I worked almost a half day Saturday. The chapter is due on Friday, August 22. I'm going to try to keep up with reading everyone's blogs, but if I don't comment as much as usual during the next two weeks, you'll know why.

Update on the Scarf Project

Three months ago I posted a photograph of five scarves. With it, I explained that one of my New Year's resolutions was to knit 12 scarves by December and then donate them to a homeless shelter (or some organization that will pass them on to people in need). If you want to see the first five or read how I came up with the idea, go here.

I rarely knit in the summer, so one of the reasons for going public with the resolution was to prod me to keep at it. Well, here are scarves 6 and 7. I'm a little behind schedule, but I'm sure I'll catch up as soon as football season starts. I watch a lot of football and frequently knit while I do.

Scarf 6--This one is a plain seed stitch.

Scarf 7--This is my own pattern (although it's not an especially original design). I photographed this one in close up, so you can really see it. I'll post directions for the pattern below the photograph.

Using worsted weight yarn and size 10 needles, cast on 26 stitches.

Knit 4 rows in seed stitch.

Pattern:

R1: 3 stitches in seed stitch for border; [K3, K2tog, YO] x 4; 3 st. seed stitch

R2: 3 st. seed; P20; 3 st. seed

R3: 3 st. seed ; K2, K2tog. YO; [K3, K2tog, YO] x 3; K1; 3 st. seed stitch

R4: 3 st. seed; P20; 3 st. seed

R5: 3 st. seed; K1, K2tog, YO [K3, K2tog, YO] x 3; K2; 3 st. seed stitch

R6: 3 st. seed; P20; 3 st. seed

R7: 3 st. seed; K2tog. YO; [K3, K2tog, YO] x 3; K3; 3 st. seed stitch

R8: 3 st. seed; P20; 3 st. seed

R9: 3 st. seed; K4, K2tog, YO; [K3, K2tog, YO] x 2; K4; 3 st. seed stitch

R10: 3 st. seed; P20; 3 st. seed

Repeat 10 rows of pattern until the scarf is about one inch shorter than you want. 

Repeat rows 1 and 2.

Do four rows of seed stitch.

Cast off in seed stitch.

Stargazer Sunday

Odds and Ends, This and That

Will we ever play fetch again???

We took Smokey to the vet for his checkup on Friday. He's showing so much more energy, and he's quite frustrated with us that we have not played fetch with him for eight days.

The doctor wants us to keep him on the pain pills for a little longer. She's also given us glucosamine for his joints. We're going to try to avoid surgery for as long as we can. She said, "He's so young. We have such a long way to go." We just need to watch him closely and make sure he doesn't have more episodes of pain. I think we also need to be careful about not letting him jump as much as he usually does. That means throwing his toys about three feet in fetching games instead of all the way into the other room. This is going to be difficult. He's an energetic dog.

A sobering thing happened while we were at the animal hospital. We were one of the first appointments, and the staff was all atwitter because late yesterday, a homeless man walked in and made his way to the bathroom and used the spray attachment to give himself a shower, thus getting water all over the floor. All the staff cared about was the inconvenience, the mess, their discomfort, the man's weirdness, etc. Not one appeared to feel sorry for him. I was saddened but I also wondered if I would have responded any differently.

In contrast, we saw something delightful as we drove home. A group of preschool children and several adult women were at the local fire station. They were all wearing T-shirts that were tie-dyed in rainbow colors, and they were watching a fireman demonstrate how fire hoses work. It was a charming sight. It reminded me of a scene from the novel-in-progress being written by a woman in my writer's group, in which a fireman visits a classroom to teach children about safety and meets the teacher who later becomes his wife. If you're reading this Maggie, hello. (She probably won't. She helps at a camp for child oncology patients every summer.)

Yesterday, I realized that the history chapter I'm writing is four pages longer than I originally thought, so I'm slightly behind the daily writing quota I need to make so I can finish on time. In spite of that, I took a couple of hours to run some errands with Michael. Usually, when I'm writing, I try to work a four-day week with Fridays off. I haven't had that luxury this summer, so I was feeling a bit sorry for myself. Because of that, I decided it was better to take a two-hour break. We sent some mail, bought decaf coffee at Starbucks (I'm weaning myself off caffeinated coffee), bought a new toy to give Smokey since he's had such a tough week (we spoil him), and ate lunch at Panera. Oh, and I bought a book because I had a credit at Borders.

Last, I'm going to conclude by talking about a couple of food experiments. This morning when we returned from the animal hospital, I was desperately craving a mocha. That's one of the indulgences that I think caused my bad test results, and I've drunk only one in the nine weeks I've been on my new diet. So I decided to try to make a more healthy one at home. Looking at our bottle of Hershey's syrup, I discovered that the top ingredient is high fructose corn syrup. Bleaah. I don't want that! And I didn't want white sugar either. So I made my "mocha" with espresso, skim milk, cocoa powder, and molasses. It didn't exactly taste like a mocha, but it wasn't bad. Next time I'll use a bit less molasses because it leaves an aftertaste, and I'll find a way to moisten the powder before I put it in the coffee. (BTW, did you know that molasses has calcium in it? Imagine. Nutrition in a sweetener.)

The second food experiment worked out much better. One of the meals we like to make for fun occasions (Super Bowl, Oscar night, etc.) is ground turkey tacos. I use my own seasonings instead of a packet because those seasoning mixes are so high in sodium. This time we made two other alterations to make them healthier. Instead of using white-flour or corn tortillas, we used whole wheat tortillas. And instead of lettuce, we used spinach. They certainly weren't your standard, tex-mex-restaurant tacos. But they were very, very tasty.

Hope you didn't mind this pot luck of a post. I wasn't feeling too profound when I typed it Friday evening.

How to Write a Textbook

So how much do you know about how textbooks are created? I thought you might be interested in having a mini walk-through of the process.

The subject area in which I've done the most work is social studies, so I'll describe that. (I've also edited literature anthologies.)

The first thing you need to understand is that, in terms of educational publishing, there are two kinds of states: adoption states and open-territory states.

An adoption state is one in which every public school district in the state will buy all the books in a subject area in a single year. They will buy all their social studies books in the same year. All math books will be bought in a single year, but a different year from social studies. Same for English. Same for science. Same for world languages.

In a social studies adoption year, no school district in the state can look at any prospective social studies programs until the state adoption committee reviews all the products and "adopts" them as being approved for that state. The approval depends on whether the programs meet the state's content standards for that particular subject. Many Southern and Western states are adoption states. The largest are California, Florida, and Texas.

Open-territory states don't have the adoption process. Individual school districts decide when to buy books, and the books don't go through a state-approval process. In other words, school districts are open to textbook salespeople.

At this point, you must be wondering what this has to do with writing textbooks. Well, the little-known truth is that adoption states have far more clout over what goes into textbooks than open-territory states do. Look at it this way. If in a given year, every single high school in Texas is going to purchase new U.S. history books while only 10 percent of Illinois high schools are planning to buy books, which state do you think will have the most purchasing power? And which state's standards do you think publishers will be more diligent about meeting?

Have you ever wondered why the Alamo gets so much coverage in U.S. history books when it was a relatively inconsequential battle except in terms of symbolism for a single state? Well, now you know. It gets a lot of play because Texans care about it, and Texas has a huge influence over what goes into American textbooks.

What publishers do when they are developing any program is to examine the standards of the states where they hope to sell a lot of books in the year after publication. Then they'll write chapter outlines that cover the traditional course content and also include everything the states want. (These are not always the same thing. I have at times seen state standards that call for historically inaccurate information. When that happens, you just do the best you can at meeting the standard while writing the truth.)

The editors then send the completed outlines to academic experts, who look for any thing that's inaccurate, overlooked, or over-emphasized. When the reviews are returned, the editors create final outlines and send them off to freelance writers.

And this is where I'm going to disillusion you. When your children bring textbooks home from school, they usually have author names on the spine. I'll bet you thought those people wrote the books, right?

Usually not. At one time, textbook authors did write books, but now they are most likely just part of the team of reviewers. (I'm talking about elementary and high school books here, not college books.)

Instead, uncredited freelancers like me write the chapters according to the specifications we receive from the publisher.  Not only am I working from an outline, but I have a sample chapter and a set of writing guidelines I have to follow. I also know roughly how many words I have for each section of the chapter. Some publishers even send a rough layout that shows where every map, photograph, and chart will appear.

Currently, I'm working on a chapter of European history. It isn't for a history book; it is a history chapter that will be included as part of an entirely different subject. Because of that, the history I'm writing is very condensed. I have to cover the Renaissance, Reformation, Age of Exploration, Scientific Revolution, Enlightenment, French Revolution, Industrial Revolution, Age of Empire, two World Wars, the Cold War, and contemporary European history in 34 pages. These are pages that will also include visuals, so in reality I have roughly 7,600 words.

In that limited amount of space, I have to be thorough, complete, clear--and explain as much complexity as I can. (Yeah, right.) I also have to make sure the text reads at a middle-school reading level. To prove the accuracy of what I write, I have to submit photocopied pages of sources for every fact and statistic I use. When I finish writing the chapter, I also have to write assessment questions (and answers).

Once the editor receives my manuscript, she will probably send it to a number of in-house and out-of-house reviewers. These might include her managers, academic specialists in European history, and classroom teachers. Once she receives everyone's comments, she'll edit the material.  At this stage, she will also need to cut any overruns. In textbook publishing, you can't just add another page or two the way you might with a novel. Everything has to fit in a certain number of pages, decided upon very early in the project.

After this revision, the editor will probably send the second draft to fact checkers, who will verify every fact and statistic by trying to find different sources from the ones I used. Once the editor makes her corrections based on fact checking, the third draft will probably go to a copy editor, who will review the grammar and spelling and punctuation. (I keep saying probably because the publisher may do any of these steps in a different order from the one I've indicated.) When the pages are in the final form, several people will read them one last time for any typos that might have been overlooked. (Do you know what a classroom disaster it can be if a reference to a public health program comes out as "pubic health"? It's happened.)

Now you have some idea of how U.S. middle school and high school textbooks are created. What I haven't covered is all the work that goes into the design of the pages, the researching of photographs and other images, and the actual physical production of the books. Those processes are every bit as complicated as the ones I've outlined here.

Textbook writers need a reference library . . . 

and a knowledge of geography.

Jay Says I Kick Ass (thanks)

Jay at The Depp Effect has awarded me with the "Kick Ass Blogger" award. Thank you, Jay! Let me take a moment to recommend that you check out her blog.

Now, I hope none of you are offended by the title of this award because I'm about to pass it on.

Here are the rules (there are always rules)
1) Choose five other bloggers that you feel are “Kick Ass Bloggers”
2) Let them know that they have received an award.
3) Link back to both the person who awarded you and also to www.mammadawg.com
4) Visit the Kick Ass Blogger Club HQ to sign Mr. Linky and leave a comment.

Ok, my first choice is Grandmère Mimi at Wounded Bird. How many Episcopalian grandmothers do you know who go get their first tattoo in their senior years? Seriously, Mimi is very politically astute and way cool. She posts jokes too.

My second choice is Sis at Rain Down on Me. She's a talented photographer, and she's been writing with great openness about what she's learning from God.

Sherry at A Feather Adrift writes about politics, current issues, faith, and her life. She calls them as she sees them, a quality I appreciate.

In a similar vein, Dave at The Quaker Agitator pursues peace and social justice through insightful posts about politics and other issues.

Diane at Faith in Community knows how to write a terrific sermon. She also writes about her dog (Scout, who was featured in one of the dog parables) and her family and her thoughts on life.

Dog Parables, Part X: Feeling Secure in Love

When we adopted Smokey, we knew that we were eventually going to let him sleep in bed with  us. However, since Michael had never had a dog before, he worried that a 10-week-old puppy might have an accident in bed. We bought a cage to be Smokey's crate and put it on the floor a foot away from my side of the bed so he would feel close to us.

One night after a couple of months had passed, just before Michael turned out his bedside lamp, I noticed that Smokey was biting down on the wire of his cage and trying to get closer to me. I checked with an online schnoodle discussion group that I belonged to and asked if he was old enough to sleep with us. After being told that most of them welcomed their puppies in bed a day or two after adopting them, we decided to let Smokey sleep with us.

You've never seen such a happy dog in your life. He positioned himself between Michael and me and licked us and just about wagged off his tail. After a few minutes of snuggling with him, we turned off the light.

But we didn't get much sleep that night. Every ten to fifteen minutes, all night long, Smokey would reach out to touch one or the other of us with his forepaw. I think that he couldn't believe that his little doggie dream had come true and that he was finally being allowed to sleep with the adults in his "pack."

The second night was a little bit better, but Smokey still continued to reach out and touch us to reassure himself that he was really in our bed. Michael had a harder time than I did sleeping through the on-and-off contact, so we eventually trained Smokey to sleep on the other side of me. I tend to sleep in fetal position facing the edge of the bed, so Smokey curls up in a ball next to my chest. If it's a warm night, he will eventually move down to the foot of the bed, but usually he stays next to me all night long.

As I was thinking about much reassurance Smokey needed that he was really and finally with us, I was reminded of one of the central difficulties of being human. We cannot see God or touch him. Sometimes, it is hard to believe in his love, especially when things in our lives go differently from what we'd hoped and we can't understand God's plan. Just as Smokey kept reaching out to Michael or me, we keep asking God for a sign. In both cases, the love is there all the time. We just need a little help believing in it.

In Memory of Solzhenitsyn

Alexander Sozhenitsyn died on Sunday. I never attempted to read The Gulag Archipelago, but I did read two of his other works: First Circle and One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovitch. Yet neither of these books, affecting as they are, made as strong an impact on me as one single sentence.

Some thirty years ago, I was sitting in my assigned seat in the chapel at Wheaton College when our speaker for the day quoted Solzhenitsyn. I don't remember the identity of the speaker or the subject of the sermon, but I've never forgotten the statement. It is a quotation from Part II of The Gulag Archipelago:

Gradually it was disclosed to me that the line separating good and evil passes not through states, nor between classes, nor between political parties either—but right through every human heart—and then all human hearts.

The profound truth in that sentence embedded itself in my very soul and has remained there ever since.

Human beings are capable of great good and great evil, and sometimes both extremes can be found in a single individual. 

Even when we're talking about relatively ordinary people, the statement is still true. Each of us is capable of extraordinary generosity and almost unforgivable damage. And unless we recognize both the dark and light within ourselves, we are too apt to judge others, to demonize them as the evil one.

One thing that has helped me to understand the duality that lives within each of us is to recognize that my strengths and my weaknesses, my triumphs and my failings, all come from the same place. I'm not compartmentalized into the good Ruth and her evil twin. All of my actions are the outworking of my one and only self.

Let me give a couple of examples. I am a very verbal person. This means I can be articulate and expressive. I can explain things with clarity. It also means that unless I'm careful, I can dominate conversations or meetings. And when I was a teenager, I sometimes used my verbal ability to dole out scathing putdowns.

I'm sensitive and in tune with my emotions. The positive side to this is feeling empathy for other people and writing believable characters in my fiction. The negative side is having a thin skin when I am slighted or ignored. Sometimes I make the mistake of assuming that "it's all about me."

Do you see what I mean? In each case my strength has the potential to be misused and become a characteristic weakness.

Imagine the same thing on a grander scale. People with great leadership abilities have the temptation of abusing their power. Passionate, charismatic individuals may become adulterers. And so on and so on . . . 

What I like about this way of viewing human nature is that when I become aware of a flaw, I don't have to despise myself. Instead, I simply have to find a way, with God's help, to use that trait more constructively.

The line separating good from evil passes through each and every human heart. But thanks be to God, he wants to redeem us in every way possible.

That Which Does Not Satisfy

Yesterday, I quoted this passage from Isaiah and talked about the phrase That which is not bread. But for many years the most important part of this passage for me was the question Why do you spend your labor for that which does not satisfy?

 

Ho, everyone who thirsts, come to the waters; and you that have no money, come, buy and eat! Come, buy wine and milk without money and without price. Why do you spend your money for that which is not bread, and your labor for that which does not satisfy? Listen carefully to me, and eat what is good, and delight yourselves in rich food. Incline your ear, and come to me; listen, so that you may live.
Isaiah 55:1-3a

I spent nearly 17 years of my life working as a staff editor in textbook publishing. And for those of you who have worked in corporate America, you know that professional careers come with their own sets of pressures.

I was good at my job, and not just the writing and editing part. For much of my career, I worked in prototype development--helping to devise each new program for my department. What made me successful as a textbook editor was not only being able to do detailed work such as fact checking, but also seeing the big picture--coming up with program features that would meet the needs we heard teachers talking about and envisioning an entire book at a time so that I could see where all the individual components would go and how each might relate to the other.

It was very satisfying work. However, the time came when I realized I needed to make a choice. My managers promoted me several times, and the next rung of the ladder was for me to become a supervisor. Of course, it is never certain that a person will advance that next step, but I knew I was being considered for it.

In corporate life,  constant advancement is the desired path. Make more money, gain more status and authority, show the world how indispensible you are.

I'm as ambitious and competitive as the next person, so it was tempting to go for the next big prize. Yet when I looked in my deepest heart, I knew I didn't want that. One of the managers at my company was a woman who had a very similar set of skills as mine, and she had never adjusted to the move from a creative position to a managerial one. For years, I watched her undermine and emasculate her department by shredding the creative ideas of her employees and swooping in to "save" projects with her own creative brilliance. She had never been able to give up the identity of being the cleverest little girl in class.

I didn't want that to happen to me. One year, I did have an assignment in which I was a temporary supervisor of an assessment writing team. Writing good multiple choice questions is much harder than most people realize. We were on tight deadlines, and I saw how much faster it was for me to just rewrite their bad questions than to let them do them again and again until they learned how to do it. In textbook publishing, there are always tight deadlines, so I knew that temptation would always be there.

Plus, the plain truth is that I liked being creative much more than I liked checking other people's work. So I did something that occurs rarely in corporate America. I told my managers not to consider promoting me anymore. I didn't want to go to the next level. Ever.

Not long afterward, I reduced my work schedule to four days a week as another way of driving home that message that I wasn't interested in the career fast track.

Our society is relentless in its messages about success. We are told we need to make more money, pursue promotions, buy bigger houses, drive more powerful cars. But to do that I would have needed to spend my labor on that which did not satisfy. It wasn't worth it. I knew what my gifts and my delights were, and they were being best served in the job I already held.

I think knowing yourself is the key. One of my best friends is on that track to a management position, and she couldn't be happier about it--not because of the status and the money, but because her gifts lie in process and in training people and in building consensus. The role of department manager is perfect for her.

It would have been misery for me.

I conclude with a very famous Robert Frost poem. I think it speaks for itself.

THE ROAD NOT TAKEN


Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.