Learning Curve 2014

The invitation was issued by Emily Freeman at Chatting At The Sky to sum up what was learned in 2014. I’ve lived to learn all of my life and have always written about my learning curves in different formats, most recently in this blog, and yet I had to stop and go back through my 2014 posts to see if I did learn anything. I was surprised, actually. Apparently I am not too old to learn. 

1. Contagious Faith

I’ve always known that I am a sower not a reaper and therefore I rarely have the joy of witnessing the harvest of anything I have ever sown. But worse than that I am, more often than not, called upon to say the tough words that sometimes gentle Christians  might think but hesitate to say lest they discourage someone. Discomforting rather than comforting words that offend and challenge modern human sensibilities and bruise tender feelings.

One might correctly assume that this does not help me win friends and influence people. 

Read the rest HERE

2. Revelation and Wisdom

Four years ago, forewarned and fully realizing up front that it would be a burden and that what I would learn could not be unlearned or ignored, I still wanted to know, so I started asking for wisdom, which is the greater message (truth) behind “ask and ye shall receive” (having nothing whatsoever to do with prosperity and BMWs). In spite of the inevitable downside to receiving the gift of a word of knowledge, I wanted to know anyway because that’s how I am constructed. I have always just wanted to know what is true about anything and everything. True. Not sorta kinda true. Not good enough true. Not true for the moment or according to current interpretation. True. Plain ole true. Even if it’s harsh. Even if it demands I step up to something that makes me a pariah. 

What I have learned and continue to learn (once begun it does not subside just because it causes problems with social interaction) is that there is a rock solid, immoveable foundational truth at the bottom of everything we think we know and it doesn’t matter if we like it or not.

Read the rest HERE

3. We Enter Naked

It’s not that I wasn’t expecting it. I’ve always understood the process and the inevitability. I wrote about it in my journal when my future was still a pulsing great unknown chomping at the bit to be. Pondering in a moony blue poetic funk is not exactly the same as experiencing it, though. Making peace with the constant aches in muscle and marrow, letting go of nearly every motion that once was second nature and routine, concentrating on each step to avoid crumbling down into a foolish heap, this is a real and present focus that can not be imagined. 

Watching with a vague sense of empathy, and if one is honest, annoyance, as an elder shuffles by is not the same as being the elder who has lost the battle with time, who cannot, even with determination, will a foot to lift, whose every forward movement must be measured, planned and accounted for.

They say getting old is not for sissies. What a crock! Getting old is a promise, regardless of one’s courage, ability, talent, acquired knowledge, strength, passion. The only way to deal with it is to face it square on. To say, okay, I can’t do this or this or that anymore.  

Nevertheless, I can do this. 

Read the rest HERE

4. Brave

If you haven’t been paying attention, let me point out that things are getting scarier by the minute. The whole world is imploding both in the realm of the flesh and the natural. 

Something is definitely afoot. Unlike any other time in the history of the world. There is call out now, a call to be brave.

You may think you don’t have to worry about what is coming because, you know, you’ll be scooped up. I say, stand anyway… just in case... . I don’t know how much longer God will put up with this reprobated world but every time I read the headlines or watch a TV show or see the latest movie advertised, I start looking up. 

Read the rest HERE

5. Done!

Of course, I always see the greater message in everything and for me this addresses the daily modern challenges we face individually as well as collectively. We need more than courage to continue in the face of adversity, nowadays, we need a certain kind of pluck that can only be found in unquenchable faith to keep us keeping on when the end is nowhere in sight. 

Read the rest HERE

6. Young

Here’s the oldest truth ever–no one, specifically not the young, really wants to know what you know or what you have learned. The young, as the old themselves were once, are preprogrammed to fall headlong into their own learning curves. Even knowledge that must be conveyed through schooling is still absorbed only by testing. A theorem may be written in stone but the learning process that locks in the concept for each new mind introduced to it must be proven over and over again by experimentation and practice. 

Read the rest HERE

7. Like A Pencil

From my insecure perspective, most other folks are ball point pens. They move through life making confident indelible strokes, often in perfect cursive. Then there are the really bold who are more like Sharpies. You know the ones who make loud marks and thus naturally stand out. In smaller numbers there are those who are broad tipped permanent markers but that’s another analogy for another day.

Then there’s me. More like a pencil.

Read the rest HERE

8. My Father’s Cane

Something snapped. I had just finished putting the breakfast casserole in the oven, preparing for Christmas Day Brunch, and decided to sit down for a few minutes to give my right knee (that I’ve been babying for a few weeks) a break. I guess the extra flurry of activity getting ready for Christmas decided to collect its toll. At the critical point when my knees were at a right angle the sudden pop and mind blowing pain shot through me like a lightning bolt. 

Ron rushed over and helped me into sitting position with my disabled leg up and that’s where I remained for the rest of the day. The troops rallied. My granddaughter Olivia came and finished up the rest of the meal. Then everyone else came, some still in pjs, ladened with things to contribute. Then we did what we do to celebrate the birth of Jesus, by living and loving out loud–but this year with me sitting. 

Read the rest HERE

For Him,

Meema

My Father's Cane

Something snapped. I had just finished putting the breakfast casserole in the oven, preparing for Christmas Day Brunch, and decided to sit down for a few minutes to give my right knee (that I’ve been babying for a few weeks) a break. I guess the extra flurry of activity getting ready for Christmas decided to collect its toll. At the critical point when my knees were at a right angle the sudden pop and mind blowing pain shot through me like a lightning bolt. 

Ron rushed over and helped me into sitting position with my disabled leg up and that’s where I remained for the rest of the day. The troops rallied. My granddaughter Olivia came and finished up the rest of the meal. Then everyone else came, some still in pjs, ladened with things to contribute. Then we did what we do to celebrate the birth of Jesus, by living and loving out loud–but this year with me sitting. 

Ron and I brain-stormed and came up with a makeshift splint made of a 12 inch length of 1x2 pvc trim board and black duct tape. Not exactly couture but quite adequate to temporarily capture and hold my knee straight. After everyone returned to their own Christmas Day Ron and I mulled over the strategy needed to navigate this new circumstance in our lives on a holiday weekend and coming up short of an immediate plan, finally opted to watch a movie. 

Sedentary sitting is one thing but getting up and down on Day One was the antithesis of grace, walking even worse, so I commandeered the handmade cane from the foyer umbrella stand to help me. 

This was once my father’s cane. I bought it for him about 40 years ago at a place called Silver Dollar City near Branson, Missouri, a quaint family-oriented amusement park themed on 1800s American mountain life and crafts. The country music world had not yet discovered the potential back then so it was still like walking back into a time when things were... well, the nearby town of Blue Eye had a population of 92, just to give you a point of reference for how long ago this was.

Created by the hand of an unknown woodworking artisan who had gently shaved, polished and coaxed a cedar limb into a sturdy walking cane, I saw it in the wood shop and thought my dad would appreciate its uniqueness. Which he did and he used it constantly until he passed in 1979. Interesting that my memories of my dad in his late years always include the cane. I don’t recall how I ended up with it but it has managed to stay with me through several life changes and not a few moves, thus relegated to the umbrella stand in a number of houses. Until two days ago, Christmas Day, it was mostly an artifact, a remnant, the last remaining physical belonging that my dad had once touched. 

On Day Two, after trying out some work-arounds, we faced the inevitable and paid a visit to the ER. My father’s cane, once again fully in service, tucked next to my hip and levered, helped hold my leg straight out while I was being wheeled to various stations, triage information, x-rays, back and forth to the waiting room. No less than three nurses and aides noticed my rigged cane-leg-lift contraption. The x-ray tech commented on how clever. I imagined I could hear my dad say proudly, “Yes siree!” Another aide wheeling in a patient after me as I was being wheeled out remarked, “Well, look at you!” Dad and I nodded smugly.

In the middle of the crisis I didn’t have time to truly appreciate the uniqueness of the cane that once helped steady my dad’s walk and was now doing the same for me. This morning, still in bed, I looked over at the ever faithful assistant leaning on the night table. 

I mean I really looked at it. 

It isn’t perfect, if you want to measure perfection by machine made symmetrical precision. There are knots along the length that were filled by the crafter and then sanded down, leaving light discoloration in the mended cracks. The shape, while artistic, is odd and bulges at the center. The top is just a wide lop-sided knob. The rubber tip that fits on the narrow bottom end is held on by old sticky tape, my father’s workaround, to keep it in place. The now brittle paper still peeks out at the top of the rubber foot–that is still hanging on.

And while all that is true, here is what I saw when I really studied this one-of-a-kind art. First, I realized it was designed to do a job, not to fill a dress code or look stylish. The crafter knew the exact measurement it would need to be for optimum height and depth. The bulge in the center could have been carved down but it added to the strength and stability that the narrow tip could not contribute. The top knot fits the palm of the hand perfectly and lends a sense of security. Made of one solid piece, insured its longevity.

And then I saw something else. This utilitarian helpmate is not unlike my personal relationship with Christ, which is not manufactured by man-made doctrine. Made for the long-haul, ever ready to hold up, to support and keep steady. Dependable. Trustworthy. It’s simple, uncomplicated, graceful and perfectly imperfect.

I fell asleep at the end of Day One, Christmas 2014, thanking God for everything. For the beautiful day, my family and friends, our joy, duct tape and pvc 1x2s...and my father’s cane, that’s been there for me all these years even when I didn’t realize it.

...and thankful for the One that’s always waiting, ever ready to hold me up when I am weak. 

For Him,

Meema

(2 Corinthians 12:10) Therefore I am well content with weaknesses, with insults, with distresses, with persecutions, with difficulties, for Christ's sake; for when I am weak, then I am strong.

That Thing About Christmas

A recurring theme in Christmas stories is summed up in Dr. Seuss’s classic children’s tale The Grinch Who Stole Christmas: no matter what you do or not, what you have or don’t, Christmas happens anyway.  

Christmas, as we now celebrate it, primarily as a vehicle for economic stimulation, used to be much simpler. Honest. During my childhood no one even mentioned the topic of Christmas until about December 15. On the mid-month Sunday my dad would drag out the outdoor Christmas lights, wrestle with untangling the wires, test and replace the burnt out bulbs and then festoon the cypress tree at the end of the front walk. Mom would start baking fruit cake and the season would gently begin. Only then was I  officially allowed to play I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas on the record player, over and over again, and it was my job to set up the card board manger scene under the tree. My mother did the tinsel, because I did not have the patience to hang one strand at a time.

A handful of old photos confirm the only consistent decorating-for-Christmas tradition of my childhood was making sure the tree leaned slightly and the star on top was always off center. And the tinsel was hung perfectly.

By the time I was in the hot middle of raising my family, someone had figured out what a boon the Christmas season could be for commerce. Thus, I was sucked in by the holiday frenzy vortex. Just short of needing to be hospitalized for exhaustion is what I remember most about a twenty year period when I was referred to as “Christmas Mom’ for my all out Herculean efforts to do everything possible to commit suicide by decorating, filling stockings for everyone and the dog, baking, shopping, entertaining, making gifts, wrapping gifts, devising new ways to shove as much activity as possible into a month starting the day after Thanksgiving. Peace and Joy, delegated to the back seat, the call of duty to my To-Do list commandeered the bus. Duty to be. Duty to meet or exceed expectations. 

I might have stopped sooner if there had been such a thing as blogging back then. 

Maybe.

It seems the buzz in the blogosphere this year is about simplifying. Cutting back on decorating and spending, not just money but time. The unified consensus among blog followers include comments like “thanks for giving me permission to scale back - I needed this.”

Keeping it real I wonder if I would have heeded this “permission” way back when or would I have soldiered on. I’m nothing if not stubborn. I’ve always had to figure things out for myself-–the hard way. But since I am always ahead of my time, a lifelong blessing as well as curse, I often figure things out sooner than the mainstream. 

My epiphany came about ten years ago. It hit me that I was over it as I was loading up the 22 bins full of Christmas decor to go back to storage. Then and there I gave my own self permission to let go. The following year I offered my oldest daughter everything but the bin of tree ornaments. I continued to do a tree until five years ago when we moved to this our last house. Now I decorate the mantel and that’s about it. Some greenery, some fake red berries here and there. Poinsettias. Some candles. An arrangement on the dining table. This year I also filled an art glass bowl with shiny balls. Done and done! Exhale.

But, more importantly, my decision was even more dramatic than limiting decorating. I also suggested as a family, we collectively agree to stop exchanging gifts among the adults only giving to the kids. From there it pared down further and the kids now draw names amongst themselves, greatly reforming the gifting obligation from burdensome to symbolic. Further, in the same timeframe that I quit overdoing Christmas I also started a tradition of having the grands do random acts of kindness in lieu of gifts for us–the grand parents. They share what they chose to do with us at our annual Christmas gathering. What could be better?

Here’s the really crazy part - amazingly enough, a decade ago we had no idea we were trending, we thought we were reclaiming sanity and returning to the real reason for the season. There was no media coverage or national dialogue or social media flurry about our decision to do differently. No collective opinion or permission required. 

I could brag and say we are just too smart but it’s more likely we were blindly blessed to figure out that thing about Christmas coming anyway is and was always about Christ–not what we do or don’t do to acknowledge His birth. The world was weary, hurting, frenzied, distracted by things and duty, expectations and Law that could not save. It was pretty hopeless.

But, He came anyway, as a babe, no less, not only giving us permission to let go and rise above all the useless frazzle but also bestowing the best gift ever - the Way to genuine joy and divine peace.  

Merry Christmas,

For Him,

Meema

ps: 

While packing things up for our last move five years ago I found the bin of ornaments, most of which were handmade by my three children and the first two grands–a representation of the evolution of kids crafts from the early 70s to the late 90s. But more than that, a collection of stories of our family’s Christmases past wishing to be told. I realized then that I would not likely decorate another tree, so I wrote a letter, sealed it and put it on top and then closed the bin. It sits on a shelf in the basement. Waiting. Like a time capsule.

I love imagining that some day there might be a gathering of my heirs reading the letter and pulling out the ornaments sharing with the great-grands how each came to be. Whatever their traditions might be they will be able to see and touch the best of the best remnants of my Christmases past. Everything else is irrelevant. And rightly so.

Like A Pencil

My sister, Jo, and I like to putter around in a wonderful consignment shop that was once a Walmart in Buford called Queen of Hearts. Strolling the aisles among the booths is so much more than a walk back in time. I cannot get enough of the unfettered creative energy on display. It’s impossible to take it all in. I marvel at all the ways folks can repurpose old things, bringing new life to objects that have long ago had their day. Mostly, the diehard artist in me rejoices at the affirmation that ingenuity lives. As automated, robotic and manufactured as we have become, individual creativity remains an unstoppable condition that finds its way out from under to express itself as still useful. Still relevant. 

Uniqueness is the norm in this place and prevails in a completely productive yet non-competitive environment that stimulates my waning creative juices.  It’s impossible for me to get out of there without buying something. What I want is to just buy all of it. But then I’d have to open a place like it and sell it so, prudence wins. I buy a used book instead. Last time I bought a lamp for $20 that was so perfect for where I needed it I still can’t get over it. Had I bought a brand new lamp somewhere else for triple the price, I could not have been more pleased.

When I got the book home I noticed there was a handwritten inscription on the front end leaf. The book was a gift for someone’s 40th birthday in 2000. The casual cursive scrawled delicately at an angle on the page and signed the giver’s name with love. Then I noticed it was written in pencil. Pencil. Who writes a dedication in pencil?  Maybe that’s what the giver had to use? An old pencil pulled from the junk drawer? You know you have one.

This set me thinking. Which I’m sure is a shock. An analogy presented itself that I had to explore. So, I asked, what’s wrong with a pencil? Too informal? Too rough drafty? The sentiment is still there, some fourteen years hence, and will likely be there for as long as the book exists. 

Took a couple days letting this roll around in my head but here’s what I concluded:

From my insecure perspective, most other folks are ball point pens. They move through life making confident indelible strokes, often in perfect cursive. Then there are the really bold who are more like Sharpies. You know the ones who make loud marks and thus naturally stand out. In smaller numbers there are those who are broad tipped permanent markers but that’s another analogy for another day.

Then there’s me. More like a pencil. I’m utilitarian. I’ve been around awhile so I don’t need batteries or electricity to do what I do. No fancy mechanics, push buttons or shiny parts. Just wood around some graphite. The comparatively pale marks I make do not stand out, and can easily be erased. My eraser was worn down long ago so as I have aged I have had to be somewhat more careful about what I put down and less impulsive because otherwise I just have to cross out the mistake which sits there exposing my imperfections. I have some bite marks that remain to attest to some hard use, times when thoughts had to be pulled out under duress. My brass end is still in good shape but it’s just a detail now with no good purpose, since the eraser it held is gone.

I have been worn down by use and that’s a testament to something, not sure what, but I optimistically want to think this is a good thing. I can be sharpened either by a fancy pencil sharpening devise or by a knife. Which just means I am open to workarounds. 

I’m shorter, thus look fatter and I am probably ready to be replaced. But! I can still do what I was created to do. In the Master’s hand, I can compose and create as He sees fit. 

And that’s about as good as I was ever meant to be. 

For Him,

Meema