Good Friday

I lowered my face and cried, there in the dark
The shame was palpable, and long I stood.
My highest shot had somehow missed the mark,
And furthermore, I knew it always would.

Is there no exit from this wretched place?
Must I embrace despair and call it mine?
I know there must be higher and better ways,
But I can't see them. Lord; you know I'm blind.

I stretched for Heaven. He bent down to Earth
In a feat that seemed impossible, yet stood
And, paying a price beyond what I was worth,
He sanctified this day and made it good.

He took my guilt, so say whatever you will.
He took my hand. He leads. I follow still.




jc-a sonnet--4-2-2010

Some Things are Wrong

I just said it and I’ll say it again: wrong, wrong, wrong.
It doesn’t matter that I wasn’t there to see and understand it.
It doesn’t matter that it isn’t from my culture.
It doesn’t matter that it happened a long time ago.

Some things are just wrong.
And we should speak out against them.

Strangling a person who happens to be walking in your area of the park is wrong.
Beating your wife senseless is wrong.
Abusing children is wrong.
Turning another human being into your slave is wrong.
Sacrificing a human to appease a god is wrong.
Forcing a widow to throw herself alive into the funeral pyre of her husband is wrong.
Hating someone because of his skin color or nationality or social status is wrong.
Exterminating a race of people is wrong.
Bullying someone into suicide is wrong.
Getting pleasure from someone else’s pain is wrong.

We should be intolerant of these things, not excuse, glamorize, condone, and ignore them. All humans feel terror, pain, injustice and outrage. That doesn’t change from tribe to tribe, city to city, or century to century. We can say: “what happened was wrong.”
We should say it.

Are we judging? Certainly. And let the judgment come right back to us if we do these things. Oh I know it’s not the polite, the politically correct thing to do.
It is the right thing to do.

I saw a bumper sticker the other day that hurt.
It said “Against abortion? Don’t have one.”

That’s like saying: “Against slavery? Don’t own one.”
“Against cigarette smoke? Don’t breathe.”
“Against drunken driving? Don’t drink and drive.”

It says: “don’t call anything wrong, and we’ll both be ok”.
But we won’t.
Most victims didn’t plan to be one.
Innocents are hit by drunken drivers. Innocents die of lung cancer. Innocents are caught by slave traffickers.
When innocents are sacrificed…innocence is sacrificed.
In every culture. In every time.
It’s wrong.

Hosanna

Here's an old hymn for this week

Hosanna to the Royal Son

Isaac Watts (1674-1748)

Hosanna to the royal son
Of David’s ancient line!
His natures two, his person one,
Mysterious and divine.

The root of David, here we find,
And offspring, are the same:
Eternity and time are joined
In our Immanuel’s name.

Blest he that comes to wretched man
With peaceful news from Heaven!
Hosannas, of the highest strain,
To Christ the Lord be given.

Let mortals ne’er refuse to take
The Hosanna on their tongues,
Lest rocks and stones should rise and break
Their silence into songs.

Isaac Watts (1674-1748)

Alchemy

Earth
Rain
Seeds
Sunlight
Warmth
Breeze

Fragility
that cannot long survive
In grubby palms
Or dingy pockets

Yet every spring
We see again
The alchemy of God
As He turns hidden things to Gold

Picture Transfer

Microbe Hunters

Every now and then I have to talk about a book I'm reading. (Yes,probably when I should be washing the laundry or mopping the floor, but oh well, I'll not make excuses tonight.)

This book has been one of my favorites for years, and every time I read it, I marvel.
Why?
Well because it is a college textbook and it's interesting. Yes, you heard all those words in the same sentence. I know, unfathomable. You have to read the book. It's called: Microbe Hunters, was first printed in 1926, and is the history of those great men who spent their lives understanding germs and how to get rid of them. From Leeuwenhoek to Walter Reed, it traces the discoveries, vaccines, campaigns, and sacrifices that would ultimately save lives, win wars, and stop tears from running down many a face. The writer is Paul de Kruif. He writes with a pleasant, easy going style that carries you effortlessly through chapter after chapter--through labs and hospital corridors and even into netted sleeping tents in the jungles of the Caribbean. It's an adventure.

Just to give an example of the author's pleasant forthright style, I'm posting his introduction:

When I wrote the book you're going to have to read now, I never dreamed it would ever be made into a textbook that you folks would have to read in hours when you'd rather be playing football or dancing or raising the dickens generally.

I wrote it first of all because I had my bread and butter to make by writing books, and microbe hunting was what I knew better than anything, having been a microbe hunter myself. And it was more exciting than anything I knew; so, putting those two things together, I figured the book might help me make my living.

That's the real reason I did it, not because it was of any tremendous significance or importance or because I wanted to bother you people. But I always did like these microbe hunters, because they were human, making mistakes, quarreling, trying, mostly failing but barging back into the battle again, not giving up.

They weren't all brain with no body nor were they stuffed shirts with empty skulls as you sometimes find folks with big names to be. The best thing about them was that they stayed kids after they'd grown up. That's why they had such a good time digging and digging at jobs most people would call monotonous. They were really just playing.

You can buy this book online. The new version sells for around ten dollars, used books for less than three. (I have the 1948 version)

I'd write more...but...well...you know I really want to get back to my reading.

Snap Circuits

My grandson got this wonderful little toy for his sixth birthday. He and his little sister (the one with purple toenails) had a great time playing with it at my house. Of course I had to get out the old camera. I think I'm becoming an advertiser for thinkgeek.com...but not anything like my daughter, who keeps a wish list there for everyone in the household.

Snap Circuits



Here, for instance, is a picture of my grandson's toy shelf--all plush microbes and cell models.

Gifts

This week our prompt is the opening of Isabel Allende’s 1999 novel Daughter of Fortune

Everyone is born with some special talent

...and while I agree in principle, I see a problem with the places people take this. Here are two fallacies I hear expressed as a "logical next leap" of philosophizing.

1. "I haven't discovered anything yet that I'm the best at."

God didn't promise us that we would each be "the best" at something. There are a lot less "somethings" to be the best at than there are people in this world at one time. We should sift through the talents we possess and settle on the ones we can use to bring the most happiness to the most people and the most glory to God, understanding that these may not be the same. Usually, these are things we enjoy doing. Sometimes they won't be, but we shouldn't summarily discard a talent based on our dislike of it. Understand this: There will always be other people better than we are at "our gifts", but God doesn't ask us to be better. He asks us to do what we can with what we've got. Success, in God's eyes, is measured by percentage--not gross ability.

2. "When it comes to gifts, all men are equal."

False. God gives us all gifts but they aren't distributed equally. I see this with students every day. You would think that a child who played basketball well would invariably fail math class and that a star saxophone player would spend all his time on the bench. It doesn't always work that way. On the contrary, some children seem to inherit everything: looks, talent, brains, and charm, while others blend into the mousy-gray background of mediocrity--twitching a sad tail occasionally, in wimpering objection to their lot in life. Once again, there will always be people better than we are. What makes us equal is not the talent scale; what makes us equal is the fact that we all have a perfectly priceless soul and a Heavenly Father who loves us with an immeasurable love. In His sight we are all "the best" and "the most desirable" and worthy of supreme sacrifice. The road to His home, though it has been painted as overly difficult, is never an obstacle course of leaps and sprints, or an achievement test with minimum entrance scores. It's a road that challenges our gifts in just the proper places. Thus one may leap through the gate...or crawl.

The best gift is one that has been offered to everyone, one we have yet to achieve--eternal life. That's equal. Nobody's will be longer or better than anyone else's. I think we will wonder why we so fiercely tried to be "the best" back on this cursed planet where mediocrity was more common than genius, and less dangerous. It will embarrass us to admit that fame and recognition were more important to us than pleasing the Master.

Spring Break

All grandmothers should stop everything else and have a little fun playing with grandchildren over spring break. It keeps you young and creative. Here's a brief catalog of lots of wonderful moments we've shared over the last couple of days. If I call it taming wild horses, I guess it can be another labor of Hercules...but that's not really fair. They aren't particularly wild, certainly not man-eaters (although Zaya was howling loudly, pretending to be a wolf this morning...hmm. Yes, I'll go for the Horses of Diomedes labor.)

Backyard Camping--Wordless Wednesday

The Lernean Hydra

IRS

You cut off one head and two grow back.

When I finally finished doing the taxes for Turtle and me, for Claye, and for Elijah, there was a ream of paper work! OK so I exaggerate! But the IRS is rather more complicated than conservative. There were papers that came spewing from my printer with nothing but print and lines with zeros and "NA". Several pages were dignified by the brave presence of one little, measly number.

I believe Hercules defeated the monster by soliciting the help of a friend with a torch to staunch the flow of blood and keep the heads from growing back. I did something different: I only printed essentials and e-filed the entire mess of papers back to the feds. There!
They can deal with their own dragon.

Labors of Hercules

Spring break...

I've got lots of work planned and if the weather will cooperate I'll be outside in the sunshine. I discovered long ago, when I was a little girl doing dishes in an angry ocean of suds and lurking submarines, that it helps if I over-dramatize each task , so today I cleaned the Stables of Augeas. Well, not single-handedly though. I called re-inforcements: Turtle, Claye, and Sara Lee. We raked the detritus from last falls' leaves and gathered ice storm sticklets. It took hours, and we only got the back yard and the side yard finished, but it looks so nice the girls have decided to "camp out" in the yard tonight...make s'mores, fry bacon, and just pretend they are out in the wild.

It really looked more like a natural forest with all the leaves on the ground, but hey, this is America--we sweep our yards. I'm not at all tempted to camp out in the tame...or the wild for that matter. I hope they don't encounter a Caledonian Boar or a Nemean Lion out there.

Are They My Poor? My Weak?

When I think of books making an impact on my life, words fail me. I've known so many books--some inspiring, some frivolous, some comforting, and some that left me stunned. I particularly remember reading one of the latter when I was a junior in high school, because it brought me to a crossroads of faith. After reading that book, I had to question everything I had been taught about the meaning of life.

It was a novel, compelling and persuasive, a passionate argument that everything we do is in the end, self-serving, and that's fine, because selfishness itself is a virtue.
The name of the Book? Atlas Shrugged, by Ayn Rand.

She had been raised a Communist, in a world where the government was God, and self-improvement, i.e. Capitalism, was forbidden. Her cries are genuine and understandable. Why should the motivated, the intelligent, and the sane continue to bear the burden of the weak, the mentally inferior, and the lazy? We should let them die, she argues, for the good of the human race, so that we may soar unhindered to something better and braver, unencumbered by the weight of the unfortunate.
Selfishness is a virtue.

This was all a new concept to me; my ancestors were Mennonite immigrants: ministers, teachers, farmers--they all believed that life on earth was simply a fraction of a greater existence, and our service here would be rewarded elsewhere. My grandparents and my parents had opened their homes to many. We gave--even as children we gave--to the poor. Some of the poor were my best friends in high school. They kept me from being accepted by the popular crowd. They kept me from "being all that I could be". Was it time to change all that? I had to make a choice.

Looking back, now, I'm surprised that I wrestled with this as long as I did--over an hour, as I remember--but I was young, proud, ambitious and ripe for philosophies such as this; Rand had made it seem such a noble thing.

What made the difference was God.
She didn't have one; I did.
It was that simple.

If there is no God, one should grab everything he can. Life will soon go out...as it did one day for Ayn Rand. But if there is a God, we will someday answer to Him.
Did we see Him poor, hungry, thirsty, and naked?
Did we hurry by, in a glorious ambition for excellence and self-fulfillment?
Jesus told his disciples one day that the kings of the earth measure greatness by counting how many servants they have; He said that's not how it should be. One should count greatness by how many he is able to serve.

My parents would never be great, by Ayn Rand's standards,
but in God's sight, and in mine, they would shine like stars forever.

I have to say that the book--compelling as it was--didn't really stand a chance, for what I saw modeled daily was love.
Love trumps selfishness.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Each day just goes so fast I turn around - it’s past

Like raindrops down the glass
the hours escape my grasp.

I'll hold your pointed hands
I'll muffle your solemn chimes

I'll ... tick tick tick
You still can talk?
I plead. I cry.
You move. You mock.
And life is measured
by a clock.

Our Carry On Tuesday Prompt was this line from an old song. "Each day just goes so fast. I turn around--it's past".

Big Dreams

After our impressionable four-year-old daughter Carina saw Mary Lou Retton at the 1984 Olympics, her favorite game was "gymnastics". She would insist that we watch as she went through various routines involving somersaults and crooked cartwheels. Of course, we applauded and showered her little world with imaginary gold medals and gloriously vivid bouquets of praise!

This lasted until the closing ceremony, whereupon she took up break dancing and learned to spin on her head. In no time at all, she had broken hairs standing up like a baby ostrich. From there it was on to penny drops off the swing and hand stands. So, in order to preserve our sanity and teach her safety and caution, we enrolled her in a local gymnastics class.

Several years later, as a fourth-grader, she made the team, and, although money was not exactly easy to find around our house, we stepped-up practices and car pool negotiations, and some days dragged little sister and baby brother along to the gym twenty miles away. It was thrilling to watch her perform and, like all moms, I was proud, regardless of the sacrifices.

Carina's first real competition was in the city--a couple of hours away. It was going well, and all the moms were beaming as their glitzy little daughters finished the first half. She came running over--all smiles and sparkles.
"Did you see me?"
"Of course. You did really well out there."
"I only have one more element to go--the vault."
"Your coach is really happy with you. She says if you do well on this last one, you will be in the semi-finals and we will come back tomorrow."
She stopped; the smile disappeared.
"Tomorrow?"
"Why yes. Don't worry, Dad and I will bring you."
A strange little smile crept over her face.
"Does that mean," that if I don't do well on this last element, I won't have to come back?"
"Carina! You go out there and do your best! Don't even think about letting your team down."
"It's ok, Mom. I'll do my best."

So she did, and they all did, but the team didn't make the next round.

On the way home we had a talk:
"Did you enjoy the competition?"
"It was fun, but I'm glad I don't have to go back another whole day."
"Well that's what it means to be on a team though; you have to be willing to compete."
"I'm just tired of it."
"Do you not want to do gymnastics any more?"
"Mom. I really just want to be a little girl who can go outside and play in the back yard."

And that was that. I wasn't going to spend hours and money to bolster a dream that had fizzled. We quit gymnastics and spent our time at home.

So what was the outcome?
Well it was a great relief for the entire family. Carina was happy and excited. Her little brother and sister were thrilled with her attention, for, of course, all that energy didn't just disappear; she just re-channeled it. Almost at once, Carina became the director of backyard Olympia and orchestrated games for the entire neighborhood of twenty younger children. We had castle and dragon games, Kidville games, spy games, and mysterious island games replete with ragged, raging pirates. Her practice balance beam became a draw bridge over the moat, a fallen log in Sherwood forest, and a plank for punishing nasty, murderous villains.

All the children from that era are grown now, and the neighborhood is quiet, but they still remember that world with a misty fondness--a place they can never re-capture. Ironically enough, Carina and her amazing husband Art bought that house, completely re-built it, and live there today with their two little wide-eyed star gazers.

Her big dream might have fizzled, but her biggest dreams came true.

Our Sunday Scribblings prompt was "Big Dreams"

Zaya's Almost Six Coloring Party

It's getting close to Zaya's birthday--close enough for a little party anyway--so we had one today. He picked out the cake--lemon icing and yellow cake, and smiled pretty much all day, even when his dad gave him a birthday "spanking" (and one to grow on). We gave him a space exploration "kit"--stickers, books, and translucent color books. Then, for good measure, we threw in a my first classical composers piano book, sketch pad and "how to draw" sea creatures book, learning how to write Chinese book, and several "stained glass" translucent color books--ocean for Zaya and butterflies and flowers for Mim. Then grandpa gave them each a little "lantern" flashlight. So for the rest of the afternoon, as we visited off and on, we colored around the coffee table...all of us except grandpa (who worked on his sermon) and Elijah (who played Beatles guitar hero while everyone else took turns singing for him.) So if you know this family at all you will probably be able to guess who gave him what present. Their mom,Carina, brought some edible play doh--hoping, of course that the mess would all be made at grandma's house. (If you are ever tempted to buy any, don't. Just get sugar cookie mix and a set of food colors. Put a little extra flour in it and let them play.)
In a little while Zaya and Mim slipped away into the living room, (I think the adults had taken over the den coffee table for their coloring endeavors.) and I heard him say: "Come on, Mim, We're going to need a level surface." Taking a quick check on them later, I discovered the cushion house they had constructed together and took a picture of the star/planet stain glass windows they were making. What I didn't catch--until later when I developed this picture--were the two soft drink cans (It is strictly forbidden to carry these out of the kitchen, but they somehow managed.) Mim is wearing the red dress she always puts on at our house. Let's hope she overcomes the penchant for wearing it before she outgrows the dress. It doesn't quite match the pink suit underneath it, but how can you argue with such an angel?

Later, Zaya drew this and presented me with it--my own gold G'ma trophy.
I think the day was a hit!

Rhyming Quandary in a Limerick

An elderly fellow named James
Complained, upon seeing the Thames,
I can't understand
All the guides in this land
They certainly can't pronounce names!

Legal--but not Ethical

My seniors study a bit of philosophy, and we just finished a unit on 'ethics'. One of my students from Indonesia, who aspires to be an honest politician, has latched onto this phrase and uses it in odd moments--at the concession stand, for instance, when someone wants to sell the leftover,overcooked and bursting cheese sticks with the advertisement:
"cheese bursts--an explosion of flavor".

"Legal, but not ethical", he cautions, happy to have caught me at my own game.

It isn't quite true that we cannot legislate morality. Otherwise why would there be laws at all--not driving under the influence, paying for someone's goods and services instead of stealing them, nurturing children instead of stringing them up by their thumbs or chaining them in the basement, not slandering your neighbor in court--these are moral versus immoral behaviors and we legislate them all the time. We prevent anarchy by controlling what people do.

But there is a morality we cannot legislate; it is the morality of the heart: The "ought" in "What ought you to do?" It mimics the character of God and flies contrarily in the face of what is easiest, and what may seem beneficial at the time. Ethics is about others, and our desire to give them the same consideration we want for ourselves. It is about not taking advantage of someone's subservient position, innocence, or ignorance in order to advance our own pleasure at their expense.

Ethics holds true even when the law goes contrary to conscience.

My son has an elderly Russian friend who grew up in Communist Russia. He asked her why her uncles had been arrested and she said: "You ask the wrong question. The question should be "What year were they arrested?" The law had clearly become unethical...as it often does.

Ethics is about what is right. That doesn't always square with what the current law demands.

Germany had a holocaust and murdered over six million Jews: Legal--but not ethical.
For years, slaves from Africa were sold around the world: Legal--but not ethical.
Native Americans were driven from their lands, because of broken treaties: Legal--but not ethical.
In some countries today women have no basic rights: Legal--but not ethical.
In others, unwanted children are murdered before birth so they "won't be abused" afterward: Legal--but not ethical.

And while I respect the laws of the land, there is a law within me that I have to live with--a higher standard. If I don't, I will have to answer for it, and a poor defense will be: "but it was legal"



Our Sunday Scribblings Prompt was: Ethics/Ethical

Sunny and Stormy

I had a couple of visitors last Sunday afternoon--lovable little girls. These affectionate sisters are just eleven months apart in age, and look a lot alike, but there is a great difference in their dispositions.

Since my house is still full of toys my own grandchildren have outgrown, it was just the right mix of playthings for them. I fed them eggs, ham and orange juice--all healthy stuff, of course. Then I broke down and gave them each a handful of m and m's. Sunny saved her green ones for when Stormy began to cry for more; then she handed them over one at a time to pacify the storm. That was pretty much a pattern all day. Their mom can't figure out why the younger one cries all the time when she doesn't get what she wants. I told her to blame little Sunshine, who loves her sister and doesn't like to see her cry.





Stormy put the frog in the bucket, screwed the magnifying lid on, hung it around her neck and called it her "Ribet in a drum".

Anyway, they are precious little girls.