Comfort Foods

Oh, they tell us not to give a kid a cookie to cheer him up.  They say it's bad to find comfort in food.  Depressed?  Don't you dare have a bowl of ice cream.  In a cranky mood?  Don't find your solace in making your favorite supper.  M&M's when life seems overwhelming?  Shame on you.

BAH.  Humbug.

Personally, I like taking comfort from comfort foods.

But then you get older.  Pizza may make your mouth happy and lift your spirits.  But your stomach says, "Excuse me?  Pizza?  It's 9:30 in the evening, you fool!"  Snickers make you feel better for 10-20 minutes, but then you pay for it later.

So where do you find comfort when you know that you really really really ought to exercise self-control, and not have that rum&coke, not have that 8 oz bag of candy bars, or not have that third slice of pizza?  (Did I say "third"?   Uh... I meant "second."  Well, no.  I meant "first."  Shoot.  You're never going to believe me, are you?)

The chocolate cookies on the counter are calling my name.

"Hey, Pastor!'

Alia has been leery around Pastor.  He has a beard; she doesn't like beards.  She knows enough of her catechism to recite and get several stars on the chart.  But she won't do it.  Today (again!) Katie thought she might.  But no.  Alia didn't want to talk to Pastor.  He tried engaging her, playing around a bit, but no, she would alternately giggle and cry. 

And then, when the stroller was packed up and Katie was headed out the door, she started with, "Hey, Pastor!"  He was trying to do several things at the moment, as well as trying to talk to the organist about one thing and the secretary about another.  But Alia persisted in a quiet little voice, "Hey, Pastor!  Hey!  Pastor!!"  I flagged him down and pointed to the child. 

She began prattling on to him about going to the library, that they were having a picnic-storyhour today, and they had blankets that Nanna gave them.  He asked about what they were eating, and she talked to him about that.  Pretty soon, the conversation ended, and Alia left with a smile.

She didn't recite today.  But she had a conversation with Pastor.  This is a happy thing!

Who Is Like Me?

Driving today, I hit up different radio stations.  Every one of them was discussing the political maneuvering du jour.  Apparently one side wants to convince me that a certain candidate is a gazillionaire, so he's not like me.  He has Swiss bank accounts, so he's not like me.  He travels the world, so he's not like me.  He hasn't had to worry about being laid off, not having an income, so he's not like me.  And so forth.  And so on.  And so on.  And so on ....

Now, whether I like or dislike this rich dude, whether I agree with him or with his detractors, that's irrelevant for the moment.  What I noticed is one underlying presumption in this argument:

What's "like me" is assumed to be "what I have."  

Silly me -- I thought that "what's like me" had a whole lot more to do with my values, my thoughts, my opinions, and my perspective on societal issues and political issues and religious issues. 



So, what makes somebody "like me"? 
Having the same stuff? 
Or having the same ideas?



That in itself speaks volumes about the perspectives of those who are trying to woo me.

Disliking Hymns?

Again and again, parents & Sunday School teachers & pastors find that they can influence likes.  Generally, we like what we know.  Teach the kids "I Just Wanna Be a Sheep [baa baa baa baa]" and be enthusiastic over that campsong, and the kids will like it.  Teach them "Triune God, Be Thou Our Stay" and be enthusiastic over the hymn, and the kids will like that.

And don't you deny it.  That's the whole psychology behind pop musicians trying to finagle the DJ's into giving their songs a lot of play-time.  What people know is what we end up liking.  

Normally, people aren't as fond of a hymn the first time they hear it as they are the tenth time.  As we learn the tune and have a chance to meditate more and more on the text, normally the hymn grows on us.

So, then, if I find myself disliking a hymn the more we sing it, might that mean there's something wrong with that hymn?

Christ and the Ten Commandments

Okay, we know that the Ten Commandments show us how we have sinned so that we know we need a Savior. 

We probably also know that the Ten Commandments show us what love looks like.  It shows us what Jesus did, how He lived, and what a holy life looks like. 

But there's also something else the Ten Commandments show us about Jesus.  Not just the good He did.  But also the injustice He suffered. 


"You shall not kill."  We killed Him.

"You shall not commit adultery."  We so often go a-whoring after other gods.  We didn't want our Bridegroom.

"You shall not bear false witness."  People told plenty of lies about Jesus during His earthly ministry.  And during His trial.  And during His crucifixion.  And people are still telling lies about Him today. 

And so on and so forth with the other commandments.   They do indeed show us the good He did.  And they show us the bad we have done to each other.   But the commandments also show us, in the cross, the bad that the Son of God endured from us, for us.

WATER

I love plumbing.  I love it when I can wash my hands by turning a faucet handle, and the water just comes pouring out the spigot.  I love being able to flush when we use the toilet.  I love being able to do one load of laundry, instead of cramming all the laundry in during the evening while we're taking showers.  I love being able to wet a washcloth to wipe crumbs off the kitchen counter. 

And we don't have water all over the basement from leaks.  We still have an intermittent problem with the hot-water tank, occasionally getting small puddles on the basement floor. But the well's pressure tank is intact and operative -- and not spewing water.  And the well's pump is repaired.  After nine days of struggling with water problems, I am again appreciative of the joys of indoor plumbing that works!  Ahhhhh.....

The Whole Truth

Remember the story of the woman with the flow of blood?  When she touched the hem of Jesus' garment, she was healed.  When Jesus asked, "Who touched me?" she came forward with fear and trembling and "told him the whole truth."

I always thought that meant she owned up to having been the one who touched Him, the one to whom His power went out.  Or maybe "the whole truth" even included her history, and what kind of medical problem she had, and how long she'd been suffering with it. 

But that's not really the whole truth, is it?

The whole truth is all that and more:  That she's a sinner.  That she was unclean.  That she made Him unclean by touching Him.  That she trusted in Him to be merciful.  That she knew He could heal and that He was a compassionate lord who desires to heal.  That He came for her.  That's the whole truth.

The Customer from Hell

It was me.  I know the salesmen were talking about how horrible I was, how unreasonable, consoling the poor dude who got stuck with me.  I'm sure the salesman's wife got an earful tonight when the guy got home from work.

Philip has been car shopping.  Late Saturday he found one that looked like a decent prospect.  He asked me to check it out with him on Monday after work.  But with my work schedule, it seemed better if I checked it out Monday morning when I went that direction for groceries anyway.  If it looked good, I could take it to our mechanic to check over.  Then we could discuss it Monday evening and, if all things panned out, he could go ahead and buy it. 

The trouble started when I asked to take it to my mechanic.  Now, understand that this is one of the biggest car dealers in the metro area.  The salesmen assured me that their cars are all perfectly safe, sound, solid, reliable. They wouldn't sell anything less. 

Yeah, right.  He's a SALESman.

I talked to our mechanic to see if he was available this afternoon.  I asked him about the guy's claim.  He actually busted out laughing.  Truly.  He did.  Which confirmed my resolve.  After finishing my errands, I went back to the car dealer and said I would like to take it to my mechanic.  The salesman assured me that it was unnecessary but that they had nothing to hide, so we'd go ahead and arrange it.  He said all I had to do was put down a $100 deposit and sign the sales contract.

Excuse me?  Sign the sales contract?  I didn't say I wanted to buy it.  I said I wanted to have the mechanic check it over, so as to gain information that would help us decide whether Philip wanted to buy it. 

Well, he couldn't just let me take a car.

Understandable.  But he wanted me to sign a sales contract?  With a price agreed upon?  And everything filled out and signed?  I told him I'd have to read it.  Thoroughly.  And that I wasn't okay with it.  Wasn't there any other way?  Nope, there wasn't.

So I'm reading the contract.  Slowly.  Carefully.  He's getting frustrated.  I'm getting frustrated.  I asked if they could drive the car to my mechanic, because I understood they might not trust me to take the car off the lot.  Nope, they couldn't do that either.  I had to sign the sales contract.  When I got to the bottom of the minute-print contract, irritated, near tears, frustrated, I saw the line that said everything in fine(r) print on the back of the contract was being agreed to too.  WHAT?  I said aloud, "You mean I have to read the whole back of this thing too?!"  And I heaved a huge sigh. 

The salesman told me repeatedly, "You're overthinking this.  You're looking at this too deeply.  Just sign the paper, and you can take the car to your mechanic."  And I kept responding, "This is a legal document that obligates me to pay you X-thousand dollars.  This is not a minor deal."  The salesman assured me that it was no such thing, that they wouldn't hold me to it if I didn't want the car, yada yada yada.

Hey, what is a contract then? 

In exasperation he finally threw up his hands and said, "Well, fine, if you don't want the car, just leave."  Boy.  Salesmen don't do that.  I responded, still near tears, "That's just what my husband told me when I phoned him about this situation." 

He talked to the manager, came back to the desk, and told me to just take the car.  Just take it.  Just go.  Here are the keys.  Just tell me where you're taking it and what time to expect you back.  And remember, since there's no contract signed, I could bring the car back, having decided we want it, and find that he's already sold it to somebody else.  He intimated that was a risk I really did not want to take.

Really?  Hey, I was way more comfortable with that risk than with the risk of signing a contract that this SALESman claimed wouldn't be binding. 

Unreasonable of me to not want to sign the contract to buy?  Gary didn't think so.  Gary asked some co-workers, and they all seemed to think it was unreasonable of the dealership to want a signed contract before having the car checked out by a trusted mechanic.  But that is not what the salesmen thought. 

So I was the nasty one.  The one who wanted to read the contract before signing.  (How unreasonable of me!)  The one who didn't want to be arm-twisted into making a commitment that they insisted was no commitment.  How rude of me.

Y'know, I'm not likely to meander through their lot the next time we start looking for a car.






Nearing the end of the day, it appears that Philip is buying that car.  Our mechanic pointed out that the car is in pretty good shape overall but would need rear brakes.   So presumably the dealership will be checking out the brakes tomorrow.  If the brakes were missed in the safety inspection, the business will fix them.  If not, and if the car is legally able to be sold, they will give him a voucher for brake repair to be used later, at their cost, with no profit to them.  But we have to wait another day to see if this is how things actually pan out.

The Wonders of a Washcloth

Someone who shall remain unnamed was complaining to me a few months ago about the bath towel getting stinky.  I kept wondering how a towel could be taking on body odor when you just washed yourself, and you're clean, and the towel is only for drying.   A puzzle to me!

I was raised to use a soapy washcloth in the shower or bath.  Some people use just a bar of soap to lather up.  Hey, I remember seeing those Zest commercials back in the day!  I always wondered where the washcloth was!  In these recent toasty summer days (in which people may be adding a quickie-shower or two to the regular daily shower) I made a discovery.  When you rub yourself with the bar of soap, lathering up, you don't get as clean as when you use a washcloth.  Stinky sweaty body doesn't come as clean.  And the towel takes some of that stink from the body.  Ick.

Hopefully this means we have discovered how to keep the towels fresh for more than a couple of days.

Don't Put on Two Tunics

Jesus sends out the apostles to preach (Mark 6).  He tells them not to take money.  Just a staff and the sandals on their feet.  "Don't put on two tunics."  Just the one. 

There is only one robe of righteousness.  Paul tells us to "put on" Christ (Galatians 3).  Yeah, yeah, I know -- Jesus really was telling them not to take a change of clothes but only to take what they had on their backs.  But still ... don't you suppose it might have a dual meaning?

The Opposite Problem

When Herod wanted to know where to find this interloper, this baby that the Magi were wanting to worship, he asked the dudes who knew the Scriptures.  Pastor pointed out in class today that, even though he didn't believe, Herod knew that the Bible would tell him the correct answer to what he wanted to know.

That happens again and again.  Balak didn't believe in the Lord, but he paid off one of the Lord's prophets to curse the Lord's people.  The people of Jericho didn't believe in the Lord, but they knew what the Lord had been doing on behalf of His people.   There are many other examples of unbelievers who knew the Bible to be a reliable source of historic information.

But look at what is rampant in the Church today.  Today we have Christians (who presumably do believe in the Lord) who don't believe the Scriptures to be reliable information.  "Did God really say...?"  They don't believe that Jesus did miracles.  They don't believe that Jonah was swallowed by the large fish.  They don't believe in a six-day creation.  They don't believe the children of Israel crossed the Red Sea in the miraculous way described in Exodus. 

Isn't it weird that even unbelievers used to know the veracity of the Scriptures, and today even the believers do not believe them?  The devil is surely pattin' himself on the back over this one.

Chuza

In the movie Passion of the Christ, I really like how we see Christians in Pilate's court and in Herod's court.  They're there, observing with grief, but still serving their employer in their stations of life. Seeing as how the apostles had disappeared, some other disciples reported what happened during Jesus' trials before Herod and Pilate. 

Luke 8 tells us that Mary Magdalene, Susannah, and Johanna (the wife of Chuza who was Herod's steward) hung around Jesus and the guys and provided monetarily for the group. 

One of our recent Bible stories for daily prayer was the story of John's beheading.  But Peter wasn't there at the party.  And since Mark was from Judah and not Galilee, he wouldn't have been there either.  Somebody who was there had to report that story.  And that probably would have been Chuza. 


This goes under the category of "We are not Enthusiasts.  The Holy Spirit works through means."

The Nice Thing about My Job

My real work --the work at home-- is never-ending.  It's nigh onto impossible to catch up on the cooking, the cleaning, the homeschooling, the laundry, the repairs, the errands, the gardening.  Sometimes I'm caught up, as it were, in one of those areas.  But never all of them.  Never even most of them.  Oh, let's get real, I can't even remember being pretty much up-to-current in more than two of those things at once.  That gets wearying.

The easy thing about going away to a job is that it's clear-cut.  You go punch the time clock.  You do your work.  Sometimes there you get everything done.  [gasp!]  And then you might be able to twiddle your thumbs or surreptitiously flip through a magazine until the next customer arrives and you snap back to efficiency again. And at the end of the day, when you're done, you're actually done.

So after a week of going to my paid-job every day, now that I'm home again, I'm overwhelmed.  Where to start?! It's especially hard to make decisions and to get motivated when you're being overwhelmed by some other things in life.  And come the end of the day, even if I zip and zap and work like a maniac, the undone items on the to-do lists will still stretch before me. 

So have any of you found solutions to this?  How do you live with the perpetual knowledge that you're not doing what needs to be done?  Or is the only real solution to reduce the amount of jobs you're trying to do?  (Such as ditching the garden or quitting the job or hiring a maid?)

More Water, Please

I can't seem to get caught up on dishes this past week.  Nor on laundry.  Nor watering the garden.  Definitely can't keep up with watering the garden and the trees! 

Symposium last week with lots of wonderful company.  Working lots of extra hours this week.  Monday is my only day off next week.  (The paycheck will be nice.  But when will I catch up on laundry, kitchen, and garden work?) 

Somebody suggested putting a fan near the entrance to the attic, to draw some of the stifling heat out.  I tried that today.  Boy, it was blowing hot air!  But it sounds like it should help in taking the "warm blanket" off the top of the house.  (Besides, it's probably also better for the stuff that's stored up there!)

We did not mow in June.  Well, Andrew did hit up part of the backyard once where the grass was getting water from the sprinkler's overreach from the garden.  As Katie says, it smells like August, it looks like Augusts, it feels like August.

The wasps are building nests like crazy.  Our wasps don't seem to be mean.  I don't recall ever being stung here.  But there are a lot of nests -- way more than I've seen before.  Then we come along like dragons, stomp on their cities, kill their babies, spray poison on the adults, wreck their homes, and cause general mayhem in Waspland.  So the poor homeless wasps keep trying to hang around and rebuild. 

The news clip from Channel 58's coverage of the presentation at symposium is now available online.  That's got nothing to do with heat and water and summerness.   But I'm throwing it in this blogpost anyhow, because, well, it happened during summer.  (Do ya buy that?!)

We are running the air conditioner.  I know, most of you think that's a no-brainer.  But WE are running the AC. We, the people who usually go for a few years between turning it on.  We, who run it for only a few days during the hottest of summers.  I think we're on Day #5 already, and it's still June.

Well, off to change yet another load of laundry. 

Red Ear Lobes

I wore earrings for about 15 years after my ears were pierced.  Then I began to have occasional infections.  Besides, at that point it was hard to manage jewelry.  You moms known how it is.  For one thing, babies would pull on the earrings.  For another thing, when you can't even go to the bathroom by yourself, taking the time to put on jewelry just doesn't happen so easily. 

So, eventually, I got back to wearing earrings.  Or trying to.  But they weren't comfortable.  Every few years I decide that I want to wear those pretty, dangly, dress-up things again.  So today I wore them at work.  For three whole hours.  Then I couldn't take the pain any more.  When I took the earrings out, my ear lobes were red and swollen. 

Why?  [pout]

I guess I should remember this the next time I get the goofy idea to wear earrings.  Maybe I should do something really outlandish and get rid of my earrings so I won't be tempted. 

Bummers.

I Believe in the Holy Christian Church

Once upon a time, I was particularly ticked at some shenanigans within our beloved synod.  At the same time, a dear friend of mine kept talking about the so-called "visible" and "invisible" church, and how we should be able to see the true church in one particular organization.  My pastor pointed out to me the line in the creed: "I believe in the holy Christian church."  He explained that the Church's holiness is an article of faith; we cannot see her holiness.  He said,

Allow me to call our synod beloved, as a confession of faith in the forgiveness of sins. Just as I call you holy by virtue of Christ's righteousness, not your own.  If you deny the one, you end up denying the other.  If you accept the one, it might make it easier for you to accept the other.

If you deny the one, you end up denying the other.  

Yes.

So, How Do You Feel About Kids?

Our annual catechetical symposium was last week.  Our congregation hosts, but people come from all over the country (and we even had some from Europe and Africa this year).  There are two large rooms at the conference center.  Next door to us on Thursday was Planned Parenthood.  Interestingly, because the Roman Catholic bishop was unavailable at the time of our district convention, we had arranged to make a presentation to him at symposium.  So next door to Planned Parenthood, the Lutherans were thanking the Catholics and promising to stand with them in the fight for religious freedom and protecting the yet-to-be-born babies.

But that's incidental to what I wanted to mention.

Katie tells me that she never goes out with my granddaughters without somebody somewhere commenting on the kids.  "They're so beautiful."  "What cute little girls."  "Aren't they sweet?"  "They're so well-behaved."  "Such pretty daughters."  Katie was afraid she'd sound arrogant saying it, but it is simply a fact that that's what she hears at the grocery store and the park and stuff like that.  Every time.

Until Thursday.

The girls were playing in the foyer so that they didn't have to be perfectly still and quiet, but Katie could listen through the doorway while she kept an eye on the girls.  The folks from Planned Parenthood came through the door, passed through the foyer and noticed the girls, and said not a word.  Not one person.  Every one of them kept her mouth shut.  Some averted their eyes from the children.  Katie said that's never happened to her before.

That silence speaks volumes.

Prayer: Asking God to Be What He Is

With the way we see prayer, it seems kinda goofy for us to pray that God be what He already is.  We usually think of prayer as giving God information, asking for help, requesting stuff.  But look at what David prays in Psalm 31:

Be my rock of refuge, a fortress of defense to save me.  For You are my rock and my fortress.

Do you suppose maybe there really is something to that thing about prayer being when we speak back to God the truths that He has already given us?

Driving and Brain Speed

Maggie doesn't drive.   When she was approaching the age when kids are allowed to take drivers' ed, I couldn't put my finger on the reason why we weren't going to allow her to get behind the wheel.  After the psychological evaluation she had recently, now I know why. 

If your brain processes things slowly, it's hard to take in all the things you see when driving, consider not only what's happening but also what is likely to happen in the next several seconds, then make decisions about what to do with your couple-of-tons of metal, and then do it.  And that would be even harder when there's extra traffic or when you're driving in an unfamiliar area, trying to watch for stop signs while navigating unknown roads to your destination.

After our IEP meeting, I've been wondering if there's something that can be done to help Maggie increase her processing speed.  The IEP which the school offered doesn't really have anything designed to achieve higher processing speed.  The remedial reading, writing, and math they're offering look to me as if they're trying to help her catch up to closer to "where she should be" according to the school's timetable.  When I look online for information about increasing neurological processing speed, I am skeptical.  Someone provides a service that purports to help increase a student's processing speed.  Will it work?  Or are they hawking a service that will line their pockets?  How can we know? 

Too often, I've seen "tests" which purport to measure a certain aspect of a person's ability.  The test is supposed to represent/reveal how a person performs in one area of thinking.  Then the person is trained and drilled and drilled and trained.  The person improves his score on the test.  But (!!!) does that mean the person has actually improved in thinking ability or reasoning ability or brain speed?  Or does it just demonstrate that the person has trained his brain to do a particular task quicker?  I found an online exercise for "increasing your brain's processing speed."  But I'm suspicious as to whether practicing this exercise will actually increase the speed of neurological connections in any area except the one which has been rehearsed and drilled.

So what's the solution?  Do we just keep plugging away with the kind of activities and books we've been using?  Do we assume that trying these therapies might actually change Maggie's brain speed instead of merely speeding her up on the exercises?  Will increased speed in one task generalize to increased speed in hearing & decision-making & academics & overall problem-solving?  Or will this kind of therapy just take time away from activities that might be more interesting and beneficial in the long-run?

Dad on Moving Day

Last night, Bethany phoned.  She and Evan were moving.  The day was getting away from them faster than they had expected.  Could we help with unpacking the U-Haul?   Of course we could!  We love them, and we've been altogether too little help and support to them in the 10 months they've been living in Wisconsin.  (Besides, it meant a glimpse of their apartment and neighborhood.  For some reason, it's terribly important to me to have a picture in my mind of the home where my loved ones are living.)

When Katie and Nathan moved to and/or from Indiana, we had help from Rheins and Caseys and a few other friends.  When Katie and Nathan moved to Texas, Nathan's dad carried a lot of furniture.  Bep and Evan had help from parents when they first moved to Wisconsin.  When we moved here, our father-confessor took charge of packing the truck while we carried stuff out of the house to the driveway.  As the mom or dad, you don't want to do too much bossing around when the grown-up kids are moving.  And yet ... you want to provide assistance (and the experience you've gained through your previous moves) to the couple who's moving.  And on moving day, the more assistance, the better!

My dad carried a lot of book boxes in his day.  A lot of mattresses and couches and freezers.  A lot clothes boxes.  A whole bunch of boxes filled with toys.  He tied things down.  He packed things in tight.  He made sure items were safe during transport.  He didn't do it just for us and my siblings, but for other people too.  It seems to be just one of those loving things dads (and substitute dads) do.