Because I'm God, and you're not

(This photo was taken Saturday afternoon, just before the storm hit. This picture mirrors what I sometimes feel when the pressures get to be a bit much.)




I have a confession to make. My prayer life has suffered a bit lately, and I know why.

When I prayed for a friend’s cancer diagnosis to be negative, it came back positive.

When I prayed for my job to continue as it has for quite some time, the answer came in a firm declaration of reduced hours.

When I prayed for the healing of family relationships, the answer was a stony silence.

When I prayed for our dog’s seizures to cease, the answer came back No.

And when I prayed for medicine for myself to ease the anxiety that the above “answers” gave me, the reply was, once again, No.

I had an argument with God the other day about these things. I pointed out that back in 1978, hubby and I had faith that our youngest son would make it out of the hospital and come home with us. Didn’t happen. Two weeks after Luke died, I had a long, drawn-out angry yell-fest with God. If I remember correctly, and I think I do, I mentioned something about hoping He’d taken enough from me, and could He please start answering my prayers – now?

In 2002, we saw our oldest son for the last time. We don’t know where he is, or whether he’s alive. Many friends and most of the family know about this; still, no one asks about him anymore and for some dumb reason, I was blaming that on God too. Every birthday, Father’s Day, Mother’s Day, holiday – or any day, really – brings our son to mind and heart and it hurts like you wouldn’t believe. Where IS he and why hasn’t God brought him home?

A few days ago I was talking with God. I was a bit angry. “Nothing seems to be going right,” I told Him. “I’m afraid to ask You for anything anymore because all You do is give me the opposite.” I had a sudden fear that I was causing more harm than good with my prayers, and that carries a whole new category of guilt.

Then today, I turned on TV to watch church. I could see the family members whose weeks’-long silence has befuddled, frustrated and saddened us. I was hoping the sermon would speak to them so they would see the error of their ways and contact us.

The pastor preached on faith. The title was something like: “When our faith seems to fail us.” Well! Maybe I was finally going to get some answers.

I did.

We were told that there could be three reasons why our faith seems to fail us. One is that God simply doesn’t exist.

Well, strike that one. I know better than that. We’ve lost one son and one is missing right now, so in my experience as a mom I have to say that this is one of the worst, if not the worst thing a parent can experience. Still, I never for once entertained the thought that God doesn’t exist, at least not for more than a few minutes. Hubby and I want to see our little guy again someday and we have faith that we will. Period.

The second possible reason for our faith failing us was this: that God’s plan is so far from ours, and because of that, it feels like He’s not listening. This is a reason I can hang my hat on, but that doesn’t mean I’m in love with it. It would help a whole lot if God would just drop me a line and explain what I’m going through instead of watching me try to walk a maze blindfolded.

Then our pastor reminded us: “Have Thine own way, Lord. Thou art the Potter and I am the clay.” I’ll try to remember that. Pastor also reminded us that we can’t put blinders on and tell God, “Unless You do it this way, I don’t believe You exist.” I’ve been doing that a lot lately, though I don’t have any doubt He exists. I just feel like He says No…far too often.

The third reason our faith seems to fail us is that we may have sin in our life, that maybe we have to make some adjustments. Perhaps, our pastor suggested, we need to pray to God that He search our hearts, and that His Spirit let us know what is standing between us and God.

I loved the analogy pastor gave about this. He said, as if he was talking to God while holding a big bucket over his head, “I’m in need of some blessings, God, and if You love me, if You’re paying attention, and if You’re not distracted, could You please fill up my bucket with blessings?”

Pastor noted that God’s answer might be that He can’t fill our bucket because there are too many holes in it. That maybe our hearts need changing, and until that happens any blessings poured into the bucket would be wasted as they leaked right out.

I took in the words and let them find a place inside me. The message moved me enough to write about it, but the real test will come the next time I pray. Since I send missives up throughout the day, that could happen at any time.

So far, I’ve not heard that the diagnosis has changed, my next paycheck will be short, the family never made the call to join them for breakfast after church, the dog is resting comfortably – for now, and the best I can do for my anxiety is, you guessed it, to pray.

And when I don’t get the answer I want, I think I’ll remember this one thing as I imagine His answer to my question of Why?

“Because,” He’ll say, “I’m God, and you’re not.”

I really can’t argue with that.

Dad

(Father's Day. The day that means something different to almost everyone, but I can't speak for others, just for myself. The following touches briefly on the life of a man who left a profound impression on me, and boy am I thankful for that.)



Gosh, I miss dad.

Granted he wasn’t my biological father; he was my husband’s dad and he was one in a million.

I first met Cody (a name I never called him – he was simply “dad”) when he and his family moved into a new home behind mine. I lived in the old rental house behind his with my ill mother and younger sister. Since I was the oldest, I did most of the chores and that included mowing the huge lawn every summer.

My future father-in-law and I met up one summer afternoon beneath the apple trees that grew along our property lines. He had twinkling blue eyes and I found out later that he thought my blue eyes were just beautiful.

Eventually I met his oldest son, we dated for three months and as of this moment, hubby and I have been married 36 ½ years.

Shortly after that meeting by the apple trees, I began watching more closely what was going on behind our home. This beautiful new house was coming together, and there were lots of men and a few women working around the place. My mother showed little interest in the new neighbors until after the home was built, moved into and the young kids made too much noise with their garage band. That’s when she did the neighborly thing – she called the police. I was mortified.

After some months passed and hubby won over my mom, I left home a married woman with a life of my own. My little sister, then 15, had to take over as caregiver.

I grew to love hubby’s family, but I had a special relationship with dad. My own father had walked away from his wife and baby when I was three weeks old. I only saw him once after that, for a couple of hours, so we never knew one another.

Maybe that’s why dad meant so much to me, but I know that’s not the only reason – not by a long shot. Dad taught me to be true to what my heart was telling me. I graduated from high school and even attended our junior college, so the head knowledge was there and I often tried to make things make sense before I came to a decision. Dad led with his gut, and I admired that. I also learned from it and more often than not, it’s how I live my life.

Dad’s last job was as a plumber-pipefitter, but he held lots of jobs throughout his life. This last one, though, paid enough for him to build his wife a home (mostly with his own hands) that she would have for the rest of her life. He wanted her to be able to live there as long as she wanted, even if he went on to Heaven first. Dad made sure the house was paid off, and it stayed that way – for a while.

Throughout the years, all four of dad’s sons married and had children. Grandkids visited often, gravitating toward their grandpa and strong relationships were formed. Dad was genuine, the Real Thing and they knew it.

Faith in God was a big deal for dad. He and I had lots of conversations about God, doing the right thing, speaking the truth and standing up for oneself. He gave me the gift of self-esteem, but he gave me so much more: respect as a person of worth. Dad loved me for who I was and that is a rare and wonderful thing.

In early 2001, dad became ill and later developed shingles. That developed into post-herpetic neuralgia and the father that I loved fought the pain for as long as he could. He passed away in March of 2004, and the family he held together for decades has drifted away from one another.

Still, one thread will always connect brother to brother, mother to sons, and grandchild to grandchild. Dad was a part of all of our lives and every single one of us can say the same thing and mean it with every fiber of our being:

Gosh, we miss you Dad.

It's a gas, gas, gas

(The U.N. might want to think twice before taxing this cow....)

Weird things happen all the time, and this past couple of weeks proved that point.

Hubby and I heard a lot about gas.

There was the outrageous report on, um, cow gas; the odd line item on our natural gas bill; and the daily climb for the price of gasoline at the pump.

Let’s do cow farts first.

I was watching Fox News one morning when a distinguished-looking gentleman appeared to discuss the proposed new taxes on cows and pigs. This man looked like a town banker, which made his four-time use of the phrase “cow farts” all the more hilarious. Naturally, I was fascinated. (I’m such a child.)

Turns out that the U.N. is accusing cows of producing 18 percent of the world’s greenhouse-gas emissions, and they claim that that’s more than planes, trains and cars combined.

While some believe that most of the methane is coming from the cow’s behind, others say the largest percentage comes from cow burps.

A suggested set of taxes on our cow buds went something like this: $125 per head for dairy cows; $85 per head for beef cows; and $20 per pig. These would be annual taxes.

Little alarm bells were going off in my head. If this tax went into effect, how long would it be before we couldn’t afford to consume dairy and meat products? What am I saying? As it is, I often window-shop at the steak counter of the grocery store before reality hits and I saunter to the cheapest ground beef and load up the cart. Looks like we’ll be replacing that protein with beans.

And there you go with another whole group of gas jokes.

Now, let’s take a gander at our latest utility bill. Seems as though AmerenIP is asking for yet another rate increase – this time, they say, it’s for delivering our energy to us. And, they point out with a wagging finger, they wouldn’t even have to ask us for more loot if they’d gotten every penny they asked for last time.

I’m one of those folks who actually reads more than the Total Amount Due on their bills. I want to know what we’re being charged for, and I sure found out.

Under “Total delivery services” (what it costs to deliver the gas to our home), the cost was $23.81. The amount of gas we used was $20.53. It cost more to deliver our gas than the product itself. As for the electricity portion, it cost $25.03 to deliver $33.32 worth of the product – a bit more balanced, but not by much. How much more will we all be charged to deliver a product none of us can do without?

That leaves the price at the gas pump. We’ve all heard that the prices have risen there for over 40 days in a row. Speculators, some say. Others opine that it’s summer blend, summer demand, low refinery output, and on and on. All I know is, we have less money to work with than before but we’re expected to pay more than ever.

I don’t have any easy answers. My job has been affected by the economy, so there’s less coming in, and with hubby on a fixed income that leaves wide open the almost-certain likelihood that one or both of us will have to take on a second, maybe a third job.

We both realize we’re in good company, that there are others worse off than we are, but sometimes that’s little comfort. As we try to sleep at night, our thoughts race and upset us to the point that we wake in the wee hours of the morning, our minds a-whirl with worst-case scenarios. For the umpteenth time, we huddle together over coffee at the kitchen table and scrape our budget to the bone, trying to find what else we can live without.

It’s enough to give one gas, if you know what I mean. And I think you do.

Friends, dogs and prayers at 3:30 a.m.

(Sometimes early mornings are great. It's quiet, and I like that. But sometimes, it's the perfect time for The Worries to attack and once they do, it's almost impossible to stop them.)


It was 3:30 in the morning, and I couldn’t sleep.

The dream I’d been having wasn’t pleasant, but it didn’t rise to the level of a nightmare. I’ve had those, and this wasn’t Steven King-ish in the least. Still, I was plenty upset at that early hour and sleep wouldn’t come so I resigned myself to the thoughts that sat waiting for an invitation.

First up was a review of the dream. I was driving behind a semi-truck that decided to back up without warning. I jumped out of the car and the truck kept coming and before I knew it, the front part of our Mercury Marquis was smooshed against a gray brick building. Hubby was going to be furious.

As I watched the truck change direction and drive away, I knew the next step was to call the police. When I grabbed the cell phone from my purse, it fell apart in my hands. It was totally useless.

In this dream I’d been at a house where a few family and friends were gathered, along with all of their dogs, including Sarah Jane. When I walked in the door to find someone to help me with the wrecked car, I noticed one thing immediately: there was undeniable proof that no one had bothered to let the pooches outside to relieve themselves. It was then that I woke up.

The next thought came quickly and I knew it was because the news had come as such a shock a few weeks back. A good friend, a talented and compassionate friend is facing a life-altering change that has rocked her world and the world of those who love her. I’m sure I’m not the only one who goes to bed and wakes up thinking about what’s happened and wondering what will come next.

I checked the bedside clock and noticed that a half an hour had passed. At 4:01 a.m. my thoughts turned toward Sarah Jane. There had been more seizures, more fear and worry, and the feeling of utter helplessness that turns me into a basket case.

On a late afternoon while hubby was away from the house, Sarah came to the side of my chair like she often does. She sat, and after a minute or so she went into a fly-biting episode. She was in a place I couldn’t go; she was all alone and I sat helpless while she tried to find her way back to me. Eventually, she did.

An appointment was made at the vet to draw blood, and I posted Sarah’s condition to a special place on the Internet that’s devoted to our canine companions. Within an hour, she had over 20 e-mails from her doggy friends around country. “Paws crossed in prayer,” most of them read, and I cried. More e-mails arrive daily, and I’m thankful.

Still, we won’t have the results of Sarah’s blood tests until next week, and the waiting is nerve-wracking.

By the time I was done maneuvering the minefield of thoughts that morning, it was close to 4:30. I woke for the day at 5:15.

Those early morning worry times are hard on a person, and I know many of you out there go through the same thing. How could you not when we’re all bombarded with crises that are out of our control? When there’s nothing at all you can do to change the situation, when all you can do is watch like a spectator in the stands?

Besides prayer, which is a big thing to me and something I practice throughout the day, there is one other thing I do to relieve the stress of those early-morning freak-out episodes. I try to remember to go to my Happy Place – a special part of my heart and mind where I keep pleasant memories. Those include hours spent in a bookstore, writing with a friend, meals out with hubby, chasing Sarah through the house, time at work with colleagues who never fail to make me laugh at least once a day – memories that help keep the monsters at bay for a little while at least.

Turning a hot temper into cool action

(At least dogs can take their playful aggression out on us humans. The rest of us try to maintain our composure - well, most of the time I guess.)


The earliest memory I have of completely losing my temper was when I was 10 years old. Sure, I got angry lots of times as a kid; after all, I had a younger sister who was a tattletale and a show-off. Plus, I knew that mom loved her best.

I got a glimpse of how hot my temper could get when some school kid punched my little sister in the stomach and made her cry. I lost control and ran after the offender with my lunch pail raised above my head. I was a very good runner, yet I could see I wasn’t going to catch this girl so I threw the pail and missed the moving target.

I cried in anger and humiliation, found my sister and headed toward home. We never told mom what had happened; it was one of many secrets we kept over the years.

There’s not much that makes me angrier than bullies picking on the weak, those in power lording it over others, or other similar examples. Problem is, I tend to take up someone’s cause, they welcome the help, then long after they’ve given up and gone about their business, I’m still fighting away. It’s one of a few faults I’m working on.

I remember another time I lost it. We were living in Arizona and I worked for a gas company. Customer service was a fun place with wonderful co-workers. Our bosses were terrific too, and the pay and benefits were the best I’d ever had.

My duties included working with customers on payment arrangements, scheduling turn-ons and turn-offs, sending technicians out on gas leaks, that sort of thing. The first day on the job went swimmingly until late afternoon.

An experienced rep worked with me that memorable day and I have to say that the training I had up to that point did not prepare me for an out-of-control, irate councilman.

I answered the phone politely, gave my name and the next thing I knew the rep and I were blasted into outer space with the expletives and demands coming from the mouth of our city’s government official. He was one angry dude.

Seems like the guy was getting ready to attend a fancy-schmancy affair and, as he put it, just as he was putting on his tuxedo jacket he heard a loud protest from his children that their outdoor pool water was cold. Apparently, some stupid schmo from our company had turned off his gas.

Once I got over the shock, I looked up the guy’s account and found that he hadn’t paid his bill in over three months, hence the wrench upon the gas meter. We were instructed to send someone out immediately to remedy the situation, and no, he wasn’t planning on paying up until he had the time. He was, after all, a very busy man.

I was giggling inside somewhere because I just knew this guy wasn’t going to get his way. Boy, talk about being naïve. A technician was dispatched pronto, apologies were made, and an extension was given, along with a note on the customer’s account that pretty much guaranteed that this awful misdeed would never be repeated. It was explained to me that sometimes a utility must appear before the city council, and to put it succinctly, the two sides needed each other.

The respect I had for those in charge nearly evaporated, but something else took its place. I promised myself then and there that once I knew how to do my job well, I would help those who, in my opinion, really deserved it. It was inevitable that I would get fooled a time or two, but I learned and the system worked well for a few years.

I never got tired of helping those who were struggling from paycheck to paycheck, who would have no hot water or heat (yes, it does get cold in the desert during the winter) unless they were given just a few more days to make their payment. The relief in their voices often made my day.

I still love to help those who are having a hard time, whether that involves speaking up for them or doing something more. I can’t chase folks and throw things at them these days, but my time is never wasted when people get the help they need.

Life will never be fair, and we’ll have to accept that. Still, let’s keep looking for ways to even things up a bit. It’ll be fun, trust me on this.