What's the use?

So I have cleaned off and (mostly) cleaned out my refrigerator, in anticipation of a new one coming tomorrow.  In the process, I found a lot of food that was in for far too long - it was no longer edible.  Like the orange juice concentrate from 2012 that was shoved in the back of the freezer, that had kind of evaporated, if that's what frozen stuff does.  Or the two (count'em two) bottles of Lea & Perrins Worchestershire Sauce on the refrigerator door that were both 3/4 full...or the homemade applesauce that got freezer burned.  All bought, opened, used, put away with full intention of using up completely.

And I started to think about how much of our faith we put on the shelf intending to use it "sometime."  One day I'll forgive that person that hurt me.  One day I'll donate some time to the food pantry/clothing closet in town.  One day I'll tutor those kids who need some extra help in school.  One day I'll sit down with that friend who just lost their job/spouse/child.  One day I'll get back to church.  One day I'll start going to Bible Study.  One day I'll really read my Bible, and try to live by what it teaches me.  One day...but that day doesn't come around.  We stick our faith in the closet, occasionally taking it out for show but mostly forgetting about it.

We call ourselves "blessed" because we have the money for the big house or the new car or the big tv or the fancy vacation...and miss the true blessings all around us.  We miss the opportunity to be a blessing to others.  We are so caught up in the rat race that we don't even realize that the rats have won a long time ago.  And we wonder why we're emotionally empty.  We wonder why we're stressed.  We wonder why our churches are empty...but because we forget that we are called to live differently, those who are on the outside see no change in us, and therefore see no reason to want what we so freely have.

We should not live out our faith for any other reason than out of gratitude for the gift of grace given to us by God.  We certainly should not "do" things in order to "earn" our grace.  But we forget that faith without works is dead.  We who call ourselves followers of Jesus Christ forget that we were given a commission - to go into the world (the world of our job, of our school, of our family, of our neighborhood, not just "the world"), making disciples, and teaching them.  But if we are not disciples ourselves, if we are not taught, then our faith is about as expired as that can of orange juice concentrate I just washed down the sink.  And what's the use?  

Fear Not, part 2

Stepping out into the unknown - about to do it again, just not on a viaduct this time.

As I type this, there are a dozen other things I should be doing.  In particular, I should be finishing the papers I need to have done by Sunday afternoon.  Yes, papers.  Or at least finish the other books I still need to read by then.  Yes, also plural.  But here I am, talking to you.

On Monday morning I begin an adventure.  After almost 15 years out of the academic world, with the exception of some conferences and a couple of online classes, I am beginning studies for my Doctor of Ministry degree.  And yes, I've already had my "I can't do this, I'm out of my element, who am I kidding" meltdown.  And I feel better.  Because, let's face it, we all melt down on occasion.  Either internally or externally.

And I'm excited.  What I have read so far, is good, solid theology.  I have already used it in ministry, and will be able to continue to use it.  It's the writing of academic papers that has me stymied, but even that will come.  The first is done (as in re-read, edited, and tweaked), the others are being worked on as I go.  And yeah, I know, I don't have much more time.  But they'll get done.  I have always been a "last-minute" person.  I thrive on the thrill of the deadline, even as it makes me freak out.

I have the support of the church and the church council, which was the most important thing to me.  Had they not been receptive of this, I would not have attempted it.  I do wish that Hal were still here as I go through this.  I miss the theological conversations that we had, even though at times his intensity was too much for me. 

One of my church Elders, when I said I was excited and terrified, raised an eyebrow, and reminded me that the Bible says not to be afraid.  And he's right.  So I'm no longer terrified.  As I step onto this proverbial viaduct, I am no longer afraid. 

Fear and Fear Not

I just realized I have not blogged in over a year.  Truth is, I have done a couple of posts but only saved them as drafts as they were things I needed to get out but too private to make public.  Maybe later.

I was thinking this morning about fear, particularly about fear of stepping out to do something that might cause us harm. 

And thought about the Salisbury Viaduct on the Great Allegheny Passage.  If you don't live here, let me share some basic facts:  The Great Allegheny Passage Rails-to-Trails includes what was the longest bridge on the Western Maryland Railway.  It's a trestle bridge, almost 2,000 feet in length and about 100 feet high.  Those two things kept me off the viaduct for the first few years we lived here.

The first encounter I had with it (other than mindlessly driving under it countless times), Hal and I had decided that rather than leave the station on the trail, we'd drive up to Johnny Popper Road and start there.  Well, he started.  I took one look at the length of the bridge with nothing but 100-year-old trestles below it, and firmly planted my feet on solid ground.  Nope.  Big old nopity-nope-nope.  Hal tried.  He told me how safe it was - I didn't care.  He pointed out all the other people going past us - I didn't care.  He raised an eyebrow at me when two little kids went on it with their bike and told me THEY weren't afraid - I didn't care.  He said he was going.  I told him to enjoy, I'd be waiting when he got back.  And he went across, and I waited.  Fuming just a little bit, but that was my problem.  Do you know how long it takes someone to walk 4,000 feet?  He came back, told me about the old cemetery on the other side (he knew I have a weakness for cool old cemeteries) - I didn't care.

And for a while, we avoided that part of the trail.  But there were times  that he wanted to go that way.  Sometimes I'd try.  Sometimes I'd get to the first few feet.  But if I walked too slowly, if I hesitated, he would keep walking and I would let my fear take over and turn back.  Sometimes I'd stay home and tell him to enjoy.  Because of my fear of heights.  Actually my fear of the bridge collapsing and me having nothing to hold onto as I plummeted to the ground.  Irrational, I know.  But aren't most fears irrational?

Then he wanted to show Katherine.  So we went.  I went as far as the edge, and told them to enjoy.  Through some cajoling, I agreed to walk out.  I believe I may have said something on the order of, "Ok, I'll go, but I won't like it."  And I went.  In the very middle, with Hal on one side and Katherine on the other, looking down at the center of the trail.  The whole way.  No amount of "How beautiful" or "Look at that" could get me to look and see how high above anything we actually were.  I was on the viaduct, and that was enough.  And I didn't like it.  I endured it.  And then I asked where he was going to pick me up when they went back to get the car.  But I walked back, still looking at the ground pavement.  And I missed it all. 

Eventually, I went out.  On the side, not in the middle.  And actually looking at the scenery around - and below - us.  That first time, when I walked across and lived to tell the tale, broke my fear.  And that was all it took.  Ok, that and a little bit of "Who's braver, Connie or a 5-year-old" teasing, and I didn't want my fear to transfer to my grandchildren when Hal wanted to take them out on the bridge.  Kids are naturally brave, but our attitudes can instill fear, so I needed to be able to not pass my fear to them.

And it was breathtakingly - in a good way - beautiful.  Yes, still a little scary.  It's weird to be above the treetops.  Not natural.  But beautiful. 

Fear keeps us from so much beauty.  We plant our feet firmly on whatever ground we decide is solid, and refuse to risk safety for the possibility of something better.  We choose the known, and never realize that what may be just around the corner might be so much more.  We plod through life, looking down at the path we have chosen (or has been chosen by someone else for us), so intent on getting to our "destination" - a degree, success in our career, retirement, the other side of the viaduct - that we forget to look up and see the beauty. 

And it's true that sometimes when we step out, we will fall and get hurt.  Sometimes we attempt things that don't work out...but we learn from all of those things.  Sometimes we learn more from our mistakes than from the things that come easy to us.  But if we don't try, we will never know how things might have turned out.  

Let's stop living in fear.  Let's live in anticipation of what is out there for us.  Let's take in all that the world has to offer, and offer ourselves back to a world that needs the unique, individual beauty that each of us has to give.

Walking in Grief

First of all:  this is MY experience with grief.  It is not your experience, or your family member's, or your neighbor's, although it may share some of the same paths. 

Grief is not a competition.  My grief is not harder, or stronger, or deeper, or more enduring, than yours is.  There are times that I will be a big ol' blubbering mess and will need you to be the strong one.  There are times that I will be the strong one for you to be the b.o.b.mess.  And there are times we may both collapse on the floor together, and someone else will need to bring the mop.  Here's the thing: there are no gold medals at the end.  There's no "being better" at this.  And it's a participation trophy none of us want.    

It's not a sprint, where we rush to get through all the steps that someone, somewhere, decided that grieving people go through.  It's not like grocery shopping, where we race through the aisles, checking off denial, anger, and the rest as we throw them in our cart, hoping that our keytag will get us a discount. 

Nor is it a marathon, where we plod along at a steady pace, not paying attention to anything but the track below our feet.  Oh, yes, there are some days that we will plod.  And some days it's hard to even put the sneakers on our feet...heck, sometimes it's hard to swing our feet off the bed and put them on the floor.  But the process itself cannot be merely putting one foot in front of the other for an extended period of time with the goal of "getting to the end" (considering that there is no true end).

Grief - my grief, that is - is more like a walk on a trail. 

Regardless of the calendar, it starts in the fall - everything is changing, and not for the better.  The days grow colder, grayer.  The time change throws off our schedule, and it grows dark too early for an evening stroll.  Morning frost chills us through and we find it difficult to catch our breath.  Leaves may burst into color on the side of a hill some days, but the rains come and wash them away.

Then comes winter, too cold to walk.  The snow covers the trail, the winds or rains rip through even the best coats and boots and longjohns.  So we stay inside, bundled in the warmth of familiarity, sheltering ourselves in comfort and insulating ourselves from the stings that are inevitable.

Spring comes, and with it our first tentative steps.  The sun peeks out, but the chill is still sometimes too much for us.  We may get down the path, away from our shelter, and get caught in a cloudburst - of emotion, of memories, brought by a sight, a scent, a sound - and we take shelter under the nearest tree for protection.  Slowly, little by little, we venture further on the trail, and begin to take joy in the little things presented to us - the flowers, the songs of the birds, the berries growing on the side of the trail.  But our grief is still there, like a wild animal.  On a still day we notice a tree shake; down the hill, a bear scratches its back against the slim trunk.  We may yell to scare it away; we may throw the berries we picked onto the trail between it and us as a peace offering; but we are still aware that it may come at us and destroy us, so we slowly retreat, being mindful of its presence and its power. Other days, we may be strolling along, enjoying the day, only to suddenly see several snakes sunning themselves right where we want to walk.  We hesitate - it would be so easy to retreat - and then we find a way around the snakes, leaving them in their coils, unsprung and thus causing us no pain.  And on days when we have gone further than our strength will allow us to continue, we collapse onto the ground and remain as long as we need.

I don't yet know what the trail in summer is like.  I'm still dodging bears and snakes.  And sometimes just collapsing. 

Of Mice and Cats

As nature abhors a vacuum, cats abhor a shut door...which is why mine get so excited when I open the door to the basement.  As in, yelling "WooHoo!" and high-fiving each other excited.  Ok, maybe not.  But if cats COULD yell "WooHoo" and high-five each other, they would.

So, this morning, I went down to the basement to move a shelf.  This entailed moving cases of canned food, checking the expiration dates, throwing out the expired ones shrugging when I saw some have expired (oh, well, I'll try them anyway), moving the shelf, and replacing the food.  While I was at it, I broke down some cardboard, and gathered up some grocery bags, double-bagged them and set them aside to take to the food pantry on Friday, and realized that the mouse traps need replaced (we use the glue-type)...no mice, just dust, spiders, and cat hair (because they're nosy little buggers).  And the cats were in their glory.  I was in one room, and they had the run of the basement. I finished what I was doing, brushed some cobwebs off Angelica, and headed up the stairs, leaving the door open so they could take their time exploring.

About ten minutes later I was eating lunch and heard a plaintive mew...an unfamiliar mew...a mew that set me on edge as I saw Angelica coming up the hall from the direction of the basement door...with something in her mouth.  I freaked out steeled myself for her to bring me the lovely "gift" - when I realized that while she, indeed, did have a mouse in her mouth, it was a cloth-covered catnip mouse that her kitty-buddy Bianca had left on her last visit (not intentionally, mind you, Bianca closely guards her toys, except when she hides them and forgets where) (which is not difficult, considering how small the brains of cats are).

Crisis averted - this time.  *sigh*

It's the Little Things

I was driving to the chiropractor's office yesterday, out on the Garrett Shortcut.  As I drove, I was looking at the weeds wildflowers on the side of the road and was taken back in time and place...

...to Somerton, Ohio, where Hal and I first lived together as husband and wife.  We were hosting a gathering of pastors in our home, and Hal had started the ribs.  He offered to go to the store to get flowers.  Now, google maps would tell you that it takes 16 minutes to get from where we lived in Somerton to the nearest grocery store (Riesbeck's, in Barnesville to the north).  They would lie.  Because inevitably, there would be Amish buggies on the road - the curvy, hilly, can't-pass-a-buggy-without-risking-life-and-limb-even-though-the-driver-is-motioning-you-around-because-you-can't-see-what's-coming-around-the-curve-or-over-the-hill road.  I will digress as I remember the morning I got behind TWELVE buggies on the road headed south.  So, it was usually 20-25 minutes at the best, then time in the store (even though the flowers were usually at the checkout line), IF THEY HAD ANY FLOWERS LEFT AT ALL, then 20-25 minutes home.  Because the florist would have been closed at this particular hour and we had failed to call ahead were too darned cheap/broke to buy actual FLORIST flowers at the time.  We were both still in seminary, I was working part-time at my churches, he was earning student-pastor pay. 

So Hal left to go to the store.  About fifteen minutes later he returned with a big grin on his face and a plastic grocery bag he laid on the table.  With weeds wildflowers, roots and all, that he had stopped on the side of the road and grabbed.  I tilted my head and looked at him like he was nuts, and saw his face begin to cloud over.  Realizing that my attitude was hurting him, I grinned, shook my head, and told him that he must have a lot of faith in my flower-arranging abilities.  He grinned again, the clouds left, and said that he believed in me.  I grabbed a bowl and floral foam, then sorted through the Queen Anne's Lace, cornflowers, daisies, and brown-eyed Susans, among others, that he had pulled from a farmer's field on the side of the road, trimmed them, shook off the dirt, ants, and spiders, and put together an arrangement for our table. 

And that day, which I had not thought of in years, came rushing back to me on the shortcut yesterday.  The beauty that Hal brought into my life was not something that money could buy.  It was about being happy with what was right there, free for the taking.  The little inside jokes, the eye contact across a crowded room, the feel of his breath on the back of my neck as he held me...the having to turn away because the smell of my breath after I ate garlic bothered him (you would think a guy NAMED Garlick...but I digress again)...

And I almost destroyed it.  I almost got so wrapped up in my understanding that he would be coming in with BOUGHT flowers, that were actually free of roots, spiders, or ants, that I almost blew off the beauty in the gift he brought me.  The gift of his time, in the middle of cooking a meal, that he took to go and get me flowers to make the table pretty.  The gift of his vision that those rag-tag flowers were more beautiful - and plentiful - than any he could have bought at the store.  The gift of his trust that I would accept his gift in the spirit it was given.  The gift of his trust that I would work with these wildflowers.

Hal gave me a lot of weird gifts over the years - and I gave him a lot of ones that left him scratching his head, too.  It's the little things, folks.  The free, inexpensive, and day-to-day "weeds" that are all around us.  Don't overlook them.  Don't belittle them.  Don't take them for granted.  Welcome them.  Embrace them.  Celebrate them! 

Camping in Sorrow

My dad died when I was 35.  Shortly after his passing, I realized that I was depressed (duh).  I asked a couple of people who knew me well, to give me a few months and check back with me.  Both of them took seriously my need for sorrow, and took seriously my knowledge that I could not forever continue in the depths of the dark woods I was in.  Both checked in on me periodically, not pushing me to come out of my sadness but walking with me.

It is the words of one that comes back to me now.  Over coffee, about 6 months after my dad's passing, this friend asked if I had pulled the stakes up yet.  I looked at him with a raised eyebrow, asking what he meant.  He smiled, and said that I'd been camping out in my sorrow - and that was ok - but it was not ok to permanently move in.  He asked again if I had pulled up my stakes yet - my tent stakes - and after talking for a while, we ascertained together that I had started to pull them up, but had not completely broken camp yet.  And he walked with me a while longer, helping me to break camp and move out of the dark woods I was in.

Fitting, I guess, for this season.  I am camping out in my sorrow.  And folks, that's ok...for now.  I'm not moving there permanently - but if you want to check in on me periodically, that's ok.  That would probably be more than ok.  In return, I promise I'll walk with you - or just sit with you - as you will allow me.  Just remember that you can't pull my tent stakes up for me.  Only I can, and I will, when the time is right.

Sabbatical trip, part one

Hal and I left on the morning of June 1, him celebrating his retirement and me finishing my Sabbatical.

Unable after his heart attack of 2012 to crank up our pop-up camper, and me unable to do it after my wrist surgery, we had sold it.  When we had not received the major grant for which we had applied for the Sabbatical, he hand-built a ledge vardo on the bed of a utility trailer that we have owned since Nebraska.  He had looked at ideas online but had come up with the design and played with it, changing things along the way.  His daughter, Katherine, painted symbols of faith on the outside, and I got out my sewing machine for the first time in a long time and, flying by the seat of my pants, sewed curtains, and  then I crocheted two afghans...finishing one along the way.  With the help of a dear friend, he finished it right at the end of May while we were on the road, and was planning the things he needed to tweak once we got home.

Oh, that vardo!  We had more conversations along the road with people who came driving up to us in parking lots, rest stops, campgrounds.   I had thought he was nuts (after all, folks, he married me, he couldn't have been all there), but have fallen in love with our tiny little home-away-from-home.  In Kentucky, a mulejumper (more on that in another blog post) and his wife prayed with us in a parking lot.  At a gas station, two ladies pulled up and asked if they could take a picture of our "chicken coop" - we both busted out laughing and explained it was a camper!   We had a man in his 70's come up and offer to buy it in a Walmart parking lot in Wyoming - his grandchildren rode the rodeo circuit, and he was looking for something that exact size to take with him. People asked Hal for details and for instructions, and he always took the time to explain what he had done, what he had tried that didn't work, and patiently showed them what they asked to see.

We lost our first set of mattresses because the front window was not as waterproof as we had thought, and ended up leaving them in OK with a friend of mine (that I had not seen since fifth grade) for her to dispose of, and buying a new mattress in Wicheta, KS.  Not a souvenir I had ever anticipated buying!  And I'll admit it was a little unnerving the two times that someone pulled up alongside us and motioned to roll the windows down to tell us the back door was open - thankfully we had lost nothing either time.  The house-door deadbolt lock had loosened from the vibrations (remember, utility trailer, no shocks or struts) so we ended up putting a hasp lock with a padlock on it, after which it never jiggled loose again.
 
We visited along the way, from PA to my sisters and their families in Mount Olive, NC - we celebrated our fourteenth wedding anniversary at the scene of the crime in the town where we were married.  We moved on to visit with Hal's seminary mentor and his wife, people who have become dear to me over the years.  Good food, good conversation, and a rousing game of "Sequence." 

From there, we went to a campground in Paducah, KY where we were serenaded by cicadas and bullfrogs.  We accidentally crossed the Illinois border and turned around asap as we were carrying firearms - legally in most states but not IL - and did not realize that we were crossing the border until it was too late.  Next was a campground in MO that advertised bathrooms and wifi and had neither, but did have a critter skittering across our roof in the middle of the night.  Around the time the critter woke us, we heard a flush - of a toilet that was obviously NOT hooked up to the sewer hook-up right...and were very grateful to have annointing balm - which is good not only for healing annointing, but for annointing the upper lip and praying that the smell of the raw sewage would be alleviated by the soothing scents of the balm.  This was where we discovered that the mattresses were "a little damp," but had no choice but to sleep on them.  Well, that, or find a non-scary motel in the middle of nowhere (seriously, this campground was the stuff horror movies were made of and we were too tired to go on).

My Favorite Things

So I'm sitting here, at 10:42 pm, listening to the news.  The weather report comes on, and they talk about the impending freezing rain, and Hal starts to sing, "Raindrops Keep Falling on my Head."  I, on the other hand, begin to sing, "Raindrops on roses, and whiskers on kittens, bright copper kettles..."

Which led me to wonder, what ARE a few of my favorite things?  An incomplete list, at best, and in no particular order, but here goes:

Hal's arm sliding over me in bed when I'm having a nightmare, and hearing him say, "It's alright, I'm here."  Hal's arm around me, sitting on the couch watching a movie, my head against his shoulder.  Hal.

Laughing with my sisters.  Fixing dinner or cleaning up dinner with my sisters.  Playing games with my sisters.  My sisters.

Spending time with my nieces and nephews.  Particularly when I can embarrass my nieces by bursting into song at the drop of a word - and loving that both of my sisters and I will usually all three burst into the exact same song at the exact same spot.  I think we've only missed once.  And I love that Hal now also bursts into song at the drop of a word.

Getting to spend time with my stepchildren, daughter-in-law, and my grandchildren.   Having had a chance to build relationships with these wonderful people.

Singing a hymn or reading a piece of scripture aloud and having the words hit me in a way that they never have before, and being unable to utter a sound because I am so overwhelmed by the meaning of what should be coming out of my mouth, but cannot.

The dry humor of Hal and my brother-in-law Bill, although when they are together it can be dangerous for any and all involved.

Seeing the light turn on for someone during worship or Bible study.

Holding a book in my hands, particularly a book that others have read before me.  Reading words that someone has put together in order to make me think, to make me feel, to make me grow.

Music.  Listening, playing, singing, moving to it.  Although I know sometimes I scare Hal when I move in the car.  And with the amount of lyrics I know.  Ask him sometime about the night I suggested meatloaf for dinner the next night.

Cats.  Every sneezy, itchy, throat-scratchy, eye-watering bit of them.  Except for hairballs.  Hairballs are most definitively NOT one of my favorite things.

Creating things.  Yarn things, mostly, but also fabric things and food things and paper things and written things.

Taking pictures.  Capturing something that I see so that others can see through my eyes.  Capturing moments and emotions and silliness and beauty and even the dirt and the normalness and the mundane, the order and disorder of life in general. 

Chocolate.

A cup of hot tea, with milk and sugar.

The imagination of children before they learn that they shouldn't pretend.

The October Dress Project, Take 3

"The motto of the ODP is "anti-consumerism, pro-simplicity, anti-conformity, pro-creativity." How do you think ODP affected your thinking in these areas this year? The way you spend your money or think about your wants vs needs. The brain space and physical space you devote to what you wear and how you look. The way the fashion and beauty industry, peer pressure, or criticism and other's attention shapes your clothing choices. The ways you can express joy, beauty, values, or feelings through what you wear. All these different things and more can be affected by simply wearing the same thing for thirty-one days straight-- so how did it affect you?"

This was the question posted by Avery at the end of this year's ODP.  This was the third of the last four years that I participated in this activity.  One dress, thirty-one days.  Although for me this year it was one dress, twenty-seven days (two days that I stayed in jammies, and the last two days of the month when I was told by my doctor that I probably have a torn rotator cuff and I decided that it was probably not a good idea to continue to pull a dress over my head twice a day).  Here are my thoughts, not in any particular order.

The fashion and beauty industry have almost never shaped my clothing choices.  Except for a brief fling with parachute pants (it was the 80's, people, I could not help myself), I have rarely bought into the latest trends.  Perhaps that stems from having been the youngest of 3 girls and getting some hand-me-downs from sisters, neighbors, and older cousins, there was not a lot of choice for me in clothing.  If it was on sale and I absolutely needed it, I got it.

While I didn't, even as a young child, get into fashion, I had - and still have - a sense of what I like and what I don't like.  I still remember getting a sweater for Christmas one year, from an aunt and uncle now departed, that I thought was too childish for me.  It was too big, so we put it up for the next winter - by which time it was too small.  That did not break my heart - but I broke my mother's that Christmas day because I went behind a chair (I didn't want to cry in front of all those people at my disappointment in the sweater) and would not thank them.  I think more than my personal likes, though, that I was afraid I would be mocked at school for it; even though the size was too big, the image on it, to me, was far too "small."  This fear of criticism may have come from the teasing I had already gotten for wearing things that were out of style - whatever that meant to a 3rd-grader.  Peer pressure sucks.

Then I grew up.  Well, to a point ;) And my brother got a girlfriend.  Jane looked at me one day and said, "Fashion is for those who dare to be different."  And she's right.  Not that I haven't ever bought into someone else's idea of fashion to some extent (see former note on parachute pants).  I learned to take what I liked, and make it work for me, not worrying about what others thought about my combinations.  There have been times that I have had restrictions according to where I have worked, but I have kept my sense of who I am within the clothing that I am required to/restricted from wearing.

Part of the time now I wear a "uniform" - as a pastor, at times I wear a clerical shirt with appropriately styled slacks, skirts, or jumpers.  My shirts, my robes, and my stoles are purchased new(except for the cross-stitched stoles that I found at a thrift store), of good quality.  So, a lot of times, people will see me wearing the same things multiple times, even outside of October.  I like the simplicity of knowing what I will be wearing certain days.  When I don't have to think about it, it makes my morning a lot less frantic. 

When not in uniform, I am still mindful of the appearance I present, as I represent not only myself but also my church - living in a small town, EVERYONE knows who I am and what I do. Having said that, the second piece of wisdom I got about dressing was from a former seminary professor.  Asked by a group of female students what advice she could give us, Beth paused, thought, and said, "Always own at least one dress that your congregation would be shocked to see you in."  And I do.  I am, after all, a woman, was one before I became a pastor, and will be one after I retire (if I live that long) (not that I'm being morose, but none of us know when we'll come to the end of our life).  And, frankly, my husband likes to see me dress up.

Honestly, I don't know that anyone would have noticed I was wearing the same dress if I hadn't talked about it.  Which makes me wonder why so many people buy into the fashion industry.  Do any of us really pay attention to what anyone else wears?  I have gotten to a point where I look at my wardrobe much more critically, and doing the October Dress Project three times has helped in doing that.  I am much more likely to spend less time shopping buying than I used to.  I still like to look at clothes - but at yard sales and thrift shops.  And I'm more likely to donate as I'm buying - replacing instead of adding to wardrobe.  I have been buying fewer things of better quality, even at thrift stores.   When an item has worn out (save for crafting) or been outgrown (no, no, shrunk in the laundry, yeah, yeah, that's it)(donate!), I replace it - I generally don't buy something for the sake of buying it.  Except that I have been buying button-down shirts and cardigans instead of pullovers...but that's an age thing.

The biggest thing that I've gotten out of my three years of doing ODP is the sharing of creativity among participants.  I was never big on accessories, but I now own a number of scarves, belts, and jewelry that I have become fond of.  Again, mostly thrifted.  Looking at others' photos, I have become more likely to see different things that I can do that I had never considered before.

To sum up - I've always been anti-consumerism (perhaps because I've never had a lot of money with which to consume); pro-simplicity is growing on me; Marie anti-conformity is my middle name; and, through the community of ODP I have become more creative with my wardrobe choices.  Will I do this again?  Probably - with a button-down dress.  I will be paring my wardrobe down again, though, as I keep looking at things I have only worn once or twice in the last year.  Time to clear my space again, although more to simplify my options than to refill the space.  I am thankful for this community of women who share with and encourage each other.

Sacrificial Rams

Last night in our study/service, we watched the second session of The Story, which dealt with Abram/Abraham and Sarai/Sarah.  In the course of the video and discussion following, I realized something that I had never realized before.

In Genesis 22, Abraham is told, "...take your son, your only son, Isaac..." and go to Mt Moriah and offer him as a burnt offering to God. 

Wait, what? Isaac was NOT Abraham's only son.  Oh, yes, he was Abraham's only son with Sarah...but he had another son.  A firstborn son.  With Hagar.  Remember Ishmael?  You know, the one that was born AFTER Sarai gave her servant Hagar to Abram?  You know, Hagar, the one who Sarai then dealt harshly with after Ishmael was conceived?  Who left, then went back, and then was sent away with her child?  You know, Ishmael, who got the bulk of the inheritance circumcised at 13 (ouch!) and then after being sent away was laying under a bush in the wilderness where his mother put him to die, until God showed her more water so they didn't die in the wilderness?

It didn't please Abraham to put Ishmael out.  God told him to do what Sarah said (happy wife, happy life to the extreme???).

So here we are, back to Mt Moriah and the almost-burnt-offering of Isaac.  Abraham is told to take his only son to the mountain. Those of us who know the story, know that THE ANGEL OF THE LORD showed Abraham a ram caught in the bush AS HE HAD HIS HANDS IN THE AIR ABOUT TO BRING THE KNIFE DOWN AND KILL HIS SON.  So he didn't have to sacrifice his son.

But Abraham had, in effect, already sacrificed his first son, Ishmael - to the elements, to the kindness of strangers.

What do we deny because it's convenient for us?  You KNOW that Abraham could have kept Hagar and Ishmael around, but Sarah would have made his life miserable (yes, more miserable than  being circumcised at the age of 99).  What do we do wrong, then make others suffer the consequences of our choices? Sarai did not have to give Hagar to Abram - but when Hagar got pregnant, Sarai didn't want her around - even though it was HER FAULT (yes, yes, Abram could have said no - but then there's that whole saying no to Sarai/Sarah thing).

We are not asked to take our children to the mountain to give them up as burnt offering.  But there are things we are called to sacrifice.  Are we as willing to give up what we love, what we cherish, as we are willing to give up the things that are inconvenient?

New Normals

So remember that time I fell down back in June?  No?  Well, I do.  When last I wrote typed I had just gotten a splint - and a bad haircut. 

Splint didn't work.  Cortisone shot didn't work.  Third haircut did work. ;)  End of Oct, after almost 3 months in a brace, I had surgery on my wrist to cut the sheath around the tendon to the thumb.

Not going to go into all the gory details.  Let's just say that the brace has been off for 2 weeks and I'm starting to get my hand back...I think.  I don't know.  I've never had this kind of surgery before.  I've never had my hand and wrist immobilized for four and a half months before.  So I can't close my hand into a fist yet - and I can't squeeze a stress ball much (although I'm doing better than the first day that I tried) - and I can't really cut my meat yet - but I can butter bread and put cheesespread on a cracker.  My hand and the knuckles on all my fingers are swollen.  I can't carry a laundry basket upstairs, but I can use my good hand to drag it done, and can use both hands to handle the clothes.  I can fold clothes, and turn a doorknob. Hal had to put up our Christmas trees (yes, that's plural) and take boxes up and down the stairs, and a friend helped me decorate. 

What I'm saying is this:  if you know me at all, you know I'm not a patient person.  Ok, that may be an understatement.  I want "normal" - and I want it NOW YESTERDAY!  I am, though, learning to accept small advances instead of trying to force normal. 

That's so hard to do, isn't it?  We want to force things to be the way we want them to be - the way we are used to them being.  Sometimes we try so hard to do things that we don't allow healing.  Whether physical or emotional, we need to allow time to heal wounds before we move on to the new.

I lost my uncle yesterday.  Two of the people in our church lost family members on Christmas Eve, and a friend lost her grandmother on Christmas Day.  Just as my hand needs time to heal, so do my family and friends.  We think we'll not ever be normal again, that things we did with those loved ones will never be the same.  And we're right - things won't be the same.  But normal will come again.

My hand may never be the same, but as time goes I'll be able to do normal things - either with it, or I'll learn to use my left hand. 

Our lives are never the same after the loss of a loved one, but life will become "normal" again.  It must.  It will be a "new normal" - a different normal - that is, we will still feel the loss, but the memories will live on.  Rest in peace, Uncle Bruce; Rest in peace, David and Jon; Rest in peace, Wilma.  We will miss you, and we will see you again someday.

Hair today...

I hate getting my hair cut.  With a passion.  I don't know that I have ever had a cut that makes me happy, which is why I wear my hair long - I can not worry about how it looks.  Braids, buns, pony tails, or just loose.  And I love it.

Back in NJ, one time, I asked for my hair to be short, but not so short that they had to shave the little pointy areas that come down the back of my neck.  What did I get?  My hair so short that they SHOULD HAVE shaved the little pointy areas, but didn't. An inch of pointy hair stuck out - and didn't look good.  Once, I asked for just a trim.  Just a trim.  JUST.A.TRIM.  And the hairdresser cut TWO.FREAKING.INCHES off of my shoulder-length hair.

So remember that time a couple of months ago that I fell down, went boom splat?  Finally, after 2 1/2 months, xrays, being told my wrist wasn't broken and I should just live with it, I got to an orthopedic doctor.  Same one I ended up with my dislocated shoulder (same arm).  I have DeQuervain's Tendonitis.  So I'm in a brace that immobilizes my thumb.  No opposable thumb on my dominant hand.  Needless to say, really hard to braid, bun, or pony long hair with only one usable hand.  So I go to get my hair cut where I've gone before.  Except the stylist I've gone to is no longer there.  I show my brace, tell her I need it short enough to finger-comb, that she's the expert at what she does, and that I really just don't want to look like a man.  She repeatedly asked if I would be mad (my hair was past my shoulders) - I repeatedly told her that I could not care for my long hair and needed it short.  Repeat.ed.LY.  She tells me SPECIFICALLY that she won't make me look like the guy from the Three Stooges.  Seriously.  Then she makes me look EXACTLY like Moe Howard.  I guess she meant she wouldn't make me look like Curly.  She asked me what I thought.  I told her that I wanted some more layers above my ears.  She told me that she couldn't do that.  I cringed inwardly.  And, like the well-trained, polite woman doormat that I am, I not only paid full price but tipped her.  And then I went, 1 1/2 weeks later, I went to a different salon and asked for a cut to fix the cut.  I explained what I needed, explained why I was unhappy with their competitor's work, and asked for help.  Shown a pixie cut, I said, "YES!!  I couldn't remember what to call it, but that's exactly what I had asked for!" - and proceeded to get a pixie cut - which I am mostly happy with...except that one side is 1/2 - 3/4" longer than the other.  Why???  For the love of Mike (who is Mike, and why do we love him???), WHY?  And, again, I paid and tipped.  So in a couple of weeks, I will probably be looking for the third cut to fix the bad cuts.

Maybe I need to be less critical of how I look with short hair.  Maybe I need to find someone who knows how to listen better.  Maybe I just need to shave it all off and start over...

We all Fall Down

Those of you who follow me on Facebook know that I fell a week ago today.  I stepped on a small rock/piece of gravel, my foot rolled out from under me, and I fell.  Hard.  On my right knee (thankfully, on the knee that is already giving me problems, so I still have one good knee!).  Also on the heel of my hands; even though I know from karate that I should fall onto my forearms, I put out my hands instead.  I let out a little "ugh!" when I fell.  I knew that I was ok, but not ok.  I knew I needed to get out of the road, but I was enough on the side of the road that I really didn't want to move for a few minutes.  I wanted to wiggle toes and see if I had done more serious damage than I had.  My husband came to my side, got the ice that I asked for, and the people whose home we were in front of, on our way to get some information, came out and helped as well.  I got to the grass, laid my head on a cushion that happened to be in the car, and had my knee cleaned and bandaged.  Hal continues to clean it and dress it, because I can't reach it well am really useless with gross stuff. 

All it took was a small rock.  Not big enough to notice outright, but big enough to trip me up and lay me low.  A stumbling block, if you would.  Don't we all have stumbling blocks in our lives?  Some are physical, as mine was - addiction, sexual misbehavior.  Some are situational - the loss of a job, a promotion going to a lesser qualified (at least in our eyes) colleague, failing a class.  Some are temptations, things or ideas that get between us and God.  Food, shopping, alcohol...oh, just one more piece of pie...just one more drink...I NEED this new pair of shoes Incidentally, I was wearing a new pair of shoes when I fell - I told Hal to take them off my feet and THROW THEM OUT - thankfully he didn't (but they are still in the car).  It was not the shoes, after all, that caused my fall. But I was looking for something to blame, aside from my inability to watch where I was walking. 

Don't we all?  It's not MY fault that I weigh more than I did 10 years ago, it's those darn cookies.  It's not YOUR fault that you lost your temper, he made you mad.  And so rather than be on the lookout for those stones along the way, rather than land on our forearms so we can get up more easily, we look for scapegoats - like my cute new shoes - and eliminate them rather than get to the real problem.  And we fall again, and place blame elsewhere again, and...well, you get the point.

My knee is healing well.  My pride - yeah, that is healing too.  But I should not have fallen in the first place.  None of us should.  Let us look around at those things that make us stumble.  Let us keep our eyes on our path - not downcast, just alert.  Let us step well, let us step firmly, and let us step on solid ground.

Have You Been to St. Ives?

Remember the old rhyme/riddle about St. Ives?  "As I was going to St. Ives, I met a man with seven wives.  Every wife had seven sacks; every sack had seven cats, every cat had seven kits.  Kits, cats, Saxon wives sacks, and wives, how many were going to St. Ives?"

We were asked this in a class in elementary school.  So, I did the math.  (One of the few instances, in fact, where "doing the math" involves actual calculations.  You know, like, "So, I'm working in the restaurant, and Joey comes in with Anna Maria, and he pulls out a box, and he gets down on one knee, and she starts crying and nodding yes - well, you do the math" - see, no math involved)

And when I said that there were 2800 going to St. Ives, 2802 if you count your self and the man (because the riddle leaves out the man and the person speaking), I was told that I was wrong.  Because, you see, I was going to St. Ives, and I MET the others as I PASSED them on the road as they were coming BACK from St. Ives.  And I looked at the teacher, and argued about it.  Because that's who I was.  I have always questioned authority.  Now frankly, if I was carrying 7 sacks with 49 cats and 343 kits, as were the other 6 women I was with, we would have been walking slower than one person who was not as encumbered.  Logically, they could have passed us, walking in the same direction, because they were quicker than we were, and they could have met us as they passed us.  Or at a bistro (or rest stop).  The teacher was not pleased with my argument.  I think I saw my first adult facepalm.  The discussion, as I recall, was cut short .  Maybe I just shut down because I was told I was wrong, when, in fact, I was merely thinking outside the box and not giving the expected answer. 

Don't we do that a lot?  We're no longer encouraged to think for ourselves, rather to spew back "expected" answers.  Not just in education situations, but in the workplace, in political dealings, in personal relationships.  We're expected to fit into neat little boxes, where we can stay as long as we like, as long as we please the one who puts the box parameters in place.  It's when we begin to question, when we begin to seek alternatives, when we begin to question the status quo, that we are shamed, as that teacher tried to shame me, into leaving the box.  And that may not be a bad thing. 

It's messy outside the box.  Sometimes a little scary, too.  Outside, though, is where we are best able to find our own parameters, where we can test our ideas and see which work and which don't.  Where we encounter those who, like us, question "expected" answers.  I am thankful for people who have thought outside the box before me, and hope that I still have enough rebel in me to question things that make no sense - or, that make sense in more than one way.  Because, as my husband frequently tells our my felines, there's more than one way to skin a cat.  Let us always look for the unexpected.

(Anti-) Social Media

Yesterday I went off Facebook.  And what did I do?  Finished (except for mugs, music, and movies) putting away Christmas.  Finally.  And my snowmen (which is what I put out when I take Christmas stuff down, because the house is too empty with NOTHING there).  Stacked the boxes downstairs.  Moved nativities to the empty spot on the mantle, rearranged them til I got them how I like them.  Emptied another box in the room from hades craft room/library.  Handled a phone call or two.  Visited with someone for an hour (SOCIAL non-media).  Shopped (didn't buy anything, just shopped).  Put gas in the car ('cause I don't live in Jersey anymore).  Napped.  Did another 20 rows on a baby blanket I've been working on (which leaves me with16 rows and some trim stitching, before I do the next blanket).  Finished a book I've been reading (Jen Hatmaker's 7: An Experimental Mutiny Against Excess) and started another book (Chris Seay's A place at the Table:  40 Days of Solidarity with the Poor).  Talked about what's going on in the world with my husband.  Laughed with my husband.  Groaned over silly jokes with my husband (him over mine, me over his).  Written this blog post (my first in over 6 months), because I'm not writing in snippets.

Thoughts on Hatmaker's book - some of the things she did and wrote about, I've done.  Perhaps not for the reasons that she did.  It strikes me that she comes at this from a place of privilege, and I don't begrudge her that.  I applaud that she realized that she was being called to this.  Please understand that.  But I grew up below the poverty level, and she spent the last days of her experiment on her parents' 300+ acre ranch.  So yeah, we don't all have the ability to hang out on Mom & Dad's ranch. I've done the October Dress Project 2 years now, and given away excess clothing...twice...and yes, have purchased more, and also have more to give away.  I don't think I'll ever get to 7 items (not counting underwear, as she said) - or be like the character in Not a Fan who gave up all his clothing except a few items.  But I am conscious of what I wear and what I buy.  I shop at thrift stores because it was instilled in me early that I'm not too good to have another person's cast-off clothes (I was, after all, the youngest of 4, with 2 older sisters) or other belongings.  For Pete's sake (who is Pete, and why do we do things for his sake?), I see my grandchildren once or twice a year, and am not going to spend ridiculous amounts of money on toys they will outgrow before they play with it ten times.  My "fine china"?  The 50 cents a piece with a $5 purchase at Foodtown (mind you, Hal has purchased some of the serving pieces, which were NOT 50 cents a piece).   As for food, Hal and I garden and can, make real homemade soup, bake, etc.  I know that I have things that have too many items with the wrong (read: chemical) ingredients in them; we're trying to phase those items out.  Could I live with only 7 food items for a month?  Probably.  But I won't.  I could go on and on about the other chapters...but I won't do that, either (at least not in this blog post - perhaps in a later post).  Here's the thing.  I would rather make lifestyle choices that stick, rather than do without something for a short period of time, knowing that I will be able to go right back to where I was.  If a month of something gives one the ability to go somewhere in the middle, that's great for them.  But it's not for me.  I've tried that.  Depriving myself, makes me want things more.  So, my mutiny against excess has been, and will continue to be, the other way - looking at what I have, what I use, and what I can do without, and giving those items away.  Looking at the things I'm putting in my shopping cart, and putting them back on the shelf because I really don't need them, regardless of how inexpensive or attractive they may be.  Using my funds to support companies, ministries, and people that work towards what I work towards, and not giving my funds to those that work against what I work towards. 

Overall, would I recommend Hatmaker's book?  Yes, if you want to see how one family dealt with living with less, and living more intentionally.  I would also recommend Kyle Idleman's Not a Fan. 

And yes, I'm posting this to my Facebook page.  But comment here, because I'm not reading comments on FB.

Stories for Another Day, part ? - My Great-grandfather, the Scoundrel

So...I don't remember if today's "Story for Another Day" is part 1 or 2.  But it comes from my Memorial Day post from 2010, so long overdue.

My great-grandfather John Salter came from Liverpool.  We don't know much about his life in England, except that he served in the military.  We also know that he had a wife, and, from what we understand, children.  We know that he and his brother came to the US in the late 1800's to find their way in this fledgling country.  We know nothing about his brother after that point.  We know that our great-grandfather went back to Liverpool, as he had found a place to settle.  He went back to bring his wife and family here.  From our understanding, she wanted nothing to do with coming here. 

So my great-grandfather stayed in Liverpool with his wife and children and lived happily ever after left his family, came back to this country, married my great-grandmother, had 7 more children that we know of.  Four grew to old age - my grandfather, John Kenneth Salter, his brother, Warren, and sisters Ruth and Ena (who we always knew as Auntie).  Three children did not live past early childhood.  Louis and Earl died fairly young.  My grandfather was born a twin; his twin sister was stillborn, and my grandfather weighed less than 3 pounds - in 1896 - before neonatal units.  Always wondered what a female version of my grandfather would have looked like.  Always marveled at how close I came to not being here - if my grandfather had been stillborn, or if he, like two of his brothers, had not survived infancy...

But I digress.  I am the great-granddaughter of a rogue and scoundrel.  There.  I said it.

Memorial Day, Part II

Text (for the most part) from my message at the Meyersdale Memorial Day Service.  Much, but not all, of this, is from a previous blog post.  The part about Willowdale Cemetery is newly added, as the visit occurred on May 24, 2013.  Photos of the monument of which I spoke are posted to my facebook account (as well as other photos from the cemetery).

I never met my great-grandfather Salter. He was from Liverpool, and served in the Royal Army, we know in India and perhaps in Afghanistan as well. He is buried in Old Tennent Cemetery, in New Jersey. And every year, the Boy Scouts put a flag (of the US, not the UK) on his grave on Memorial Day weekend. There are flags at the grave of his son, who served in the US Army in France during WWI, at that of his granddaughter's husband , my dad, who served the US Navy in the Pacific in WWII, and at that of a great-great grandfather, who served in the US Civil War, along with countless other graves of those who served, in numerous conflicts as well as during peacetime, at that and countless other cemeteries around this country and around the world. Some, like my ancestors, who came home, lived their lives, raised families, and grew old. Some, like my cousin Johnny, who came home, tortured by their injuries or memories, unable to love themselves  or forgive themselves or others until they were taken home by God. Some, like the young man whose eternal resting place lays in Old Tennent Cemetery, who did not come home alive; his headstone tells a simple story: his name, dates of birth and death, and three words: "Died in France." I never knew him or his family members, yet I visit his grave every time I go home.

This past Friday I visited Willowdale Cemetery in Goldsboro, NC, to pay respects at the grave of my sister’s brother-in-law.  Now Goldsboro was occupied by the Army of the North, led by General William Tecumseh Sherman.  And so, while at Willowdale, we got out at the site of a memorial to the Confederate dead.  800 soldiers, 200 of them known only to God, are laid to rest in a mass grave. 

Surrounding the burial mound are walls engraved with the names and units of the 600 who are known.

And on one side of the monument, you will read: 

On fame’s eternal camping ground

Their silent tents are spread

 And Glory guards with solemn round

The bivouac of the dead

Memorial Day weekend is not the unofficial start of summer, or an extra day off from work, or a day of beach or park or picnic, or a day to snag some really good bargains at the mall. Let us remember that Memorial Day - Remembrance Day - is a day to remember those who served our nation. I'm not saying don't have fun. But as you go about the rest of your weekend, remember those who made it possible for us to celebrate our freedom. Remember those who came before. Remember those who are mourning those that they lost.  Let us remember that those who lost all to give us our freedoms, are now guarded by the angels, are now resting in the peace that many of them were unable to achieve here on earth.  Let us honor them with our lives.

Out of Whack

So...I went to the chiropractor yesterday.  Made the appointment Monday.  I've had some pain in my arm.  Lived with it for a while, thought it would go away.  You know, like you do.  And yeah, I've LIVED with it, lived with it.  You know.  Moved furniture.  Carried groceries and books.  Took the tubs of Christmas decorations to the basement.  Then realized that I had not seen particular decorations so MOVED THE TUBS to find what I was looking for, and restacked them.  Over my head.  Lugged laundry up and down the stairs.  LAID ON IT TO SLEEP TRY TO SLEEP.  Picked up little kids at church and playgroup.   Pulled my hair back with one hand while putting clip/band/barrette in with other hand. Reached behind myself to fasten bra Fastened bra in front and turned it the right way.  You know.  LIVED with it.

I let out a yell when he popped it back in.  One Hal heard in the waiting room.  Dude told me to count to 4 - I didn't even get to 2.  Yeah, he's a wise doctor.  If only I had been wise enough to go sooner.

We live with pain a lot, don't we?  Staying in bad relationships because we're used to them, and have been living with the hurt so long we are afraid to let it go - better to feel pain than feel nothing, one friend told me.  Is that really better?  Staying in a job we hate, because someone, somewhere along the way told us that what we loved, what we wanted to do with our lives, was a waste, was not a way to support ourselves, let alone a family (because, after all, we had to go out and start with the McMansion, the new vehicles, designer clothes, we couldn't live in a small apartment or buy anything used).  Do those "things" make us as happy as the dreams we once had, using the talents we have instead of conforming to the demands of others?   Alcohol or drugs or sex with people we barely know because we want to numb ourselves to the pain of being alone, or the pain of being with the people/in the jobs that are slowly killing our spirits - until the high wears off.

There is a God-shaped void in our hearts, that we try to fill with anything but God.  Been there, done that, have the tee-shirt, the sweatshirt, and the commemorative mug.  It's part of our being human.  We can do it ourselves.  We can make ourselves feel better.  Except that we can't.  It's not an "us"-shaped void.  God has given us the capacity to choose Him, or to not choose Him.  He's not going to force himself on us.  But the next time you're out of sorts, the next time you look in the mirror and realize something's not right - like, hey, my right shoulder 1 1/2" out and 1 1/2" lower than my left - stop being comfortable with your pain.  Stop trying to work through it yourself.  Turn to the Great Physician, and let Him pop back in what's out of whack in your life.

Thinking Inside the Box

I love my niece EC.  But I'm ready to clobber her.  Why, you ask? (or maybe you don't, I'm going to tell you anyway)

When we were visiting earlier this month, she showed me a game app she had downloaded onto her tablet.  I won't say the name.  I will only refer to it as "that evil game" or TEG for short.

So, I got home and downloaded TEG.  And have been playing it.  And will probably delete it after I finish this post.

Now, the game in and of itself is not inherently evil.  Really, noTHING in this world is.  Although things are used for evil.  And some just separate us from God because of the time/talent/treasure they consume.  And that's the thing with TEG.  It's challenging.  Not challenging as in how to make the money earned for the month stretch to pay all the bills, or how to transport children to the myriad of activities they are involved in.  It's a mind challenge time suck.

The object of the game is straightforward enough.  There are sets of paired dots, of different colors, on grids of various sizes.  The player needs to connect those dots.  Sound easy enough?  One cannot cross the path of another dot pair, and one must completely fill in the grid.  Still sound easy?  Think again.

See, it is intuitive to make the connection in the shortest possible way.  And sometimes that is the solution.  But many times, the shortest way between one pair, blocks the way for another pair.  So, the player has to go around the grid - sometimes all the way around, as opposed to going one block across.  Sometimes, the player connects all the dots - and half the grid is still empty.  Sometimes, only one block is empty.

Isn't life like that?  We're told to think outside the box - but sometimes we need to think through what is right in front of us.  Sometimes we need to realize that the intuitive "easy" answers won't work for one reason or another.  Maybe what looks clear, will block someone else's ability  - to do their job or have their fun, or whatever - one's shortcut may leave another unable to properly function.  Maybe we'll cross paths with another - and while that may work on occasion, crossing paths can, as in this game, cut off another's path.  You see, sometimes we need to look at the whole picture.  Sometimes, we have to forgo the easy path, in order to facilitate ALL that needs to be done.  Sometimes, we need to go a convoluted path, in order to make sure everything gets done - even if another could cover it, we need to make sure it's covered if they slack off.  Sometimes, we need another's eyes (read:  accept criticism and direction from others).  Sometimes, we just need to turn the game off, and walk away before we throw it across the room in frustration make ourselves nuts because we're overthinking it.  Sometimes we just need to walk away because it's taking too much of our time/talent/treasure sucking the life out of us.

So...I'm not going to play TEG anymore.  Yeah, I'll probably still play games.  But this one?  It's making me nuts.  So, as much as I love you, EC, please don't show me any more games.  Because I have no little self-control when it comes to computer games.