Eschatology, "Second Comings," & Goings
I've been thinking a lot about eschatology lately. Largely, as a result of a book study at church on a little tome entitled, 10 Things Your Minister Wants to Tell You: (But Can't, Because He Needs the Job) by Oliver Thomas. The last chapter is "How Does it All End?" and there's much erudite discourse on the very symbolic nature of the writings in Daniel and Revelation - the main sources of most eschatological discussion. [I know this because the very worst class of my seminary career was a course in eschatology. The professor wrote the book, and I'm sure is a very nice person, but I was so mired in boredom that I fervently prayed for the second coming of Christ to occur and take one of us away from it all . . . I didn't even mind if I was the one left behind, for even a premillenialist tribulation would have been preferable to this class. But I digress.] The result of the line of thought in Thomas' book is essentially amillenialist - which is where I find myself these days. It resolves all those silly notions of whether or not Barack is the Anti-Christ, much less the Democratic nominee for President. The church chat caused me to broaden my thought process further regarding the "second coming" of Christ (previous seminary class notwithstanding). I've been letting the thoughts simmer for about a week, and I find I'm liking the sauce better and better.

If the revelatory language is symbolic . . . and Christ is to reign for 1000 years in His second coming . . . and the Bible says that for God, "a day is as a thousand years" . . . and we will know "neither the day nor the hour" when Christ comes again . . ., then is it not possible that:

Christ's second coming is perpetual, constant, daily, and hourly, as Christians live out the Gospel in their lives? And as such, are WE not the second coming of Christ?

Could not the tribulation be when Christians cease to be a part of their world and withdraw into their own cliques to the exclusion of some in the world?

If I'm on the right track, then the second coming should be happening all around us, all the time. And "the temple" is being rebuilt in a lot of "new Jerusalems" - my church, for one - and maybe/hopefully yours. And I'm pretty sure at a little church in Austin, Texas where my almost former pastor is journeying to help them share the second coming of Christ in their community. And while for me, that "going" may feel a little like being "left behind," the truth is that I've experienced multiple "second comings" in the past nine months as a result of his leadership, a good bit of clarity, and gained a new church home. Can't hardly call that a tribulation.

"Kid Stuff"

The wise guys
tell me
that Christmas
is Kid Stuff...
Maybe they've got
something there --

Two thousand years ago
three wise guys
chased a star
across a continent
to bring
frankincense and myrrh
to a Kid
born in a manger
with an idea in his head...

And as the bombs
crash
all over the world
today
the real wise guys
know
that we've all
got to go chasing stars
again in the hope
that we can get back
some of that
Kid Stuff
born two thousand years ago --

Frank Horne
December, 1942

I know - even Epiphany has past - but this entry was one I was pondering during the Christmas season, and it continues to ring true, even as the bells toll for Christmas past. I have loved this poem since I read it as a freshman in high school. I even memorized it. You would have thought I wouldn't have spent the last 32 years attributing it to e. e. cummings. I wondered why I could never find it in any cummings compilation - for THIRTY-TWO years (the dang poem was MEMORIZED). Sometimes, I am a slow learner. I was just so sure . . . Just as Bush and many Republicans are "sure" that we should remain in Iraq. That kind of certainty can lead down some fairly murky paths.

Now for the political twist. I think Hilary is a truly brilliant woman. I think she can run the country, and if she is the Democratic candidate for president, I will vote for her and feel quite comfortable. However . . . while I haven't finished Obama's "Audacity of Hope," I can't help feeling that this young man is also brilliant - if less experienced. And that perhaps, just perhaps, the greatest strength he brings to the political table is "kid stuff" and the "audacity" to chase some stars. He's my choice, and I hope to have the opportunity to give him my vote.

Good Reads

I'm hooked on goodreads.com. Who'dve thunk it? A social networking site of sorts that I actually consult on a regular basis. Recommended by friend Nathan, I'm loving this online option of tracking what my friends are reading, letting them in on my favorite books, and reading and writing some reviews. The reviews are more than just recommendations, as they are also often the stimulus for a chat about the book. I can't seem to find time to join a local book club, yet this site offers the luxury of being in a virtual online bookclub with friends who don't live nearby. And it's always neat to get a new twist on a book you liked (or didn't) by reading what one of your friends thought about the same tome. It is also a great way to keep track of books you want to read sometime, but either can't afford or don't have the time at the moment. I can't recall how many books I've spotted in Borders that I "intended" to buy sometime, then forgot all about. This way I can track them, remember them, and maybe even see what friends thought of them, before I forget them! I'm adding the link to my blog - so check it out.

And the Teacher Becomes the Student . . .

The Frau and I went to an organizational meeting of the Interfaith Hospitality Network at church earlier this week. We almost didn't go, but the Frau is on a related committee at church, and I went along to be supportive (and in hopes it might soften her up a bit in how she feels about the homeless.) As always seems to happen, when I most want someone else to "learn something" (I feel) they need to know, I come away with a few lessons learned myself.

This organization has existed since 1986, and is a simple, yet brilliant, approach to meeting the needs of the homeless - primarily families and children. We gained some definition over our own running conflict when we discuss the homeless. The Frau is usually visualizing the chronically homeless, as I play devil's advocate for those that I visualize - the ones helped by this network - loosely defined as people who have made bad decisions at the worst possible time. I couldn't stop thinking about the book, The Glass Castle (see my earlier blog on this great find), and the kids that get stuck in the middle of all this. The Interfaith Hospitality Network seems to address this very issue, and has been doing it successfully for over 20 years. A day facility is established, providing these people with an address and phone number while they look for more permanent housing and employment, counseling and social work help is available, assistance at saving their earnings (if they do have some kind of employement) toward a downpayment on a new apartment or house is provided, and churches in town provide one week of evening meals, lodging and breakfasts on a rotational schedule. It is volunteer intensive, but the costs are minimal. We were both sold on the program when we left, had signed up to be on the steering committee to begin the process of implementing the program in our city, and I suspect some hefty fodder for blogging to come up as the project (and our involvement) evolves.

Indulging the Inner Child

Well, the Frau and I bought those iPhones last week. My inner child has been alternately playing and jumping for joy. Thus, the lack of "bloggage." Now the external adult must get back to work . . . :-)

Inner Child or Unclean Spirit

Out of the mouths of babes comes some sort of crazy sense.

Christmas Eve found the Frau, the Mother-in-Frau, the Puppinator and me at my mother's house (with my sister and her fam) for the annual family exchange of carnal commercialism. I'm sure I sound very righteous expressing our little Christmas get-together thus, but this little entry should vanquish any illusions of righteousness on my part. I guess I just need a few moments of confession and self-absolution before 2008 commences.

At any rate, it was Christmas Eve, and my mother was warning the Frau that I am too much like my father and really just an overgrown kid - especially at this time of year. At which point my 11 year old neice and 12 year old nephew commented that it was just my "inner child trying to get out." We all had a good laugh, but the comment has stuck with me throughout the holidays. In fact, you could say I've been letting the essence of it steep like a good pot of tea for days.

I think I'm starting to identify more closely with the warring parts of myself. The external adult part of me loves to give just the right present at this time of year, whether as an expression of love, friendship or appreciation, with no expectation of anything in return. My inner child, on the other hand, wants to purchase these gifts whether I can afford them or not. This part of the equation I've had worked out for quite some time. A new variable seemed to enter the picture this year, though, and it surprised me. The Frau and I had agreed earlier in the fall that we needed to be conservative this year and try to eradicate some debt we've accumulated. To be fiscally spartan for a few months now could result in many months of financial freedom in the near future. My external adult heartily affirmed that course. My inner child couldn't stand not having a few small surprises under the tree for the Frau. My external adult knew that the Frau's adult side is MUCH more pragmatically established and would probably stick to the agreement to hold off on Christmas presents and was perfectly ok with that. My inner child pouted. And pouted. And shocked my external adult. My external adult took my inner child to the woodshed, and reminded that ungrateful child that she has vacations for life in the time share we recently purchased, and that in another month or so (when those bills have gotten under control) she would probably also be the proud owner of an I-Phone. The petulant child finally got control of herself and came out of her funk, but it took a couple of days.

All of this really shocked me - the adult me, that is. I haven't acted that broodingly childish in quite sometime. Whether the adult me is making excuses for the child, I'm not quite sure, but I don't think it was the lack of presents in number or expense that was at issue. Both the Frau and I got more presents than we deserved from our family and friends. We aren't lacking in that department, and are, in fact, quite blessed. But my "inner child" (as described by my neice and nephew) is that spontaneous, impulsive, and sometimes overly generous side of me - and it's the side that tends to be "the giver" at times like the holidays. And I guess I was disappointed that the Frau didn't get "childish" over me. The truth - and I know this - is that just isn't who she is. She is supremely pragmatic, and she is showing her love in far more practical and adult ways - seeing that we manage our money well so this "child" can ultimately have her travels and books and expensive new techno toys. And if she becomes "childish," that takes us off course.

The even greater truth is - I love her - and her pragmatism. As I know she loves (and sometimes tolerates!) my inner child. And while I don't think I need to banish my inner child, I do think my external adult needs to take over some of the child's responsibilities - principally, that of being "the giver." The adult just handles it better.

Silence, Lord, the unclean spirit,

in our mind and in our heart.

Speak your word that when we hear it

all our demons shall depart.

Clear our thought and calm our feeling,

still the fractured, warring soul.

By the power of your healing

make us faithful, true and whole.

~ Thomas H. Troeger in Borrowed Light

Krazy Karma

One of my fun Christmas presents from my sister included this nifty deck of Karma Coaching Cards for the Rich & Utterly Immoral. I must admit that I love them. And since everyone who knows me - including my sister - knows I am not Rich, I can only conclude that I am Utterly Immoral. Sad. But the cards aren't, as each suggests "a small activity or insight for those most in need of a karma colonic." For example, today's card said . . . "Today, say 'Thank you' at least six times and really mean it at least once." Yesterday's was equally astute: "Make a financial donation to an unattractive sounding cause and do not ask for a tax receipt." I feel my karma starting to cleanse itself already . . .

Dog Talk

We include the Puppinator in a lot of our conversations - as if he could take our side, commiserate, support, et. al. Sometimes we even speak on his behalf - guaranteeing he has a part in the conversation. But some of those canine chats are topics for another entry. This morning, he fulfilled his 3rd-wheel-of-support role. I commented to the Frau, "We should invite the girls [our neighbors] over to watch the game on Saturday." To which the Frau responded, "What game?" "What game?!" I exclaimed, "Hello? The Mizzou/OU Big 12 Championship game?!!" To which she nonchalantly said, "Oh . . ." A little while later, the game was mentioned on the morning news, and I looked at the dog and said, "'What game?' she says. Can you believe that? She's just not a big sports person." To which the Frau turned to the dog and said, "I never have been." A pregnant pause. "But I'm still just as gay as she is!" He just rolled his eyes, tuning us both out. Smart dog.

Tiger Proud

This is an especially good week to claim my roots as a Mizzou Tiger. The football Tigers are currently #1 in the nation - for the first time since 1960 (coincidentally, the year of my birth), and the recent Mizzou alumni magazine featured an article on New Yorker cartoonist (and alum), Michael Shaw. Two of Shaw's cartoons - which are now #1 in my national ranking of cartoons are shown below.

On Growing Older . . . and Growing Up

Several weeks ago, I had the opportunity to take some of my students to visit my college alma mater on a field trip. It wasn't the first time I've done this, and I always look forward to the trip. Funny enough, this "Music Day" event that the college hosts each year is always very near to my birthday - so my reflections on my student past always coincide with my annual musings on aging. For some reason, they seemed a bit more profound in their collision course this year - I'm not sure why. I can only surmise that as I'm growing older, I'm also growing up.

I'm sure I'm not the first student who dreamed of returning to the hallowed halls of ye old alma mater to teach. As I grew older, I would addend that desire - at least publicly - to say "or some place like it." Privately, I continued to hold to the original plan. At my core, I think I believed that my "journey" would not be complete until I found my way back "home" to teach. I even told myself over the past couple of years that it is no longer the same place - still a very good place - and, yet, not the place I dreamed of returning.

This last visit, though, served as a catalyst of sorts to shake up my thinking. And in a good and resolutely satisfying way, I might add. I followed my students around to various classrooms where I had spent countless hours as a student. They were seeing what the future might hold for them as a music major or minor. I was getting lost in echoes of memories in each room - a Saturday morning practice session with my chamber trio, the excitement of introduction to music literature as a freshman (yes! it was exciting!), Beethoven's Ninth and performances by Marilyn Horne and Janos Starker and countless others in the "chapel." I would wander in and out of these memories, as the current staff was telling prospective students about all that the college had to offer them. And that's when it clicked.

For years, as I tried to create my own little master plan, I was wallowing in those memories and making plans to go BACK - back to the past. There was nothing forward thinking about it. This particular day, I found myself getting caught up in the present and FUTURE of the school. It was a place that I would be excited to attend TODAY as a student. But not because it was the same - but because it had continued to GROW and look ahead. The college is still rooted in a strong heritage - some of which includes my very fond memories - but it hasn't gotten stuck there. It has continued to be a dynamic, growing entity.

The college has grown up, and I think maybe, so have I. Turning 47 (which in my mind is "almost 50") seems a good age to start feeling more like an adult. I'd be lying if I said I had no desire to teach there anymore. I don't think it will ever happen, and I'm really quite comfortable in that knowledge, and I'd certainly explore the opportunity if it should present itself. What I know, though, is that now I would want to teach there because of who the school has and will continue to become, not merely because of who it used to be. That bit of clarity leaves me content to be a proud alumnus of the school, a better potential teacher, and an adult who has found contentment in the life she has been given as opposed to the life she planned.

"Cardinal is her color . . . "

My Tree - My House

Do I really need to say more? Is this not one of the best representations of fall you have ever seen?

It's leafless now. But for a few days, for those who were taking note, it was beautiful - inside and out.

Blog Bloat

I'm feeling a bit like I used to in college in those classes where I was supposed to maintain a "journal" of sorts. Invariably, I would go through spells where I would mentally compose all sorts of brilliant observations - which never made it to paper. Then, the night before the journal was to be submitted, I'd be sitting in Perkins with a pot of coffee, trying to "recollect" all those insightful comments. Of course, I'd do my best to make them sound as if they had been written over the designated period of time, and not crafted at one highly caffienated sitting. Cyber-journaling doesn't allow that. Thanks to tattle-tale technology, if I manage to write several entries this afternoon, it will be abundantly clear that they were all written on the same date.

Get over it! And be glad I'm back-on-blog for the moment.

But Was the FOOD good?
Over lunch yesterday, the Frau and I were continuing a discussion that started in the Pastor's "Inquirer Class" at our new church. The topic of denominational "labeling" has been a prominent theme for the past few weeks, and several in the class have come from different faith backgrounds other than Baptist (American, Southern, or Rebel varieties). That prompted the Frau to float back down her Presbyterian memory lane over her 8 oz. of salad vegetables and 4 oz of protein (the new diet . . . ahem, new "healthy eating lifestyle" continues). When she was married to Herr Husband #2, they were quite active in the Presbyterian church, and she was even made a deacon in their congregation. But Herr Hubby #2 (henceforth known as HH2) was looking for some "looser" clothes between church services, and they started attending mid-week meetings of a what sounded to me like a charismatic non-denominational group. Apparently, HH2 loved these meetings (there was one for couples, men, and women), and the Frau went along to the couples' group with him, and occasionally to the "Women Aglow" luncheons. As only the Frau can state it, "It was crazy. They were slaying people all over the place, and other people were speaking in all kinds of tongues. I didn't get it, but [HH2] loved it. He was even slain once. I would sit up front so I could just sit there and watch it all. I didn't understand it." (pause) "But the food was good."
Of the Women Aglow luncheons, she said, "The ladies weren't quite as strange as the couples group. They even had some good topics to discuss, and they sang a lot and waved their hands. I didn't quite get into that either. AND, I had to wear a DRESS! I was always ruining a pair of pantyhose from all the swaying with the singing." (pause) "But the food was good there, too." Definitely not a Presbyterian group . . .

Metabolism, Metaphysics, and Mother Teresa

If this seems an odd alliterative strain to you, imagine how I feel with it being an accurate symbol of my life these days. Let's just say that metabolism and metaphysics are intersecting in crucial ways, these days, and recent news of Mother Teresa's doubts during her life have added some definition.

I'll start with the beatified Mother . . . what a relief it was to hear that this selfless and committed woman experienced doubt and desert experiences in her spiritual life. I've had a few of those in recent years - mostly feeling like I'm doing my "40 days" in the desert (with 40 days to be translated as figurative, not inerrantly literal). My metaphysical journey has taken me in search of structure and a more contemplative approach to worship, as well as a broader expression of God's acceptance of ALL of his children, which I found in the Episcopal church. And this was a good place for me, and met a spiritual need at a particular time in my life. But it didn't quench the desert thirst, if you will. I found myself becoming less and less "sure" of everything I thought I knew, and found myself saying - "It doesn't matter if you have all the answers. As long as you are sure of the essential Truth of your faith - the rest becomes 'details.'" And I'm not entirely sure I don't believe that, but it makes for a very shaky foundation on which to build your world view. It seemed like too much contemplation had led to too much uncertainty, and too much avoidance of confrontation and accountability.

On the physical side - I was growing more and more - period. And growing more and more unhappy about it. I seemed to have no will power and an extraordinary number of reasons, "issues" and excuses as to why I wasn't losing weight and maintaining a healthier lifestyle.

Both metaphysically and metabolically, I felt very much a need for re-grounding myself. And the Frau was feeling it, too, I think.

And so we made a trek out of the desert and made a stop at this nice little oasis in our neighborhood at - and I'm not making this up - the American Baptist Church in our town. Our "excuse" was that it would be a nice change of pace for the summer, and our neighbor directs the music there. Imagine our shock as the pastor preached a marvelous sermon on God's welcome inclusivity, and the service was a welcome blend (as much as I hate that word to describe worship) of liturgical structure and contemplation and evangelical freedom of expression. Conversations and e-mails with the pastor and our neighbor (one of the associate pastors) over the weeks that followed seemed to pull me farther and farther away from the desert, and more into a feeling of the true sanctuary of home.

And the more re-grounded I became in my spiritual life, the more I realized it was time to move out of the desert in my physical life as well (although, I had apparently landed in the best-fed desert God ever created). So the Frau and I, with the strong encouragement and support of 2 of our good friends who had recently been through a healthy weight loss program, signed on to learn how to eat right and lose weight. And we have been as faithful to the program as we have to church in the last few months. I had this epiphany in church a week or so ago that it seemed that getting our spiritual life moving in a positive direction had served as a catalyst and support for our physical life, as well.

Now, I don't mean to be premature - we've only been on the weight loss program for 2 weeks, but I've lost 8 pounds and the Frau has lost 10 inches (we are celebrating are successes), and I'm sure we could lose our focus. But I truly don't think that will happen. I've never felt more certain about achieving a goal - my only concern is having the patience to let it happen in the appropriate amount of time.

So . . . metaphysical re-grounding, metabolic retraining, and a symbolic pat on the shoulder from Mother Teresa saying it's ok to go through these kinds of questioning times have all intersected in what I hope is going to be a dynamic re-direction for the last half of my life. And I'll try to keep in mind that the journey is our home. Amen.

I couldn't agree with him more. I recall playing this for a wedding in college - an outdoor wedding - it had rained for several days prior - my endpin kept sinking in the mud - but those 8 little notes just kept on going . . .

Downloads & Dinosaurs

A typical Saturday morning conversation with the Frau over coffee . . .

C - I signed us up for a trial membership with Netflix yesterday.
F - Why? What's wrong with going to the video store?
C - It's cheaper, with far more choices, and more current choices. Besides, they have Picket Fences already.
F - Do they pay postage?
C - Yes, and no late fees.
F - I guess.
C - . . . and think of the gas we'll save not driving to the video store.
F - I'm already convinced. My sweetie would rather sit down and do anything at her computer rather than cleaning her desk.
C - Fine. So where are we going for breakfast?
F - Why don't you order it online?

Bumper Sticker Spirituality (aka BS)

Perhaps I've just gotten too cynical. The Frau suggests that some people are just trying to make things more "real" - "normal" - "everyday" - etc. for the uninitiated - even if it borders on triviality. I don't know - we hu-mans don't always do so well with our real, normal, everyday relationships, so I'm not sure I want to trivialize my spiritual relationship quite to that level. Thus, my abhorrance of what I fondly refer to as "Jesus is my boyfriend" music. I don't mind contemporary Christian music with lyrics that have some depth and integrity - just don't like the sappy, simpleminded stuff. Ok - this is chasing a rabbit I had no intention of chasing at this point. All I wanted to point out is some of the more notable BS I've observed of late.

Nothing will ever quite top the infamous sign, which was placed among a host of other political signs on a street corner in a small central Texas town. Actually, the "sign" was a cross, with a sign on it, that read (among the other "Bill Ted for Sheriff" and "Bobbi Jo for Country Clerk"):

Jesus - For Lord

Then, earlier in the summer, I saw a billboard in northern Oklahoma off of I-35 - yes, a LARGE billboard - and I could shoot myself for not writing it down exactly, but it read something like this (amidst a beautiful sailboat/lake illustration):

Ready to Go Boating?

Set Sail with Jesus!

And yesterday, right here in my (rather liberal) hometown, on the Missionary Outreach Center sign was the following:

This day is brought to you by Jesus.

I'll continue to post, and look forward to hearing from my friends, any particularly spectacular BS you might see in the future.

Summer Sloth

Ok, sloth is perhaps too harsh, but as my mother always delights in telling me, "if you had real job, you'd have to work in the summer - and holidays - and spring break." I don't know . . . I kind of think that after catching a couple of horny teenagers "practicing" the wrong art form in a practice room, I'm due for a little break.

The Frau and I have invested a good bit of time and money this year in making the new casita "ours," consequently, we have no money to go anywhere this summer. As the more ardent traveler of the two of us, I have surprised myself at my willingness to be more of a homebody this summer. I am loving working in the yard - not exactly slothful. And being able to curl up with a good book on a rainy day - ok, somewhat slothful. I can feel more virtuous when I'm reading about boy soldiers in Sierra Leone in "A Long Way Gone," but I've morphed into finally reading the Harry Potter series. I'm halfway through the second book, and I had to go to the gym to work out this a.m. to assuage my guilt. I'm also doing some schoolwork here and there - on my terms, though.

Staying put is giving me the opportunity to take part in a number of things I don't normally do - like have my carpal tunnel surgery (left wrist healing nicely, right wrist on deck for late July), schedule my overdue mammogram (always a joy), and "play" on the faculty softball team. Since my unfortunate bop-in-the-nose incident and 1st round of wrist surgery, I've been keeping score, but the doctor cleared me to start playing this week. If yet another tragedy strikes on the field, I may just burn my glove and call it a game. I'll keep you posted on that one.

Speaking of mammograms - someone close to me - who shall remain nameless (at her request) (like you won't figure this one out . . .) recently had her mammogram. She forgot and wore deodorant (a no-no for the uninitiated). She wiped that off, got squished, then proceeded to dress. She noticed a spray can in the changing room and thought, "how nice, they keep deodorant in here." She happily sprayed it on, only to realize it wasn't deodorant - but hairspray. Thus began the "de-application" process yet again. Typical mammogram - life saving, perhaps, but one humiliation after another. I'm sorry, gentlemen. While I'm sure the whole "bend over and cough" thing is less than underwhelming - at least you don't have to stick little BB's to it and have it smashed two different directions - with or without a heating pad.

But I digress. And it's my feeding time. And I'd really like to catch up with my friend, Mr. Potter. So I shall slothfully take your leave. For those of you who have "real" jobs, I wish I could say I'm sorry . . . :-)

Softball Spirituality

Sometimes God speaks to us in a still, small voice, and sometimes he/she slams us in the nose with a softball. I really don't think it's that hard to get my attention, but apparently I needed something a bit more firm than the "still, small voice" this week to grab my focus and slow me down.

I was already sheduled on Tuesday to have my left wrist operated on to relieve my carpal tunnel syndrome (or as a woman in my dad's church called it, "carnal tunnel"). So I was eager to play the first, and possibly only, game of the season with the faculty softball team on the Sunday preceding my "carnal correction." The Frau kept advising me not to play - just go and support - so as not to risk further damage to my wrist. Being the first-born know-it-all that I am, I saw no problem with playing, and vowed that I would take it easy. We got there early, and I started throwing the ball with some other early arrivers. . . .

I have to interject here that I REALLY love playing softball, and yet I haven't played in more years than I can identify. I played a lot as a kid - with the neighborhood kids, on church teams, and then came that fateful time that I tried out for the junior high team. I had been practicing over the weekend with my other friends who were trying out, and I was the power hitter of the bunch - the one everyone moves out into the field for. I was sure I was going to make a real bona fide team. I got to the first day of try-outs, came up to bat, my friends moved back, and I choked. I couldn't make contact with the ball to save my life - not even a foul ball. Needless to say, everyone's memory got very short, and no one recalled that just two or three days before I could really play. I didn't make the team, and I was scared everytime I came to bat in future years. Funny thing was, the first year of high school, we played softball in PE, I got up to bat and smacked a long ball, and the teacher asked me why I hadn't tried out for the high school team. I thought, if she only knew . . .

So back to our present-day game . . . Here I was - 46, and finally ready to face my fear. Indeed, I was ready to spit in the face of fear; to stand in the batter's box and laugh my loud hyena laugh in fear's general direction. But the game hadn't started, yet, and I thought I should make sure I could still throw and catch the ball before I got too brazen in the batter's box. Despite the carpal tunnel, I was making some beautiful throws and very adept catches. My confidence was up. I noticed out of the corner of my eye that the "coach" was ready to call us together for some pre-game instructions. I decided to catch the one last ball heading my direction, and then join the rest of the group. There is a critical point in the reception of a ball - "soft" or otherwise - when one's attention should not be diverted toward one's future actions. This is when God spoke to me. Right in the nose - cut from my sunglasses, bleeding internally and externally, never to hear the coach's first 2 rules: 1) everybody have fun, and 2) nobody gets hurt.

Now my left wrist is wrapped from surgery, my nose is swollen, and my left eye is black. I will be on the bench this week, keeping score, waiting for God to speak to me again (more subtly, I hope) about when I will finally face my fear in the batter's box. In my convalescence this week, I continue to ponder whether God's message to me is:
1) Slow down, and finish one thing before starting another (this is often the Frau's message to me).
2) Keep your eye on ball, but only figuratively.
3) You weren't meant to play softball, stupid!

Pizza or Soup? ("It's Not What You Think")

It was time for lunch at school on Friday, and I had a can of microwave soup in my office, yet I was toying with heading out to the school cafeteria for a slice of pizza. It seemed such a harmless choice - impacting little other than my caloric intake for the day. But . . . it's not what you think.

I opted for the soup - put the can in my office microwave and proceeded to search for a spoon. I found one on my desk, but it was a touch sticky, so in the interest of good hygiene I decided to head around the corner to the practice room that conveniently has a sink in it, to wash said sticky spoon. Harmless - yes? No . . . it's not what you think.

I unlocked the practice room door and turned on the light, in innocent pursuit of a clean spoon. Suddenly, bodies were flying and scooting about. The young lady (and I use that term quite loosely) grabbed for her shorts to replace them on her body, while the young man jumped up to a chair pulling his shorts up with him. He was, unfortunately (for both of us), unaware that his little johnny jump-up was still up and peeking out of his still unfastened shorts - although "johnny" was wearing a "rain coat." Among the many protestations I heard from the couple as I said, "Let's go" (which apparently, they already had), the most ridiculous was . . . "it's not what you think!"