Love at Second Sight

I drove by the cute storybook house on my way to run with the dog, just to look again. Am I crazy, maybe I'll come to my senses. I saw a person walking from the house to the garage. I got out of the car....hello?! I called out two times and the owner came back out. I asked a question or two. He said the realtor was there and would show it to me. Ok. I'm happy. I want to see this how the studio is set up even if I don't ever live here. Ideas, ideas for building a studio onto my house, if nothing else. A train load of ideas.

The realtor remembers my name from when I called her as good realtors do. She shakes my hand firmly and we go to look at the house. Definitely charming and all artistic looking. The owner's mom paints and the owner (female) writes. The workshop has dog doors through which the dogs come in and out at will and the floor is heated. It is not as big as I envisioned it. But it's only me. How much space do I need?

The owners collect antiques and it reminds me of my own house; there is even a table downstairs - (have you noticed realtors do not use the word basement?) - a table just like the one Rick and I bought together in the last months before he died.

That reminds me of how it was when we looked at the house we live in now. She had baked bread on purpose right before we walked in and her house was done in my colors in oak antiques, our style. It already looked like my house.

And I had to ask these nice people where they were moving to. The realtor had only said cross country. Why I had this sense that they might be headed for the great Northwest, I do not know. In fact they are moving to Bend, Oregon. To a house with a horse included. Stables. She showed me pictures. For them, it was a surprise too. They went out thinking they would take 5 years and eventually build a place out there. But the first place they looked at they bought. And there is no great rush to get out there, they can do the same business they do here out there.

The woman said more than once, seeing the excitement in my face. (I know you are not supposed to let them know how much you like it, but I wasn't house shopping, and so not really playing the cool game yet) she kept saying: I am only the 2nd owner and it breaks my heart to leave this place, it is important to me to see it go to someone who will love it the way I do. I'm thinking to myself: HOW important to you? Enough to lower the price a ton so that I don't have to take a huge risk moving in here? I was also telling myself: don't get attached, don't make a big deal of these details.

The zoning issue which seemed impossible to my realtor is just a matter of paperwork to the owner. And the possibility of selling a sector of land is almost a ready option. Red tape involved but it's worth 1/5 the price of the home.

wow, i'm tired. I am going to sleep on it.

Love at first sight

After jogging with "bad dog", (see post "Untrained Animal") I took a different route home and saw an adorable little storybook house in my colors. Right after I fell in love, I noticed it is for sale. So I stopped and wrote down the realtor's number, studied it for a few minutes, and turned the corner so that I could drive back home. Oh! A detatched 3 car garage, and a studio/office built over it with lots of windows. Swoon, swoon. How much does this cost? I'm sure it's a lot, probably more than I could sell my house for, but I could live in the detatchment and rent out the little house (all 3 levels) to lots of folk and get lots of rent out of it and have space and privacy, an office to write AND paint in.....my mind is racing. If I could get paid for manufacturing ideas, I'd be rich. Mind you, they might not be good ideas.

OH! There is a 6 foot fence behind the garage! It's dog ready! I want it. I don't need a 3 car garage, I can put a little kitchen and bathroom in and have room left over to store stuff. How soon can I move in?

I had just decided to rent out space in my own house on Monday and this cute little place is so much more suitable and rentable and I would not have to give up my privacy -- one of the things holding me back from renting out part of my house.

I'm calculating where I am going to take the money from to accomplish this. I get out my cell and call the realtor. Yes, it costs more than my house, but I wonder if the money I would lose in moving could be made up in rent and she tells me there is land that might be subdivided and sold on the lot.

Driving home I try to calm myself: hold it loosely. If the Lord thinks this is a good idea, it may work out, don't force it. I call my own realtor and leave a message. I want to go see it.

Hmm, was I distracted from my painting? Yes, I came home and looked it up on line and saw a few pictures of the inside. I loved the sun coming in the windows and doors.

The realtor told me there is also a huge workroom behind the garage with a heated floor, as the owner does carpentry there.

OK, I have been telling my friends that I don't plan to retire and settle down in this state, but this place is so perfect for what I am trying to do NOW, write and paint (and coach?). It seems ideal for what I want right now, a separated place to rent out to others and a space of my own with provisions for dog...a studio, an office, plus room to store things for my mountain retreat house which I will fall in love with next.

As I feared my realtor called me back later and said I cannot have it. It would cost too much to get in there and I'd not be able to get the money back by renting to numerous renters. Worse than that, the garage is not zoned to live in. Sigh.

I did a lot of bla bla to my daughters about the place. One said, just take the money you'd use to move into that place and build your studio here. Yes, but....but....but....
(Irrational love trying to take the reigns) My realtor doesn't understand....whine, whine. It's ready now and there is land that could be subdivided and sold, and I can be physically separated from the renters. I don't know why that seems so attractive to me, but it does.

untrained animal

She tripped me and I went down but I held on tight to the leash since there was a woman and her boxer right there (the dog being reason my dog went nuts and landed me on the grass).

Another day jogging at the lake and feeling so happy...no one deserves to be as happy as I ...cold air, leftover autumn colors, 200 geese taking off en masse and landing over by the shore when they heard us coming, deer, surveyors and 2 lone joggers.

As I looked up the woman and her dog were standing still and her dog was seated quietly by her side. I suppose she wanted to make sure I was alright. Or just wanted to take the opportunity to put another nail in the coffin of HER dog's instinctive bad behavior by giving him the opportunity to sit and wait, while all of his inner being wanted to come over and greet this other dog, play wrestle, or maybe even fight.

Honestly! So I'm stretched out with my hands on the leash and my dog is pulling toward the other dog and might have dragged me right over there if I had been a little lighter. Without saying anything, they walked on and I got up and continued my run saying things I should not say to my little "pet". I made the dog heal the whole time.

I was angry at her but before I even got off the ground I had decided to order a gentle leader on line as soon as I got home (for non dog people -- a gentle leader is a different type of collar than the traditional choke collar and puts pressure in a different place and everyone says it's much more effective in controlling the dog. While I was still on the grass, I was thinking about how I knew this did not happen because my dog is bad. She doesn't behave because I am not diligent enough in disciplining her. So let's go forward from here.

At the same time I thought this is why my girls are somewhat spoiled and my older kids think they are getting away with murder. I don't discipline decisively, consistently or effectively. I feel sorry for them which leads me to not discipline them well, and that is often fatal to raising up a child in the way he should go.

Untrained animal. This implies that the animal could be trained. I've done quite a bit of training with her, but not to the point at which I am comfortable with her in public.

My dog is untrained because I have been sloppy with her training. When you see the results in worst case scenarios like yesterday when she laid me out on the grass, it comes home. I ordered a gentle leader, a collar which I know is better than what I am using. I made her heel all the way home and I committed to returning to The Culture Clash, by Jean Donaldson, a brilliant book about dogs to help you understand how they operate. It includes lots of training instructions.

bird by bird

It was my coach's idea to get a blog. I only knew it was vaguely about the internet. The word blog was in the news and I would have deduced it was about politics. But my coach said it's a free way to try putting words out there where people can see them, I went and got one.

Why "Annie"? There are on line predators... I'd just rather not openly invite cyber-prowlers over: If I give lots of specific details about who I am, especially since my posts have a lot of personal stuff in them, I may as well say: bring your perverted self over and attack me and my girls. Thus, "Annie" and vague geographical info.

My published author friend suggested I read Bird by Bird, by Anne Lamont. I am enjoying it immensely, mostly because she is a very funny little smart alec! Her ideas are much more useful to me in the area of painting right now than writing.

I have added up the number of hours it will take to complete 25 illustrations for a book of poetry. I have looked at the hours I have in the week which are available to work on it between now and Christmas. If I give in to the temptation to go at it every waking moment, I will set myself up for a 'crash and burn' experience (one of flylady's terms to describe what perfectionists do to themselves. You get all psyched up about a project and go great guns until you burn out and then you don't have any energy to come back to it for a long long time. This not to say one should not work long and hard on something.

Anne tells a story of her little brother sitting at the kitchen table with a report on birds due next day. He had had 3 months to work on the report. Piled on the table were paper, pencils and unopened books on birds. "Immobilized by the hugeness of the task ahead" Anne writes. "Then my father sat down beside him, put his arm around my brother's shoulder, and said, 'Bird by bird, buddy. Just take it bird by bird.'"

The perfectionist in me is easily overwhelmed and therefore frozen with fear and discouragement. The growing me says bird by bird. Painting by painting. Drawing by drawing. smile.

I don't think I have the problem Anne Lamont is talking about in her book so far. Anne Lamont is coaxing her readers to just start, just pick a topic and write something down about it. I have been writing since I started with my coach and he said "freewrite". I am not lacking for ideas or energy to write. I am pretty sure I need to learn editing and reducing the pieces so that people won't be put off by all the words on the page.

Anyway, I was up late putting another layer on my lightning painting and the last layer helped it a lot. I was feeling discouraged in that it had started to look too overworked like the first sketch, and it had taken so much time and I didn't want to start over a third time. Now decide whether to paint the ground on the bottom of the page or just let the whole painting be sky. The perfectionist in me is not satisfied, but I am deciding it's done and going on to the next piece.

So much rust in my fingers! Not to mention the injured thumb caused by my untrained dog at the lake yesterday. (see post called "Untrained Animal".)

Anne Lamont also mentioned Natalie Goldberg's Writing Down the Bones. Now then my art teacher had mentioned that book. [I had also asked him to talk to me about writing since he too had published a book.] He is not a writer like that. He is a painter. He needed a kick-start because he paints and writing a book was new to him.

Which am I? Both? Neither? I am not sure but I am having a blast finding out.

Yesterday was very unusual. I tried to paint all day. I spent time cutting pieces of paper and trying to stretch them so they won't rumple when I paint on them. Standard procedure. I stuck them to various surfaces with tape and/or staples and set them out to dry. Some rumpled when they were supposed to stretch. I got out the Watercolor Book and read "how to stretch paper". It was not clear how long to soak the paper, but I tried various lengths of time.

More time was spent looking for images on line to work from. Now you know how easy it is to be distracted that way! Google will find you way more photos of rainbows than you will need! I chose the simplest photograph, knowing that a rainbow was going to be difficult enough to paint without other things in the composition.

What else yesterday? It snowed! The trees aren't even bereft of their leaves yet; that was weird.

Oh yes, the other odd thing: I fell in love on the way home from my jog. See post called "Love at First Sight".

I made myself paint and work. I printed the poems in about the size I will need to hand print them once I've done the pictures. I taped them onto the paper to see how much room they'd take up so as to paint the picture in the remaining space. That takes time, too. I am learning what is involved in doing a commissioned piece of art and that is very valuable. I have NEVER done this before.

My brother in law said today something about painting being relaxing. No, this is not about relaxation. It's about making a living and it's about sharing something good with others and it gets me excited to work on it, but no, it does not relax me.

Drinking the Colors

It was only about 3.30 when the dog and I went out to jog today but it felt like it was about to get dark, which it actually was. Sundown was 5pm. Perhaps the colors have peaked here, at least the yellows and oranges, though I know that after that there are a lot of Bradford Pears and others that give lots of brilliant reds. Yesterday when I got up and looked out it was snowing leaves. Today my grass turned mauve with oak leaves. Mauve is the color on the underside of the leaves. Not my favorite color. You look down and think, that's a lot of leaves. But if you look up -- 80% are still up there. I found my rake from last year and it has about 5 tines left on it. I hope that I get a strong wind from the West once all the leaves are on the ground. One year that happened and blew all the leaves out of my yard and down the street. I figured they may have ended up in the Atlantic. Saved me a lot of raking. I love raking though, I shouldn't worry. And I have 2 able bodied helpers with me.

The sky was thin blue and the colors were not as brilliant as yesterday. Some trees simply make me gasp. I felt energetic and we ran the route around the lake. My camera was in my trunk. Last week when I ran with my camera while stopping to take photos at the same time, I lost my lens cap.

The dog is comic relief. When we finish running, I make her go down the slide with me. She does NOT like this. So I'm trying to build her confidence with the easy ones and give her treats afterwards. Once we go down, if I try to lead her anywhere near the steps to go up again, no way, Mommy, I am not doing that again!

Should I get my camera and walk the lake a 2nd time and use up my film? Instead I decided to go home. I drove through my neighborhood and finished the roll on every bright tree and bush I saw, plus the street that is like a tunnel made of overhanging trees. They are not in color, but it looks great all year long because of the trees. I hoped people were not uneasy with me taking pictures of their houses.

The other night, there was a very dark blue sky with a spotlight from a baseball field illuminating a yellow tree. Now the mind knows that it is yellow, but I studied it and thought about how to paint it. Lots of red to darken the sky and tree. The value of the tree on the shadow's side was the same as the sky. And though I knew that the leaves were yellow, I would try brown madder or yellow ochre for the lighted side of the tree. I carried this mental observation with me and three days later I opened my paints and tried to capture the colors I had seen. I used a red background and painted over it with the blue, green and tan and .... it worked! Those are the colors. I was amazed.

I cannot count how many times I have walked at dusk or at night with the dog in the past few years and thought "It is impossible to paint that. Those colors don't exist in paints. But that was before I had a good teacher. Exciting.

Olivia's flower arrangement for church was fall foliage. What she does with flowers is a combination of painting and sculpture. She is so good at it. I remember when she did the flowers for my husband's memorial service. I just stared at the pink roses thinking: those can't be real, they have to be fake.



I am so happy to be connecting with the artist in me again.

A Well-Loved Child

The timer says 5 minutes. What's on your mind? Sun is shining in the east window but the old roller shade won't go up all the way so I cheat myself out of 75% of the sunbeam. Didn't sleep that well, a tickling cough. The remedies are available to zap colds these days...if not preventing them altogether, at least shortening them from 2 weeks to 3 days, and keeping them from turning into full-blown head colds. I blast my symptoms from the earliest moment with Vitamin C, garlic, ecanacea, Coldeeze, gargle, extra fluids and rest. Since I have used this method, I either get a short, mild cold, or the symptoms dissappear completely by day two.

The tall lovely young woman came to me last night in Smaland and asked my opinion about why African American women are so attitudinal with each other. She says many times people have said to her, "Are you from North Carolina?" because she and her mom are nice and friendly and smile a lot. She says women who grow up in our area are looking at each other in a judgmental way and are quick to fight.

I gave her my theories, the first being that with the history of oppression, and not only being oppressed and enslaved because they were black, but because they were women. OK, so they are at the bottom of the totem pole. Now then historic events have given them the opportunity to be free and have 'success'. I wonder if in their present freedom, they have adopted the attitude: By golly, nobody is EVER going to put me down again. (Can't you hear the feminist song: I am woman hear me roar....no one's ever gonna take me down again!) I wonder if African-American women have built their fence up thick and strong and you can see them peering over the top with their shotgun aimed saying to anyone on the other side of the protective fence, you take one step towards me and I'll blow your head off. I told her when we clocked out that some other time I'll tell her why I came up with that theory. It is from my own experience of coming to a place of learning about boundaries and putting up my own protective fence. It is normal to over-react when you are learning to keep your boundaries firm. Instead of just erecting your fence and going inside and enjoying your house in peace, trusting your fence, you peer over the edge and yell at people who even look towards your property: You had better not be thinking about trying to cross this line!

But there's a major flaw in this theory. It might explain attitude towards white people, or towards men, but not attitude BETWEEN African-American women, which is what she was wondering about.

The second part of my theory follows:
She described how some younger girls were looking her up and down at school and how she had to walk by them and could feel them looking critically at her. And she described how quickly a customer lashed out at her when she asked an innocent question. She thinks of the words The Angry Woman often.

I was thinking out loud and not putting a lot of stock in my own theories, just sharing them, since she asked me to: There is the breakdown of faith and family.

But here's my 2nd theory. OK, once you get out of oppression and you have freedom to work your way up towards power and "success", maybe there is a strong competitive drive: I'm going to establish myself (above you if necessary) for me and for my family. I am NOT going to be on the bottom any more. Do these women see each other as threats to their own success? If there is any validity in this theory, then being in a highly populated metro area like ours would ratchet up the competition all the more. More people, less resources, less opportunities...."if I'm gonna get mine, I had better grab on tight and not let go."

I love to analyze people and make guesses as to what makes them do things, but a much better source of information would be the young woman herself, and her African-American friends and family. I think I'll practice my listening skills on her and see what comes out of her mouth.

Oh yes, why did I title this the A Well-Loved Child?
Because after I started to get to know this young woman and observed her confidence and the appearance of being "comfortable inside her own skin", I remember thinking, "She must have been raised by parents who really loved her with lots of healthy love." Not doting on her, not disciplining her harshly, but healthy love, giving her affection, no doubt, but also freedom and encouragement to take responsibility and work hard and grow as a person. What a gift she has been given. She is such a contrast to some with whom we work, those who whine about every single thing that happens in the store, drawing attention to themselves. They may as well hang a sign on their shirts that say "Please feel sorry for me; my problems are significant, (but yours aren't).

Yes, I think she is well-loved by someone for sure.

Coaching

My profile says my blog is about coaching and I have yet to write anything about it. I wrote "That (coaching) will be an interesting post. Check in later."

It's time to do a post on coaching:

Having a personal coach is a great new thing that God has brought into my life. Why struggle alone? I like having someone encourage me. I have lived with a lot of DIScouragement over my whole life, criticism, judgment without help, shame, rejection. To have someone who is on my side and whose purpose is to watch me succeed and be happy about it, not competing with me, but supporting me, feels really good. I am thriving in this atmosphere.

In the days after I had left my former occupation, I spent a lot of time thinking about what I am good at and what I could do for my next career. Thankfully I had savings to live on while I looked for a career. That is huge and I do not take it for granted! Get as much life insurance as you can for your loved ones. Don't think you won't need it. You don't know.

One day I got an email from my former tennis coach that said "You'd be a good life coach." I had only heard of a life coach once before in a conversation with some intelligent ladies. I was whining about not knowing what to do in life, and one of them said "Sounds like you need a life coach."

OK, so one person says I need one, the other says I should be one. Hmmmm, what's a life coach?

My tennis coach had sent 2 links to coaching websites. The woman's site gave me the impression it was for corporate executive types; I could not identify. The second was www.purposefilledlife.com. The title did not really appeal to me, because it sounded like the title to Rick Warren's book. I was rebelling a just a little at the popularity of his book, Purpose Driven Life, which I had been reading with a friend. I was distrustful of book simply because it was TOO popular, which made me suspicious. Oh, brother. Lots of good stuff in there, but all I remember from it is the first sentence: "IT'S NOT ABOUT YOU!" that is profound. If you get that, you probably don't need to read the book.

At any rate, Ron Marsh offers a free trial. I'm thinking one could really get ripped off by some stranger out there is cyberspace, who could take your money and give you a bunch of hooey. But, I thought, during the trial appointment I can discern whether he is for real. If I get ANY negative vibes, I won't do it.

So we had our trial call. I was favorably impressed and decided to try it. Again after one month, if it's not helpful, I'll quit. Ron makes a point that the coaching he does is subject to God's guidance. I did not fully understand what he was saying until I got into the process. Jesus said My sheep hear my voice and they follow me. I recognize God's voice in this coaching relationship. I do not mean that Ron says: Do something and I obey. That is exactly what coaching is NOT. But his skill in asking questions causes me to discern what God is leading me to do.

Life coaching is not mentoring, not consulting, not counseling, not psychotherapy. It has some elements from these things. But it is encouragement and accountability. Now I have nice friends who love me and say sweet things to me to make me feel better when life is hard. A coach doesn't do that. He is not a soothsayer.

And I've had a Christian psychologist who listened to me and asked me hard questions to help me understand my unhappiness and how to get out of it.

And I've had a pastoral counselor who listened for long hours and gave me books to read and gave me tools to communicate with people I loved. All those stood by me and all were valuable and sent by God at the right time. All of those I am very grateful for.

At this time, it is a coach I need and a coach I have. He is more skilled as a listener even than the counselor and the head-shrinker. His listening has a different purpose than therapy. He asks hard questions too. He cheers for me when I do things I say I'm going to do. He prays with me and for me. He is God's chosen person for me at this time of transition. The hesitancy is gone. Coaching works.

I'm excited about coaching and want to go into all the details but I won't. Ron would say: not everyone feels the need for a coach, but everyone can benefit from having a coach. I know what he means now.

When I had a tennis coach, I needed specific tennis expertise. Though I could say: 'I want to work on my backhand!' it was up to my tennis coach to tell me what I needed to change and how to do it. But my Christian life coach lets me decide pretty much everything I want to change and how to change it. The Lord and I.

Bottom line, it works. I am sure of this: before I hired a life coach, I was growing. Since I hired Ron, my growth (and the joy that comes with growth) has multiplied a hundred fold.

More about this later.

Mama (about grief, partly)

I wrote this title several weeks ago because I want to write about my dear Mom. She has been dead one year plus. Daddy was here last week and he is still missing her terribly. I found a picture I had taken of her that was so typical, and a good picture it was, too. In the picture she is sitting at their kitchen table in those comfy padded chairs with wheels on them and you can see her African violets in the windowsill behind her. She is wearing her pink tinted glasses. I did not like them, but she did. She had caterac surgery and after that she could read without glasses but she still preferred to wear them. My guess right now tonight is that they diminished her wrinkles. She didn't like looking old. I gave the photograph to Daddy.

Now then, Mom. Mom. My dear Mom. We would sit at that table and have long talks with many cups of coffee and their itty bitty county newspaper in the mornings.

She stayed active. She was a PEO. She worked out at Curves. She danced in a line dancing group that performed in public. She went out to eat with her lunch bunch. She sewed clothes and was in a club in which they modeled their own creations. She did ceramics. She took an oil-painting class. She read. She stitched many many quilts, some for beds, others for wall hangings. She made me a plastic bag holder out of quilting -- a thingie you stuff grocery bags into the top of and pull them out of the bottom. She made me a quilted yardstick holder. She learned a Swedish embroidery stitch when they visited Sweden and stitched a rust colored Afghan out of it. When I admired it she made me one in blue. It took her 45 minutes to go across one row and there must have been several hundred rows of stitching.

She always had a project in her hands while she and Daddy sat in the living room after dinner with the TV on. I don't know how much they watched; Daddy would be reading his financial magazines and the Wall Street Journal.

She was a very good golfer in her day. She was beautiful. She had dark curly hair that didn't gray till very late. She never got fat. She slowed down, but always walked around the circle every night when I was there. In their neighborhood there are lots of circles at the ends of the streets, like cul-de-sacs, except they are big and have a large wild green area in the center and about 10 or 15 houses around them. A fox lived in the wild part in their circle. The Florida stars are very bright, not dulled by city light.

Mom, she always wished she had gone to college, but I think she had a lot of wisdom that "educated" people missed out on. She was practical. She and Rick used to talk about current affairs, politics. She had an opinion and let you know if she thought something was wrong.

After Mom's death, I found myself saying "Mama". I never called her that, but that is what comes to mind now. Mama.

It was so hard to watch her die. That strong beautiful woman, though old and wrinkly and slowing down, always hospitable, always compassionate. She lost hope and the doctors said "this is it, we cannot fix your problems any more." She did not hesitate. "I want to go home. I want you to get Hospice and I want lots of morphine and I want to go fast." I said, "Mom, I don't think that's legal," but that is pretty much what we did.

Hospice was absolutely wonderful. We made her as comfortable as possible. She wanted her special oatmeal with milk. She asked for peanutbutter on graham crackers. I slept in the twin bed next to hers. I heard her with my mothers' ears at night, the ears that hear the baby's slightest whimper. I gave her sips of water and bathed her face with cold water and a tissue. She had strep along with her other ailments, and we had strict instructions to keep ourselves from catching it. Hurricane Charley was barreling towards us but turned and hit farther South.

One day Mom said I think this is the day. When I woke up this morning, she said, I felt something prodding me in my back and I think it's time. She was wrong. She was a tough old bird and did not die for four more days. The hospice nurse said "She is actively dying".

I miss her. Your Mom and Dad are just always there, and that's how it is. How can she just quit like that? If I had not lost my husband, this would have been much more of a mystery. Yet at the same time, each death is unique. It is hard. I want to see her walking into her beloved kitchen....now that brings me to her claim to fame, her cooking. She was known for it.

When we returned from Africa after 11 years, I said to my husband, "what do you want to eat?" and he said, "Whatever your mom cooks." She grew up with 2 sisters and her parents owned a restaurant in their tiny town and they did all the cooking. She used to show us an old menu. T-bone steak for 75 cents! Mom.

I miss her. She would come out in the morning in her silky flowered robe and at breakfast she would already be planning dinner. I love fish, but my kids don't, so I don't cook it at home. Mom would cook fish for me. I am infamous for overcooking it, but she had the touch.

And that ugly coffee mug that had "Grog" written on it and had newsprint stains on it and she loved to drink out of it.

I wished I could take her weak, wasting body in my arms and hold her, cradle her against my chest and stroke her hair and cuddle her, comfort her. Let her sleep in my arms. But because of the strep I couldn't even kiss her. Mama.

She gave me life. She taught me to sew. She took care of me when I was sick and comforted me. She is MY Mom.

She is in heaven now being comforted by the Lord Himself. No worries about strep. No contageous diseases in heaven. She and Rick have the full picture now and don't need to worry about politics any more. Her suffering is over. She talked of her own selfishness while on her deathbed. We talked of Jesus and how he had prepared the way to heaven for us because of His death in our place. She believed in Him.

She asked me about praying out loud: How can you do it? I said it's not a performance; it's just talking to God. He doesn't care if it is polished or sounds like a speech. After that conversation she prayed out loud with me. I told her I loved her so many times and she told me the same.

Those days of turmoil and mercy. In the afternoon the clouds would roll by and sometimes drop rain. Usually they would rumble softly. Thunder without a storm. God lining up his bowling balls in the rack. The skies are so dramatic down there in the tropics. Big cumulous clouds that get drenched with color as the sun goes down. Anyway, each day I was barely aware of that rumbling thunder, though it did register in my subconcious, because I remembered it later.

I had been trying to get in touch with my coach to set up our next phone appointment. I had left him several messages asking him to call at my parents' home. Then it dawned on me: we are on the phone all day long. He has probably tried to call. So I left him a message to call my cell phone.

My sister and I and Daddy were sitting by Mom's bed. She had been asleep a long time. The hopsice people said death was imminent. I was exhausted and went to take a break and fell asleep on my parents' bed. My cell phone woke me up. I thought it was my coach and it was. Yes, he had been trying to call the house and yes, the line had been busy.

I took the phone outside and sat on the little bench by the front door. That thunder was gently rumbling. My coach asked about how it was going and I told him. Then we scheduled our appointment and he prayed for me. He asked that God would end Mom's suffering and that He would take her. When I went inside the nurse said, they have been looking for you; I think your Mom is gone. I cried to see my Dad sitting by her bed looking at her. I told him I loved him.

The thunder. When I thought about it later, I remembered that song: Swing Low, Sweet Chariot, comin' for to carry me home.... the image in my mind was of an angel coming down in a chariot on that afternoon in Florida, stopping to pick up my mom, and giving her a ride to Heaven. The sound of that soft thunder was the chariot wheels.

Running away from Hurricane Wilma (about growth)

My Dad and sister live in Florida. Having gone through 3 hurricanes last summer, I'm glad my sister chose not to face all the preps and disruption. Last year, hurricane Charlie threatened while Mom was dying and Daddy was recovering from a serious stroke. They were both at home in hospital beds. So when Wilma threatened, my sister was considering driving North. I said "You can come to me" and they did. They caught the non stop flight the next day and were here in just over 2 hours.

In the old days I used to fuss like crazy when company came, no matter who it was. The whole house would need to be cleaned, all the furniture arranged, nothing out of place and last -- and definitely least -- food purchased.

There was no time for fussing. But the thing is I don't fuss like that any more anyway. I love to have the place all clean and comfortable and inviting, but I'm not driven by that standard the way I used to be. Just come, we'll make do. (Flylady is one of my new best friends. See flylady.net.)

I put Daddy in the sofa sleeper so that he would have no stairs to deal with and since he might need his feet to hang over the end of the mattress. He is very tall. There is no footboard on a sofa sleeper. It has a decent mattress. I turned off the cuckoo clock so that it would not wake him up every hour at night. The nurse had to be near him so we put a twin mattress on the floor. My sister slept in my bed; I wanted her to feel my Select Comfort mattress. I went downstairs and slept with one of my daughters. Ok, everyone's in place.

I never thought I would ever have my dad in my home again, since he doesn't travel any more. The hurricane made that happen. We had a very nice visit. I took him to my place of employment and put him in one wheelchair and my sister in another and the nurse and I walked the entire place with them. It was fun. I wanted my sister to see the place. We ate Swedish meatballs and lingonberries and bought more Swedish food to bring home. The nurse is an excellent cook and when she baked the meatballs and made the gravy, they were very good, unlike the time I threw them in the nuker.

I rented Winged Migration for Daddy to watch -- a beautiful film of migrating birds with haunting music and few words. He likes birds. I think he liked the film, because he stayed awake looking at it. I have an old cookie tray in my fireplace filled with fat candles. I light them all and get the feeling of having a fire burning. I also lit lots of other candles to add to the warm feeling while the cold rain was outside coming down sideways.

I read The Bear Story to him and asked him if he remembered it. "Yes", he said, "I read that to you when you were a little kid." And I said, "Yes, and you gave me this book of James Whitcomb Riley's poetry. I have read this story to my kids and other people's kids.....that Alex ist made up hissef".

We took him for a walk in the park in my neighborhood. He uses his cane and is very slow, but it was good for him to be outside. He said he had to pay such close attention to where he put his feet that he couldn't look up and see the scenery very much. Another frustration of being old. It was very cold and windy. One day it rained all day.

I showed Daddy my paintings from my Maine Watercolor class in August. I wanted so much for him to be happy for me, because his father was the artist in our family and he, Daddy, paid lots of money for me to go to college and get a degree in fine arts, which until now, I never really used. I wanted him to be excited that I am painting again, but, alas....it is not to be. His short term memory is failing and he looked at the pictures and said "I've been there. This looks familiar." When he saw the photographs of my classmates, he'd say, "I know him."

It is so hard to watch that brilliant mind in its crippled state. He tries so hard to remember.

I am grateful that he has recovered physically from his stroke. Last year at this time he was in bed unable to move or walk or take care of himself. Since we took him out of the "rehab center" he has rehabbed, thank you very much. Some say that if he had stayed there, he would have died. It's a great case for investing and saving money for your retirement. He has the funds. He invested wisely and was frugal. He has social security and Medicare, but he'd have enough money for good health care without it.

After dropping them off at the airport, I did my usual bustling around putting things away, washing towels, and so on. I feel happy.

One thing is noteworthy to me: I had the choice to throw my entire schedule out the window and spend all my time with the family. That is what I would have done in the old days. I could have called out at work (everyone else does) and I could have postponed my telephone coaching class and I did consider that, but that is the old me: drop everything, my family is here. I thought about it carefully. This was not about dissing my family. This was about staying on track with my goals and letting different things go in order to be with the family. The things I let go were obsessing about housecleaning and food preps. It's ok. I went ahead with my coaching class. It was important to me to keep my mind in my priorities. Staying on track is where I am growing right now and I do not want to go back to my old ways. If necessary I would have dropped everything and spent 100% of my time with the family, but I did not choose that. It was not about being selfish, as in "This is ME time." It is about growing toward making goals, and staying on track to reach those goals. We had lots of relaxing time together and it was a true blessing.

Day 5 (last Maine Watercolor Class)

The last day it is so foggy that the sky and sea are one shape and one color. David does his demonstration under dripping pine trees. We're not quite sure if it's raining anyway. One of the guys holds an umbrella over David, but the drips off the umbrella seem to land right on his paper. David can paint anywhere and has chosen paper that dries quickly because of the wet weather. He comes up with a piece of art. Some of us take pictures of it. I set up shop out of my trunk today, which keeps my paper dry. At the critique, all the paintings look like a foggy day, but I guess the sun was shining where I was. I laugh to myself. I'll learn. Give me 40 years and I'll be as good as David.

There is a wonderful lunch prepared by David's wife, Kathy, back at the house. We are free to look around. I go looking at every painting in every room. Some are David's. The house is a big old Maine house. Simple, pleasing, but not like a magazine picture. Real. I discover a third floor with a bedroom I like. A white room with a quilt, paintings, small rugs, old painted furniture.

I meet friends of theirs from church and talk with the wife. She does substance abuse counseling and she tells me great stories. More email addresses exchanged. I notice that the other students have gone and I decide I must leave too, though I don't want to. I know these couples are old friends and David and Kathy's daughter has arrived too, so I'm gone.

The drive home is relaxing and my mind and heart are full. What a gift this week was. I am so thankful to God for this.

Day 4 (Maine Watercolor Class)

Thursday we are at the beach. While David paints families arrive and kids and dogs and all show up right in his picture. He leaves them out. He never gets bothered by distractions, just says happily 'the sounds of summer'....This man can focus. He shows us how he does those wonderful skies and gets those colors to blend. We meet for critique at the lighthouse.

We take a group photo. Somewhere during the week 'verditer' has become the word. Stephan is French and when he says verditer it sounds really good. They joke about having a white t-shirt made for all of us with verditer written on it. Our little in joke. He says about my painting: I didn't see that much yellow in that sky. I say I didn't either I was just trying your technique. I'm thinking he has no concept of how little I understand what is going to happen when I apply paint to paper since he's been painting for 40 years and I have for 4 days. He talks about some artist that much yellow brings to his mind, and I don't say what I'm thinking ("who?") I assume everyone else knows of this artist. The old insecure me wants to whine that I didn't mean to do that, but he keeps talking and I don't care if I'm understood. It doesn't matter. I'm here to learn and I'm learning and I'm happy.

Thursday night we all go to Millers lobster pound, line up at the window and order. They bring it out to us at the picnic tables by the water. Now this is the lobster I have been waiting for. We have brought our own wines and I found one named Red Truck and had to buy it. David has been using a red truck metaphor all week. Someone takes my picture in my plastic bib with a picture of a lobster on it that says: Let's get crackin'. Now then I have not eaten whole lobster except with my Mainer son-in-law and I've forgotten what to eat first, so my tablemates help me. I squirt myself and my neighbor with my first crack. Oh dear. We are all laughing. On my right I find a lady from Indiana and I tell her I'm a Hoosier, too. She lives not far from me and tells me about a class she took that I could take too. She said it was good because it made her paint every week. We write email addresses on my paper bag from my Red Truck wine.

Day 3 (Maine Watercolor Class)(tidbit about grief included)

Day 3 my white boat at Mechanics point.. It was really hot and my scalp was burned where my part is so I wore my hat. I walked all around looking for what to paint...way out onto the dock and out there I saw lots of great shapes and buildings and the U.S. Coast Guard ship and lobstermen hauling real lobsters from real traps. I heard voices of Mainers and I thought of my son-in-law and I felt there were versions of him all around me. lobstah.

I find a spot I think may get shade before I'm done and I paint. I don't know how the colors I see on my palette will look when they are dry on my paper. When I have my water washed in around my boat, wow, that's bright teal. Did I do that? I'm working on the pier and the poles supporting it and the water behind it and I can't see it, looks like a mess. David comes by. Did he say I 'popped' my boat? Don't remember, but he says take this picture and Xerox it in black and white and look at your values. They are very good. At the critique he uses the word rugged for my painting but he says I should frame it and put it on my mantel. Wow. Really? I think my mouth is probably agape. I like my little boat and I am learning.

While David was talking about the light in his painting demonstration, I decided I must offer him my story about what I saw when my husband went to heaven. He would appreciate it because he is an artist and he studies color and light. So I had mentioned I wanted to tell him a story. At lunchtime he says he'll walk me up to town to show my where the eats are and I buy a sandwich, but he wants me to tell him now. He is curious. So I tell him the story. That will not be posted here. That is a very special story that needs it's own place and time. Call me if you want to hear it. Or write.

So lunch time was long and by the time I got back out there wasn't too much time left to paint. I was less ashamed of my boat at the critique than of my former work. By this time I haven't talked too much to the others, but at the critiques I've mumbled things to the person next to me, making excuses for my lack of skill. The air is so clean.

Oh yes, the Lobster Festival started that day and they expected 90 thousand folk. I dreaded the traffic coming in to town, but there wasn't any. Where are the 90 thousand? After class Christie and friends invite me to join them for lobster rolls at the festival. We walk through the midway area and we find out that all 90 thousand are there. We hung onto each other to stay together.

I have my first lobster roll and decide that a lobster only needs the boiling pot and drawn butter. Why pay for bread and mayo? It's nice to get to know some of my classmates sitting out by the water at picnic tables. It is sunset and the colors are lovely. There is live music. I discover that one of the women is a new widow and my heart goes out to her. She displays a brave attitude. I give her titles of helpful books.

This night too I'm driving home late and the stars are very bright against the sky. I think about what colors would make that dark sky. David has taught us to pretty much never use black. My hostess is gone, so I let myself in and greet the cats. I'm tired! I don't want to go home. Can I move up here for a while?

Day 2 (Maine Watercolor Class)

Day 2 -- I paint a rusty old bell buoy against some hills and houses. To me it looks like 6th grade painting with a set of Prang paints. But at the critique he finds words to encourage me, as he does everyone. He even says out loud that I need encouragement. I wonder if this is to let the others know that yes, he understands that this is awful, but he has to say something good about it, so bear with him........

Most of the painters found shade as it was hot that day. I had my sunscreen on and still was getting burned. I had started to repaint my picture in a bigger size, trying to make improvements. He said at the critique that I couldn't reproduce what I did in that little painting. What in the world is he talking about? It's awful. But he has said something positive and looks at his assistant, who was nodding her head. It was about the values I think, and trying to find interesting shapes and patterns to make art. It was about the red truck metaphor, building the object by laying down shapes of color around it.

Verditer forever! (Day 1 Maine Watercolor Class)

My feet are touching the earth again after being home from Maine a couple of weeks.

But Maine....the light, the sun blazing on the white buildings, the ocean, the Wyeth paintings, and Andrew Wyeth's haunts, the smell of pine trees, the varied colors on wooden houses, clean air, no traffic, and lobstah.

On the drive up I stopped in Connecticut to get Verditer blue paint that I could not find before I left. I had found the store on line and it was right on my path. Now I had everything on the supplies list.

This was a "Master Class". I never did ask what that meant, but I think most of the class members had been painting for many years. I told them it had been 35 years since I had painted. One woman said welcome back.

The first morning in the rain we met at David Dewey's house in downtown Owl's Head. He had tarpaulins drawn over a table behind the house and we crowded in. Some were wiping off plastic chairs. It was a tiny space for the 19 of us. Surprise. All of the attendees were my age or older except Stephan, age 33, our cutie pie from France who illustrates for Disney and has a Russell Crowe look about him.

David is talking to those who are already there and seems a little disorganized but we get into the official orientation somehow. Then he does a painting demonstration.
His pallet is a butcher's tray and it's dirty. He wipes off the middle with a dirty sponge but it comes clean. Then he starts painting. He's talking about building a painting from the bottom up as compared to building a building from the ground up. I take notes. We all have folders with our names on them. There are maps of Rockland and the various sites at which we will paint. There are a couple pages with color information, one that shows where to put which color on the palette and a chart with grays created by blending colors and a page with landscape colors. I don't know the names of the colors yet.

He talks constantly while he is painting. No, not mumbling to himself, no. Information is pouring out. Once in a while he says something that is beyond me, but I don't mind. I'm so happy to be there and I can't wait to get into my paints.

We got directions to our first site and the rain stopped. By the time I got my lunch and got to the site, several classmates were already painting. I didn't know what to paint. I found some old boats by the water and sat down. It took me a long time to unwrap my new painting board, my palette, and I even had to go find the bathroom to wash the stiffness out of my new brushes. When David came by I was just squeezing the paints onto my palette according to his chart. Good, he said, you're not using those little palette indentations. I'm sure I made apologetic statements about not being good enough to be in this class but I was happy. He does not tolerate any sort of self abasement, and always finds something encouraging to say. He is gifted that way.

He came by later and I didn't want him to look at my picture. It looked pretty much like mud on mud to me, but, no, he said it was intelligent. I said I don't have the skills yet, but I'm just trying to do what you were telling us to do with the shapes and values. He made two sketches of similar scenes right there, teaching me as he painted about composition. I can't remember learning a single thing about composition in art school.

At the end of each day we met and put our paintings up and he verbalized what was good about each one... When I saw the line-up, I saw real paintings, by real painters. I didn't want to put mine up. I suppose I was embarrassed and wondered for a moment what they thought when they saw my mudpie, but I didn't care. I was there to learn and maybe I could get a most improved award at the end of the week. Ha. Again the words pour out of him. He is extremely verbal and has a lot of good words in his collection. I'm drinking it all in.

I stayed past dark the first night. Back in Bath I go right to bed, but I sit in bed and paint a sketch of the refinery I saw on the way home, a dark tower against a dark sky with lights on it. I dream and everything I see in my dream is a potential painting.

family family family

After the trip to the Great Northwest to be with my daughter and her husband, they came to me two days later and the day after that my son and his wife came, so my whole family was together the first time since Christmas. The weather was PERFECT. We played tennis and ate African food and grilled kabobs and sat out on the porch with a bazillion tea lights and laughed and talked till late. Everyone was tired and the next day only two of us made it to church. Then there was more tennis, leftovers, house projects that I can do myself but just have not gotten done.....done by my two oldest and one spouse. Such small things, but they are a great encouragement to me. I inflicted my paintings from Maine on them and talked about the photos of the painting class, showed them my teacher's paintings in his book and went on more than I should have, most likely.

The greatest blessing is just to see my kids laughing and playing together, especially on the tennis court. They can ALL play! The older two played competetively and are athletic and have competed in lots of sports. But the younger two were in tennis classes at a young age and have the basics. They were out there in their flip flops and could still hit the ball.

One of us is going away soon on a long trip and we prayed together.
I wish the Dad could see how well his children are doing and how they are growing up to be like him in a lot of good ways and like me in other good ways. What a great idea God had to make families.

Northwest

If someone asked me right now to choose between Maine and Washington state, it would be a hard decision. Last week I spent the week with my daughter and son-in-law in Seattle. Her boss has a beach house right on the Pacific and we stayed there two days. Besides the beauty, I was most impressed by the sound of the ocean. So much power. I kept trying to push the thought out of my head that it sounds just like the interstate, not when you are out driving on it, but when you are standing near it. That power. Unyielding, constant, pushing. I am here, I am present, I am strong, you cannot subdue me.

The view has big dark trees framing the ocean that look like the trees in a Japanese painting. The only mar in the scene is the roof of the house below us and it's 4 skylights that look like plastic bubbles. There is a lush piece of bright green lawn and an old ripped up hammock.

The prediction had been 60 degrees and rain, but the weather had moved through early and we had 70 something and pure sun for our day on the beach. We got up early and ran down past the rock to the inlet and back. We found some THING that looked like a whip and didn't know if it was plant or animal but it was washed up onto the sand and creepy looking and gnats were working on it. There were only a handful of other people around and a couple of dogs.

The house had lots of windows and a beautiful view from every side. We had our food and wine and played Trivial Pursuit. That is the first time I had ever played. Paul Simon's Graceland was playing.

We drove home the longer way around Olympic National Forest. After a short hike in the forest we ate fish in a little lodge restaurant called Roosevelt Lounge.
After dark, we took the ferry back from Kingston to Edmonds. Sure enough, we asked her husband what that creepy thing was on the beach and he knew: kelp.

While in Seattle, my oldest was anxious to get me back out onto the tennis court, so we went and bought a racquet and played. Between the crummy racquet and the rusty skills and poor conditioning (at least for me) we were both terrible. I made a rule: No one is allowed to think about their last bad shot, only their next better shot. After about 10 minutes we began to be able to hit a little better. We played a few games and she won 4 to 3. The guy on the next court had on street shoes and was out there learning tennis from his friend who didn't know much either. He, the learner, said: You probably wonder why I know so much about tennis. It's because I've been out practicing with Venus and Serena Williams at the British Open. I laughed out loud. Later he said: I would probably play better if you had on one of those little white skirts. But my favorite comment was when his "teacher" said: those girls over there are a lot better than I am.

It felt good. There was a moment when I thought: yeah, I could go out and enjoy playing again. It's been 6 years.

They have a new (used) camper named Bell and it is from the 70's but it's in great shape and only cost them $1300. Camping with a frig and stove and heater. I am thinking I want one of these. We talk again about me moving out there. Why couldn't I do that for a year anyway and see if it leads anywhere? I grab a real estate paper and look again, as I always do in Seattle. There are some really cheap houses on the way to the beach.

It makes me happy to hear my daughter talk about her new job. The smaller company is more family like and not as competitive as her former company. And it's right where she lives, no commute. She even rides her bike to work once a week and got some of her coworkers to do the same. Cool.

I painted a picture of Copalis Rock on the beach. It will take some time to learn to capture the color and commit to it while I finish a painting since the color changes during the couple of hours it takes to paint it. Mostly sky, a small ocean with no waves and the Rock. The rock is too dark and too opaque and I want to paint it once more and see what it looks like in transparent colors. I would also stretch my paper first so that it wouldn't rumple up when it gets wet. The sky was better than my first try in Maine. No where to go but up.

I dream of what I'd do with her boss's beach house if I lived there.

It was easier to say goodbye this time, knowing that 2 days later she and her husband were coming to visit me on the East coast.

Anger

For many years my frustration turned into anger and deep, burning resentment. I wanted to live a life that pleased God and I knew seething rage wasn't a fruit of the Spirit. For my college and early marriage years, I didn't even know I was angry. Once someone said to me in the dorm elevator: You always have such a pleasant look on your face.

Years later I did not understand why I was angry, why I would have these times of total frustration. I did not know how to get the anger out of my life. It certainly wasn't Christian to feel so much anger. No, I wasn't constantly angry. I loved and enjoyed my children deeply, had close friends and got along with almost everyone. But I was angry and only getting angrier. I thought godly people were so attuned to God that they didn't feel angry. What was wrong with me?

What did my anger look like? I can remember some of the incidents in which my anger came out in ways that surprised me. Once I was at the point of tears, but I could not cry. I knew I "needed" to cry, but I could not cry. I was too angry to cry. A few tears would come out and then stop. I remember dropping to my knees next to my bed thinking the tears would come out but they did not. So I took my handkerchief and ripped it.

Another time I was sitting at my desk in a similar state of mind. I got so angry I stabbed my cartridge pen into my wooden desk. Destroyed the pen and made a hole in the desk. I directed my anger at things. I still have a dent in my skillet which I made with a spatula.

Then there was the frustration on the tennis courts. Someone mentioned how they had seen a clip on TV of different atheletes yelling. When I would miss my shot, I'd make loud aggravated yells. Only a couple times did I throw my racquet, and when I did, it bounced into the next court.

I am NOT PROUD of this. I only am trying illustrate.

I have heard it said "The Bible speaks against anger." I think we think that anger itself is sin. We study and analyze Paul's advice 'Be angry and sin not'. So to feel anger itself must not be sin, right? My own paraphrase of that might be feel your anger, but don't let it control what you do and push you to sin. My own writing I would have added after that would have been: figure out what you are angry about, talk to the person you are angry at and get help from an expert if you can't deal with it yourself.

When I read psychology books, I don't remember learning anything about anger. When I went to a psychgologist, I am sure he asked me : have you communicated how you feel (angry) to the person involved? I would have answered: No, I can't do that, it would hurt their feelings.


I heard the phrase "acting out". That is when you are angry about something, but you don't express your honest anger about it to the person involved for whatever reason. The anger builds up inside you until it finally bursts out somewhere illogical. Example: If I were mad at my husband, I would slam cupboard doors in the kitchen. I would never just tell him : I felt angry when you did that, or when you said that.

I can remember asking various people about anger, speakers who would come to us in West Africa, mature believers at conferences, any counselors or psychologist types.

When I went to a Pastoral counselor, he once said : anger is usually the emotion that is closest to the surface and underneath it there is usually hurt or fear. I think from my observation this is true. I think that is why in Western culture, men are allowed to be angry. They aren't supposed to show sadness or fear because it makes them look weak. Fear or sadness isn't manly. But we expect them to get mad and cuss.

For ME, looking back on those years of frustration, I was hurt. But I did not know how to stop getting hurt, so I was angry. And I could not get rid of my anger, because I did not have the wisdom or strength to talk to the person who made me angry. There were times I could not cry I was so angry, and it made me even angrier that I could not release tears. Pitiful.

I still get frustrated at times, but the flow of my life is more even now. What makes the difference? Answer to my prayers? Yes. Antidepressants? Yes. Having learned to live with grief and having learned that all I have is this moment? Yes. Good counselors? Yes. Being told in church that anger is a sin? Nope.

There are lots of proverbs that talk about the angry man. He's the bad guy. We don't want to be like him. If we are like him, we are not pleasing God. But what if you are an angry man (or woman) and you can't seem to grow in this area? Maybe you need to learn new communication skills with someone who is hurting you. Maybe you need a counselor. Maybe you need medication. (By the way, I don't advocate running out and getting drugs as your first and only option, but I believe some of us need them in combination with good Bible teaching and mature friends and counseling and coaching.)

I don't even think I would say that the feeling of anger is a sin. I would interpret the proverbs and other passages which condemn the angry man as a person who consistently acts out feelings of anger. He habitually does not restrain himself. I don't think it's a sin to feel angry when you slam your hand in the car door. What you do about what you feel is what may be sin. Like cussing out and smacking the child who accidentally closed the door. I think when the Bible seems to talk of anger as sin, it is talking about angry actions. Everyone feels anger sometimes. I think some of the problem is semantics. And I think it will be helpful to those of us who teach the word of God to others to be careful with our words. I think it will be helpful to think about how the hearer understands the words when one says: anger is a sin.

In my early Christian circles, we used to hear "you can't keep a bird from landing on your head, but you can keep it from building a nest in your hair."

So what do you do when you feel anger? Grit your teeth and press down on the lid of your "temper" so that it can't come out? That leads to acting out.

I think of emotions like nerve endings in our physical bodies. They inform the brain of whether there is something good or something harmful out there. If you touch the stove, your nerve endings tell you to pull away. Emotions inform our brain about what is going on with other people. If someone is nice to you, you are drawn to them. You feel like, or love, or affection. You want to be with them. If someone hurts you, you want to pull back. Or you want to hurt them back. But because we are human beings, we cannot withdraw from our relationships, especially with family members. (Well, I guess you could, but that's not usually the best choice.)

When I was angry what was it that was wrong? Someone was hurting me. Life was hard and I did not know how to protect myself from being hurt for one thing. I misunderstood the Bible's teaching about anger, for another thing. I did not obey the Bible's teaching that says: don't let the sun go down while you are still angry. I knew I was not obeying this, but I did not know how to obey it. You can't just stop feeling angry when you are angry. It takes a lot of talking and it takes time....at least it takes time if you have let that root of bitterness grow into a bit fat taproot!

I want to end this post, but it keeps going on and on. I would really like people to dialog with me on this. I have more to say, but I want to know whether what I have said so far makes sense, or whether it's murky.

I think it's an important topic and I am interested in others' viewpoints on this. Am I the only one who thinks about this? Am I way off base scripturally?

Daddy - (about grief)

I walked by his room. It used to be their guest room where I would stay. He has a hospital bed and has not moved back into his own room. He was sitting on the edge of the bed. I went in and sat next to him. I said, Do you miss Mom? There is an 8 by 10 picture of her on the night stand, a very good picture. She is wearing red and looking lovely, even though she was old. He says yes. I said, I miss her, too. I miss her a lot. It's a huge loss. She took really good care of you. He is slumped over and his head is drooping. My dad is a tall man. He always looked like a huge tower of strength to me; he WAS my tower of strength, my security, not close or affectionate, but strong, stoic, consistent, a good provider. When people get old, they shrink. He is still tall but he's kinda crumpled at the moment.
I feel a little uncomfortable, but it seems helpful to talk about grief. He puts his hands to his head and tries to remember. He says that he can't remember how it all happened. I review it with him again.
Last June, Mom fell while working out at Curves, an exercize place. They have machines and they take turns on the machines. Every so often, they all step off the machine they are on and step onto the next one. Mom fell moving from one machine to the next and broke her hip and her wrist. So she went to the hospital and 2 days later, you had a stroke and ended up in the same hospital with her. Then you both went to a rehab center. Mom was making progress and ready to go home. But they said "your heart is doing funny things, we want you to go to the hospital for a few days to monitor you." When she got to the hospital, she got strep in her shoulder, knee and lungs and she had congestive heart failure and thrush and I forget what else. They said we can't fix you. She said I want to go home, I want hospice, and I want lots of morphine and I want to go fast. I'm telling Daddy we took her home and brought in Hospice and that they took wonderful care of her and that I slept in the bed next to her and gave her food and water and whatever she wanted day and night.
Then you were alone at the rehab center. You were not getting the care you needed to get well at that place, so we brought you home and hired nurses to care for you. [I did not tell him that Hurricane Charlie was headed right for us during those days. I did not tell him that my oldest sister found out she had cancer and was undergoing treatment.]
I don't remember how I finished, but I said it's hard; really hard. it's so sad. I reminded him that my husband died 6 years ago. He never remembers this, as his short term memory is failing. I said, it was awful. It hurt so much. But I know it helps him to realize I've been where he is, because it helped ME to realize someone else had been where I was when I lost my mate. I want to scooch over close to Daddy and put my arms around him and say, Awww, poor baby or something dumb like that. But I don't. Daddy has never been the affectionate type and he's always been a bit stiff with hugs. Maybe later. Then I remind him how he went from not being able to walk, or read, or roll over in bed, to where he is now. I said you don't remember the stroke and maybe it's a good thing, because you had severe headaches, and when you tried to say I need to shave, you'd say I need to bird, or some nonsense word. Aphasia. I don't know how to spell it.
I feel helpless, but in my experience, I know that talking about his loss has to help him. His face gets contorted and he starts to cry, but he never really cries. His nose drips a little and maybe a tear or two comes out. But no sobbing. Women are better at letting it out.
I am back home now. Daddy is there with his caregivers and my sister.
Our time was not ALL sad talk. We spent hours asking him questions about his childhood in North Dakota and he enjoys telling his stories. We talked with him about God. Maybe that will be the topic of another post.

Paper Plow

Today I have been churning through my papers on my desk. Human shredder. I hate the fact that papers are always there. I have files for everything. I have been packing into a new desk and a couple of new bookshelves with doors that close. But the everpresent pile on top of the desk has not gone away. However, I have been determined to clear the urgent ones, leaving the less urgent, easier ones to do yet. Made a few newly needed files and printed labels for a few old ones. It feels really good to get these things done, but what I really need is new habits so as to prevent the pile from growing big. Flylady knows how to do this. She says I don't have to catch up just jump in where she is, OK? (see flylady.net) She is a wonderful brainwasher. I made the important calls, got answers to my questions, did what I could on line.

And we worked in the yard this perfect day. I forgot to take my timer so I looked at my watch and worked for an hour. The new little garden wagon, a mother's day gift from someone who is not my son... I love it. It's going to be very useful. I also needed the wheelbarrow for the shovel and a huge bag of rich black potting soil. Four holes dug next to the wooden edging between the grass and the mulched area. The rail road ties that edge the lawn are starting to rot, but they will be hidden by giant hostas I just put there, and I won't have to replace the wood. I took the hostas from the back yard. One azalea got moved. These projects are actually on my to do list.

One of my slaves did the mowing and some of the trimming. Oops, I mean one of my children. But she is my slave until she gets a job.

The trees are full of big leaves now, heavy and rich, it's green everywhere. The wind is moving the branches around. It's very sensuous actually, the way the wind is today. The temperature is perfect. I had to take an allergy pill, but it's worth it. The adding of plants to the front yard is killing 2 birds with one stone, because I want to clear out the little garden in the back and just have grass there, so I am taking the hostas and azaleas from that spot. Bless the person who planted all the bushes in my back yard, so that I don't have to go buy them at the nursery. I only have to dig them up and move them.

The best part is watering. Tamp down the fresh dirt, step on it, dance around it. Then water it. Feels good to stand up straight. Look around and up at the summer clouds. Watch the soil get even darker. I love the way black soil or mulch sets off the colors of the flowers and plants.

It is like a reward to me for having done my paper plowing, to get to work in the dirt. I talked to the azalea while I was uprooting it. I told it I know this was traumatizing it, but that I thought it would like it's new home next to the other azaleas in front and that the potting soil would feed it. I laugh that I'm talking to the plant. I thought about the Father pruning the vine. He probably doesn't enjoy seeing us with our roots all disturbed, he knows we feel it when he prunes our branches. But He can see beyond our present trauma.

I dont know (about grief)

We talked about blogging at our parish pot luck on Sunday afternoon. One has blogged, but quit. Another had questions about why I am blogging. Why? It is good for me to revisit this question: Why am I blogging? --and attach it to my new life purpose statement, which I wrote last week and now need to USE. One said he did not have time for his blog. I said it took me as much time to write my post as it takes you to read it. Another told me of a book and said the style reminds him of my writing.

It's raining again.

So much has happened this past week.

I have an analogy in my head this week. The news of a death is like being touched by a hot iron. But normally when one is touched by anything hot, he pulls away instantly. He has a burn and it takes days or weeks for the pain to subside. But with death, the iron stays on you. It stays touching you, burning. You swoon, but you cannot pull away from it. It is a fact.

Changing the analogy, you try to replay the moment you heard the news and change the ending. You rewind the tape over and over, hoping you heard wrong. But it keeps playing the same words.

My friends. I wish I could remove the hot iron from them and take them to the ER and get them properly cared for. But I cannot. All I can do is be near and sympathize with them and help them do things that need to be done. I find myself putting my hand on my throat, taking a big breath, shocked all over again each time I remember. And I know my friends' pain is multiplied a thousand times mine. I hardly knew their son really. I learned at his memorial service how loved he was and how funny and how intense. I only knew him from his parents' perspective. Dear Father, I do thank you because of the way your body, Christ's body, has come around to help and support them. I ask for more grace for today. Just get them through today.

what to do for the bereaved (about grief)

When someone you love loses someone they love, you feel it. You know it must be awful and you are right. It is awful. And you would like to help them, but you don't know how.

Being near. Listening. Observing what needs to be done and doing it. Saying or writing I love you, I care, and I'm sorry.

Not judging or adding anything onto the bereaved person's plate.

Here are some examples:

Offer to answer the phone. Don't just hand the phone to the bereaved person, but
ask if they want to speak to the person now, or if they want you to take a message.
Bring an ottoman to put the feet up.
Get a glass of iced tea.
Bring extra ice to the home.
Bring food (in throw away containers, or labeled dishes).
Label casserole dishes as they come in the door.
Return casserole dishes to their owners.
Give money to the charity the bereaved chooses.
Hug and hug again.
Say I am sorry.
Say I love you.
Empty the trash.
Write down who called, what day and what time and what they said.
Feed the dog.
Allow permission in your own mind for the bereaved to do (or not do) the funeral, memorial service and all the traditional things in whatever way they want to without judging.
Offer to clean house, or part of the cleaning, sweep, dust, clean the bathroom...
Offer to keep out of town guests at your house.
Offer to help with gardening like mowing lawn, planting flowers, mulching.
Know where the tissues are and have them ready for everyone.
Clear the table after dinner.
Pay attention to the temperature in the house.
Go by the church office and pick up the music sheets.
Stay in the background and observe what needs to be done and do it if you can.
Let other people know what they can do.
Send a card.
Pay attention to whether the bereaved are eating and getting enough rest.
Let your children help you run errands for the bereaved.
Take them for a walk, or a drive.
Pick up relatives at the airport.
Be available.
Lend a bulletin board to put pictures of the loved one on.
Return casserole dishes to the owners.
Bring books on grief.
Be sensitive when you are on the phone with the bereaved to whether they are busy with guests, or about to eat (even at odd hours).
Offer to call people to tell them what happened.
Sign the guestbook.
Give the bereaved permission to sit and stare out the window, take naps, or other things that seem a waste of time.
Write a note about the loved one.
Talk about the loved one.
Inform the bereaved about Grief Support Groups.
If you have information about funerals, cemetaries, and so on, offer it to the bereaved.
Share music or words to hymns; write them out.
Do not expect a thank you note for anything you do to help. This is not a time for any sort of expectations to put onto your friend. I don't care what your mom taught you or what Miss Manners might say about it.
Give your expertise, such as, free lawyering, handy-man skills, lawn-mowing, massages, babysitting.
Ask the Holy Spirit to give you His leading as to what the bereaved person needs.
The body of Christ is a beautiful thing. When one part is hurt, the whole body suffers. Different people have different gifts and everyone can do something, even if it is "only" to pray.

You may think of scripture that you want to share. And understand that just hearing that scripture won't take the pain away. There is great comfort in the Bible's words for those who believe. You can share it. Sometimes writing it down for them to read later can help, since they may be so much in shock that they won't remember what you said. Just know that hearing a verse of Scripture is not magic and will not make the pain go away.

my dear friends (about grief)

My friends have lost their son and I hurt with them. They are in shock and severe pain. I don't know how to help them, but I am determined to be there for them, as the saying goes. And this is a cliche I like: "be there for them". It is so sad. So hard to believe. My dear friends, my heart is for them.

Mabel

To you, Mabel, hopefully short tribute:

You are condensed energy. You are one who does not mess around. You have gifts, you use them. You do not complain. Why bother sleeping if there are sticky buns to be made? I enjoyed it so much working with you today and our little team of kitchen elves. The spinach and strawberries couldn't have been better quality. Everyone came together. I know you like it a little quieter, I know it is hard for you to think when we are all asking, "Mabel....what about this? Mabel.....what about that?" but the work got done. I tried to keep quiet and divert some of the questions away from you. You are so smart to get the majority of the work done the day before. And the setting is perfect. Looking out over the room at shocking pink napkins in the goblets... they look like a sea of tulips. There are French doors opening out to the garden and there bloom azaleas in matching hot pink. Big, old azaleas, full of color.

There is so much energy packed into your small frame. It blesses me to just be able to help you. I do not feel any resentment, only joy. The young men opening the filet mignon and marinating it, arguing over how to do it. Competing. Testosterone jokes: "one whole filet for you and one for me". I am smiling but they don't know it. And then when Olivia brings her flowers in, her own gift is glowing. Fragrant roses in the little bouquets on each table. And she says she doesn't have any gifts! Wrong. This is how it should be when we use our gifts, isn't it? At one point -- I suppose it was when you realized things had come together and everything was in place -- you just started praising the Lord out loud, thanking Him and telling Him how good He is and I agreed with you. You even started singing a hymn. And if the Lord wills, tomorrow we shall finish the work of food preparation so that the church can come together and celebrate and finish the work God has given us to do as a congregation.

tenderness

He was subdued, quiet, unenthusiastic and dull in the eyes. Yes, I've heard that the drugs make one feel like a zombie. That is just how it seemed. Before he would be very effervescent, loud, full of cheerful greetings, calling out to everyone he knew. a little too loud. In fact, once he came into the place singing "What a Friend We Have In Jesus". It's not professional. It's not appropriate in a secular workplace. He knows everyone's name. How long have I known this person? About a year now. But I asked him how he was doing and he said better, but he talked about the meds and he did used the zombie word. After his lunch break, he filled me in. The contributing factors to depression's return. Checking himself into the hospital. Suicidal thoughts. The caring church that was too caring....his pastor brought him up in front of the congregation and embarrassed him with "love". The landlords that asked him to get a new place to live because they are afraid of his illness. Now since he is feeling better and using his meds, some woman told him that he's about the age of Jesus and he is going to suffer the entire year, and that many bad things are going to happen to him. I said who is she, is she from your church? no? How does she know this? He had no answers. So I said how does she know this? don't believe her. Maybe she's a false prophet. I said life is hard and there are difficult things for all of us, but that does not mean your whole year is going to be nothing but suffering. what does she know? I said there are blessings in life, too. When he left after we had talked off and on for most of an hour, he said he felt better and asked me when I would be there next, that he wished we could work on the same day. God has been using this person to humble me. There was the time I bawled him out because he would not do the work we were supposed to do, and he did not have my high standard, and when I followed his shift, I always had to clean up his messes. I apologized to him after that, but since then we have been slowly building back a bond of trust between us. I am ashamed that I lost my cool with him, and that I hurt him by my harsh words. True, they were, true words, but very hurtful in the way I threw them at him. Now I have realized that this person's tender soul is much more important than my inconvenience. When he asked me when I worked next and expressed that he felt better, I was amazed all over again at God and His redemptive power. After I had blasted him with my criticism, it has come around again to where I can encourage him. Now I don't feel angry or upset when I see him. I feel pity. I have to have hope. I was appalled that he might have committed suicide and that my criticising him might have been one of the factors that pushed him over the edge. I had prayed when I saw him standing there when I came in. God, please give me grace and kindness....
I am in awe of God. He does answer prayers given for His glory in a sincere tone. This is a very discouraged man. I work with him. And if God has given me a gift of encouragement, and I don't use it to encourage this individual, is that wrong? Lord, please give me more grace.

Brown Socks (about grief)

Yesterday I was looking for something in my closet and out of nowhere I found a pair of my husband's brown socks. They were tied together the way he taught me to do it. I used to roll them up the way my mom taught me, but once he said he couldn't tell which socks were which and asked if I would just fold the tops down together, so that you could actually see the sock. I've done it that way ever since. But here is a tidbit about grief. You never know when it's going to sneak up on you. They were tucked up on a high shelf between some magazine racks and my CD carousel, now that half my closet is serving as office storage.......and when I found them I just grabbed them and held them to my heart. What is it about shoes, and socks? They have that mountain of shoes in the Holocaust Museum and it is so powerful to stand there and look at it. They were clean except for closet dust. Have they been up there all this time? How can I have missed them when I cleaned out the closet and put in all the office supplies? I can't figure it out. I put them to my face. They are a really soft pair. What the heck, I'm wearing them. So I put them on and walked around the house. He doesn't need these now.
That is how grief is. It hits you when you are not expecting it. And often when you are expecting it to hit you, you don't feel it as much.
I have a lot to say about grief. But not now.

The Lake at Dusk

The lake is so beautiful at dusk. I like to go at that time because the dog can run out the whole length of her leash and sniff in all directions. We only run into a few, if any, other people. The first goslings of the year were there tonight. I made myself run though I'd rather walk. Last night Her Dogness got a whiff of something when she came out of the car and bolted into the woods, yanking the handle right out of my hand and trailing it behind her. I'd chased the handle, yelling stop. I'd get close, and she'd go deeper into the woods. Finally I grabbed the handle and pulled until I figured out she was stuck. I had to crawl onto a narrow log in the dim light hoping I was not above a bed of poison ivy and managed to get her unstuck and then tried to make her jump over the right log to get out without getting tangled again. This is when one is mad at oneself for not training one's dog diligently. "All discipline for the moment seems to be not joyful but sorrowful, but to those who are trained by it, it yields the peaceful fruit of righteousness." Hebrews. Here is an object lesson for a scriptural principle.
Then when we went onto the dock where the geese hang out, it was quite dark and we didn't see them. Apparently we startled them. The dog charged and sent them fluttering into the lake. Tonight when we went by the same place they were all warning each other: "Here comes that dog; look out."
Other places along the water.....I wonder why sometimes the geese are all honking when they come in for a landing, yet tonight I didn't even know they were coming until I heard them splash down. Maybe some geese are extroverts and some are introverts.
Little by little my room is getting decluttered. I have my eye out for a new desk. My antique oak desk is NOT computer friendly.
The electrician called back and explained that yes, even if you turn off one room's fuse, a wire may be running through that fixture to the next room and it may still be hot. Great to know after my daughter screamed at the same time the house went dark. No instruction book. She is fine. But the two daughters definitely decided not to do any more electrical installations.

Oh no, he's back (2nd follow up to I hate to be told this too shall pass)

I don't know if I should write when I'm this tired.
I was emptying out the yellow bags. I looked up and there he was. Uh oh, I wasn't expecting him. I was not happy to see him. I kept cleaning out the bags. I said to myself 'This time I'm not going to work to make conversation with someone I don't want to converse with.' He started talking about a chair he saw in the self-serve department and how he liked it. Then he asked me if I could help him. I told him there are coworkers there who can help him. He said something about giving me money and I could buy it for him. I said just go buy it yourself. He said you will get a discount because you work here. I said we are not allowed to use it for anyone else. That is against the rules. But it costs a hundred and sixty something dollars, he said, I just thought maybe you could help me. So here ensued a short yes, no, yes, no discussion. Me: I would never do that, not even for my close friends. It's wrong. I won't do that. He stood there unbelieving that I should say such a thing.
So he asked where my coworker is that he apparently has gotten to know while showing up at the place while I was not there. I tell him that I have not seen him. Off he goes looking for that guy. Now then I'm sure he's going to beg my coworker to buy the chair for him, and I fear my coworker would say yes.
I call security and let them know he's here. The former marine is not here today but the receptionist says come up and have a talk with J about it. So I head up to the office. J does not come out into the reception area, but C is and I tell her what's going on and that he is in the building. She has had the same experiences. I go back to work.
He comes back after not finding my coworker and says again, Can't you help me to buy the chair? the money is too high. I say save your money. Then he says you didn't call me. I said I TOLD you I wouldn't call you. He says he's going to leave and starts with the "anything is possible" refrain. Oh! I am so glad to see him walk away. He said he'd come back next week. C tells me she is dating someone from West Africa and his friends hit on her right in front of him. She looks at him and says doesn't this bother you? He says no. I guess it's normal.
This post is closing.
But before I close, I am enjoying the different types of responses I am getting from friends and family as they read this story.

the first of May

Children used to put flowers on someone's doorstep, ring the doorbell and run away.
The first of May is a Bee Gees song from their first album. I have listened to it a few times in my car this week, singing, remembering most of the words.
First of May, I still loved the song.
Each day I think spring must have peaked because it cannot get more beautiful than this. My dogwoods, all 2 of them, are blooming and I know any day now the blossoms will fall to the ground. They are there out my back windows and I get to look at them from my dining rooom and kitchen windows. I am excited about the baby dogwood that has shown up on the little slope beyond my back fence. It is the perfect size to dig up and transplant in front where the other one died. The rain from the weekend means the ground will be soft and now is the time to do this. But I think I won't get to it today because I need to steer my locomotive towards my writing of the newsletter that will be sent in one form or another.

I have been writing.
I have decided to write my newsletter as if to my best pal from College, Em.
That will bring out the honesty I want to put out there.
That will keep me from trying to please the various sectors of my readership, the former supporters of our ministry.
That will help me to just write.
This is the adjustment I made with my coach.
Here's an idea. Send a brief newsletter and include a printed copy of the "I hate to be told this too shall pass" post. Hmmmmm.
I've been recovering my email addresses from my old hard drive files one at a time. I've been sending an invitation to read my blog.
so far the responses are in 2 categories:
1. concern for my safety and 2. laughing hysterically with me (that's my response)
I can't wait for more responses.
I hope God doesn't give me more good writing material too soon or too often! I have plenty of past stories, Lord, OK?
I think He knows how much I can handle.

1st Follow up to: I hate to be told this too shall pass

I went to work today thinking of talking to my boss and saying 'I just want you to know'. I thought of asking him to make a code, so that I could call him and say "help". I thought of asking my son for his suggestions, but he's off somewhere untying bombs. My son would possibly tuck a bomb into his pocket and bring it home for me to throw at him. I thought of others I could ask for input.

And then the light went on. For Pete's sake, your work place has several West Africans in it.

Ok, I'm working. I see one of the West Africans come in. The confident one. Him! Ask him.

So I go "Sssssssssst!" It's been 17 years since I lived in Africa, but it just comes out. Actually it's a convenient way to get his attention, because I can't remember his name. In this country we go "Psssssssst." But I know if I omit the P he'll turn his head because he's African. He turns his head.

Our family used to use this to call each other in a crowded place when on furlough int he U.S. --- like church or the mall. If you went Psssst everyone would turn their head. But if you went Ssssssst, only the missionary kid would turn his head. Convenient.

So I ask him if he can come by my desk after he clocks in. I wait. I'm needing a cup of coffee. He doesn't come so I go upstairs.

I run into him. I say you are from West Africa, right? I said even though I lived in Africa 11 years, I need to ask you a question about African culture. Well, I tell him, I know each country is unique, but in your country is this normal? And I tell him briefly what happened. I say I never had to deal with this stuff when I lived over there because I was married.

He is smiling knowingly. I say I want to know [1.] what to do to stop this man from doing this without being mean (unless I have to), and [2.] how to understand it culturally.

He says he is starting with the second part, how to understand it. Yes. He says this is very normal. In Africa when a man is interested in a woman, he just goes directly at her just like that. In America you don't tell a woman that kind of thing.

Well, sorry for taking all the fun out of the story. It was much better an American cultural slant. And I don't feel quite so special any more. How many other women has he told he fell in love with at first sight?

I'm telling you, though, I saw a tall man with a blue shirt out of the corner of my eye today and I was looking for the first bin full of yellow bags to hide in.

I hate to be told this too shall pass

Ok, I just have to write this out.
Yesterday at work I'm minding my own business (that is, I'm working!) and in comes a customer. He is tall, he is African, he is not unattractive. He greets me.
Greeting is very important in Africa, but he doesn't greet me the African way, how is your family?

He is looking at me and I feel a little uneasy. Nervous. I get the feeling he wants to stay there and talk a while. Fine, there are not many people coming in and out, but I feel nervous because he isn't making the conversation, I am. Now I've gotten used to that in my years of ministry experience...talking, asking questions of the other person, making them feel at ease. But I am an introvert and I don't really like it to go on and on with me being the initiator.
I am answering other customer's questions and cleaning out the yellow bags - removing maps, pencils, merchandise and hot dog wrappers with mustard on them.
I feel very ready to say, Ok then, have a nice day.
But he follows me over to the yellow bags and he asks me my extention number at my workplace and I give it to him but I'm thinking why does he want this and WHY DID I JUST GIVE IT TO HIM?
He says he'd like to call and just say hi sometimes in a friendly way.
I can't remember if there was other conversation going on.... I'm sure in my discomfort I was trying hard to change the subject. I know I asked him about his sister and he said she's in school. The first time he came in he was with her and she went into the store and he stayed and talked to me for a while. We talked about Africa. He is from a country in West Africa but I had never known anyone from his country. It seems in the years I lived over there, I met people from most the other countries in West Africa but not that one.

I am friendly and though I don't ask every African that comes in there what country they are from and I don't tell them I lived in Africa for 11 years, still, since he hung around, I suppose I was curious which country he was from and just was making conversation to be polite and --- I see my job as making people happy when they come in the door and helping them know how to navigate the store -- and if that means talking about Africa, good.

Anyway this is the 3rd time he has come in. The second time he reminded me of our first meeting and then I took a second look at his face and Oh, yeah, you're from ......
This time he had a return item and went and took care of it and came right back. Then I was chattering away about the store, being nervous, and I told him about when we have our sales and that there is one room that always has sales. He went and checked that out and came back.
Honestly, he asked me if he could leave his phone number and whether I could call him sometimes and just say hi and have friendly conversation.
I do not want this.
I am busy at home and I do not want to make time for him.
I said you can leave your number but I won't call you. I don't call men. He said "no, no, it's not like that, Oh my God!"
He said I want to be like a son to you. OK, whew I'm thinking, a son, ok, it's not about relationship.
But he keeps talking and keeps saying get to know me, become friends and then after 3 or 4 months think about a relationship.
I tell him I think I'm old enough enough to be your mother.
My stomach has just turned a flip flop. What in the world am I going to do with this guy now?!
I'm glad I have 2 large bins of yellow bags in between him and me.
I have to help some customers and we are back at the greeter's desk and now I'm glad the greeter's desk is there putting space between me and this person who is making me very uncomfortable.
He asks for my phone number and I say no. He says cell phone and I say that's the same as calling my home and I don't want to give you my home number.
He says he doesn't care about any age difference. It's doesn't matter.
He has said when he first met me I was nice and he thought this woman - I think she likes Africans...he has asked sublty about whether there are racial issues. I say, it's not about race. I am pretty much in shock.

Ok I don't have time for dredging up every single detail, but he tells me that I'm breaking his heart and he's said Oh my God too many times (once is too many but he keeps saying it)
He says he has come back to the store many times looking for me, where is that woman?
He says the first time he came in he fell in love with me and that he believes in love at first sight.

Now I tell him if I were ever to have a relationship with a man again he would have to be 100% committed to Jesus Christ. I tell him that God is everything to me and that I could never even consider a relationship with a man unless he were also committed to Christ. I say He is my whole life. He has no response except that he can be everything I need. He can be everything to me.

Wow. And he is pressing his case, you don't know me and I don't know you. You have to let the person get to know you by getting closer not keeping them away...
on and on this conversation goes, it seems like a long time
it gets near closing and I have to take the gray box to the cash booth, but he waits for me. I feel uncomfortable walking away because he has told me already he likes the way I look and and way I walk.....please, where can I hide?
Right now I'm laughing because I've slept on it.
I wanted to go immediately when I got off, in fact I wanted to take my 2nd break and get my cell phone and call my coach and say HELP you're a male....I don't want to be coached about this, I want a consultation and you tell me plainly what do you say to this guy to shut him down. I've been too nice to him already, I can see that, but I had no idea what he was up to until tonight. just give me words and body language and all of it.
I'm too old to feel like I'm back in high school.
Anyway, I held fast and did not give my home or cell number. I'm thinking...what if he follows me home?!
I told him he was scaring me with that talk.
I told him I was laughing because he was embarrassing me. Honestly, he just kept standing there staring at me, and pleading with his eyes. His phone number was on a store map lying there on the desk. I didn't know what to do with my hands.
Finally he left.
I'm pretty keyed up emotionally as I do my closing duties. I'm talking to myself. The two guys in living rooms are being funny and I laugh with them. They are male; I feel the need to grab the first guy I see and say HELP, what do I do? How do you handle this? But I don't think they are the kind of guys to give helpful advice and I don't want anyone to know lest my friend comes back and people start gossiping about it. oh brother.
So I keep shaking my head. I can't believe this one.

When I get home, I think about writing this out. I've decided I don't need to call my coach and bother him, but rather I'll blog it and he can read about it (hi coach).
If my daughter hadn't come in I maybe would have called him.
Now my daughter and I talk. So I shift into mommy mode.
Lord, can You slow life down a little please?
We've talked a little I tell her there's a man from ......who told me he's in love with me at work. She throws her head back and laughs really hard. I laugh too, oh help, what do I do?
I tell her most of the story. I tell her I told him that I would never consider a realtionship with a man unless he had a relationship with Jesus at the center of his life. I tell her that I told him this 4 or 5 times. She notes that he does not listen to you. Tell him "from what I've learned about you already, you don't listen to me."
Well, I didn't think of that. it's SOMETHING!
My other daughter comes in and the first tells the second that mom has a man from ......in love with her at work. The second laughs with us and we all get on the bed and schmooze with the dog.
She says tell him you're a lesbian.
This really makes me laugh, but it's kinda too late for that.
I've been telling them I'm going to buy a fake booger and stick it in my nose when he comes in next time.
Laughter is good, very good at a time like this.
I tell the girls I'm going to get one of those paper measuring tapes and color it green and hang it from my nose.

Anyway this too shall pass. I thought about how my coach said did you ever have a problem when you went to bed and when you woke up you just had an answer? No, I don't remember ever having that experience.
But I say to myself, I don't like it when people say to me this too shall pass, because it feels like a way to negate the emotions you are experiencing. Your emotions sometimes make your friends uncomfortable and they think if they throw out this little phrase (and it is very true) that your emotions will go away and not inconvience them any more. Maybe that's too harsh. Sometimes they sincerely want to help by giving you perspective on the matter. But what I want is to have my emotions validated...........more on that some other time.

but this will pass (the sooner the better)
I did realize I don't need to let my feelings of being upset be front and center in my mind.
I thought: it's ok if I use this little cliche ON MYSELF: This too shall pass. I will figure out a way to keep the door firmly shut on this man and he will give up and not bother me.
I will ask my coach and a couple other respected Christian brothers how to deal with him and I'll do what the Lord indicates and HE will take care of things.
Now I need to get ready for the day.