Michelle Ule's Blog, page 115

Traveler's Tales: The Thrill of a Polyglot

I grew up in San Pedro, California, the port of Los Angeles, in a community of multi-lingual people, or polyglots.

My own mother, born in Sicily, spoke Italian as her first language and occasionally explained things to her mother in her native tongue. My family babysitter was from Yugoslavia and routinely argued with her husband in various Slavic languages. I went to school with children who spoke Spanish and could always hear Croatian and other Mediterranean tongues as I wandered through the stores of town.

I eagerly studied languages when I got the chance, and took a linguistics class my first quarter at UCLA. Unfortunately, I never felt confident in Spanish or Italian; I'm always cautious and uncertain and don't really trust what I think a word means.

This lack of confidence always comes up when I prepare for a trip to a foreign country. I like to know basic words in the native language: si or no; "entschuldigen Sie mich, bitte" ("excuse me please;" German),谢谢 ("thank you"; Chinese), "où est la salle de bains ?" ("where is the restroom?"; French), the numbers in Japanese and so forth.

Of course it's one thing to ask the question and another to understand the answer, so when I head to a Spanish-speaking country I try to prepare my ear in advance so I at least have a chance of communicating with the natives.

Several years ago, we traveled to Costa Rica and thence to a family wedding in Cali, Colombia. I bought a computer program at Costco and applied myself to the Spanish lessons, trying to reconnect the synapses that studied Spanish so long ago. I can read just fine, but to listen? I turned to movies instead.

Most American DVDs made recently include alternate language or sub-title ability. French versions are almost universal now; Spanish in about a third of the DVDs. I listened and watched subtitles–learning alternate words in some cases–to movies I knew well.  As a result I could say things like "Puede la fuerza contigo" ("May the force be with you") and, my personal favorite, "Yo creo que veo todo quando yo veo un elephante velando" ("I thought I'd seen everything when I saw an elephant fly"–from Dumbo).

Silly things to say, yes, but native speakers laughed when I explained how I came by the few things I could rattle off in their language.

Laughing, moving my hands and mangling the language have actually made me get along in a foreign country. It's amazing how even the French smiled when I tried to speak their language.

I spent some time in Budapest this spring with family members and could say next to nothing in Hungarian. But their hands started to move, their voice raised and it became pure entertainment to watch my sister-in-law's relatives communicate. I felt like a little girl again, watching and listening to the mysterious code of a different tongue.

(I've found Babelfish an excellent program available on the Internet for help with translations.)

We're headed up a river in Central American soon. I've been watching movies again. This time we're bringing eyeglasses to help folks see, and the Good Book for them to read. I'm excited already to hear murmured words and see communication.

I just hope I can fit a word in edgewise.

Harry Potter and the End of (my daughter's) Childhood

We're off to see the second half of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows tonight and we'll follow up with a party we're calling Harry Potter and the End of Childhood. The end of my daughter's childhood but also the end of an era for me.

I first heard of Harry Potter while visiting my brother and sister-in-law in 1997. She'd found the first book and suggested I take a look. I read the entire thing that night at their house, staying up way too late. I read the next one at their house as well, again staying up too late to finish it in one sitting. Christians were starting to talk about the book and several asked me if it was suitable for their children because, well, magic, witches and spells.

Oh, my.

Several things bothered me about the books, the first one being the way Harry kept getting away with everything. Those in authority would warn him not to do something, he'd do it, Hogwarts would be saved and no one learned anything about accountability. My own child was about the same age as Harry in those years and I'd think what he really needed was a good spanking, or at least some form of discipline.

But the language was rich, the creativity profound and the whole read fun. Rowling had a very thorough knowledge of alchemy and obscure Latin words, not to mention witch stuff.  It bothered me, but I could deal with it.

Besides, he was becoming a cultural phenomenon. How could I possibly comment intelligently if I didn't read the books?

During those early years, I volunteered to shelve books at the local library. I think it was 2000 before I actually slid a Harry Potter book onto the shelves–they always went straight to "requested hold" status before that. Who could blame folks? I reserved them from the library myself as soon as the latest edition arrived.

I also worked in my daughter's bilingual classroom and one day a native Spanish-speaker boy asked for a Harry Potter book. The power of a story to inspire a kid who didn't much like to read, impressed me. All the educators who crowed about the value of Harry Potter to get boys into books, were right.

Still, none of my own kids paid particular attention until our vacation to New Zealand. Our ten-year-old daughter read all the books she brought before we finished the fourteen-hour flight to the other side of the equator. In vain, I searched every bookstore we encountered trying to find  something else for her to read. But the children's book section everywhere stocked only the same titles: Harry Potter.

I got a bit peevish. What happens when the children of New Zealand finish Harry Potter? There's no other choice?

Book sellers all shrugged.

I didn't purchase any Harry Potter titles because one of my college sons brought all the books with him. His sister joined him and devoured the books too. We've got a photo of her, reading a Harry Potter book rather than staring out the window at sheep.

One rainy night in Dunedin, we all went to the movies and saw Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets. Even my husband, who had never heard of the books, enjoyed the story.

The books had become hugely fat by this time and they felt ponderous to me. One book in particularly could have had 100 pages cut out without ill effect. The kids I knew were scandalized at the thought–"what do you mean, J.K. Rowling needs to be edited?"

"What's the point of that whole section in the hospital? Do we need it?

"Oh, yeah," they agreed. "It was too long."

Back in school, my daughter and her friends read and re-read the books together. They got wands, drew pictures and haunted fanfiction sites. We started a tradition of seeing the movies the day they came out–I'd pick up my daughter and her friends after school and go directly to the movie theater. I still wasn't keen on the magic themes, but I appreciated that Harry Potter gave me something in common with my child, particularly during the challenging junior high years.

As the series wound toward the end, I tormented children with my prediction that J.K. Rowling would kill Harry in the last book.

"How can you say that, Mrs. Ule?" aghast children would ask.

"Think about it. If you owned a castle in Scotland and had two young children, would you want to spend all your time writing books about Harry Potter?"

I'm happy to report most kids understood. "Yeah," they'd say. "She should play with her children."

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows–the book–released at midnight the night before my daughter left on a summer trip. Several of her friends wore costumes, but we wore our jeans to the local Border's which was having a Harry Potter party. We got there about eleven o'clock and wandered the stacks observing people in costume, playing games, listening for updates and generally anticipating the final story. Just before midnight, employees pushing carts brought out cartons of books.

My daughter had her number and I stood in line. She had read the first chapter by the time we got out of the store. She stayed up all night reading the book, handing it off to me at 6 am. "You'll love it."

She went to bed and I read the last chapter–because I knew that's what J.K. Rowling had been writing towards for so many years (she wrote the last pages first). Well, after reading that, I figured I might as well read as much of the book as I could before my daughter flew away and turned to the first chapter.

I finished the book just as my husband drove the car into the Oakland airport.

And you know what? I was satisfied. She pulled off a great ending.

The stories go on, even though the books were done. Our Brazilian foreign exchange student learned English so she could read the Harry Potter books. "I had to read them with a dictionary by my side at first," Giovanna said, "But I could read them straight through by the time I got to the last books."

Like all smart reading girls, I saw myself in Hermione. I cheered for Neville because he shared a family name. And I loved Alan Rickman as Snape–I wore a button that night at Border's when Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows released. It said, "Snape is good.

My daughter has finished her freshman year of college. This movie was supposed to come out last summer to complete her childhood just as she graduated from high school. But Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows–part 2 got delayed and so when it opens on Friday, July 15, she'll be there just a few days shy of her 19th birthday–Harry's age in the final book  (though her brother tells me Harry, born in 1980, is really 30 years old).

It's been a rich childhood with Harry Potter, Hogwarts and J.K. Rowling. I'm going to miss them–but just as I remember my children in their childhood, I'm sure I'll always remember Harry, Hermoione, Ron and the gang with an equal fondness.

Thanks.

Radical thinking, or not?

What with the distraction of a new baby (7 pounds, 4 ounces; a girl) and an Internet-free vacation (who chose this place?), I've had plenty of time to read and think over the last couple weeks.

One of the most important books I read was David Platt's Radical: Taking Back Your Faith from the American Dream.

Radical has plenty of concepts to chew over, but the one that is sticking with me today has to do with our willingness to come to Jesus and die.

I've long wondered what it was like to be a Hebrew slave in Egypt 235 years into the 400 years they worked the adobe pits for Pharoah before Moses liberated them. How did they sustain their faith, particularly since they didn't know it would be another 165 years before freedom would beckon them from the mire? How do you press forward if you didn't grow up with a mother who admonished, "you can be anything you want to be. The world is open to you?"

Obviously, faith is the key, but so is a willingness to recognize your life is not your own when you are a follower of the Creator of the Universe. God put you in a time and a place for His purposes, whether you know what they are or not. (And whether you like it or not).

Our goal as Christians is to line up our faith with the calling of Jesus on our life–which includes our past, our present and our future. Why do bad things happen to good people? So that God can be glorified.

Think about what Jesus said in the Garden of Gethsemene, calling upon God, if it were in His will, to take the cup away. When the Lord left that cup–the coming grisly death on the cross–in Jesus' hands, Jesus accepted the calling and faced his bodily end.

The point was not Jesus' comfort, but God's plan.

Sometimes I think we've convinced ourselves that our dreams and ideas–often born of our lives in 21st century USA–are the same ones God has for us. And since God loves us (just the way we are? No, that's Mr. Rogers), He'll agree with us that whatever we desire is what He thinks we should have.

I don't think so.

God created us for communication and as reflections of His glory. Our lives should be lived within that framework–and it's really the only one that makes sense in the grand sweep of eternity.

Which brings me back to Radical. Platt weaves stories into his book and among them are references to missionary to India William Carey and the well-known martyr Jim Elliot. Platt points out that Carey's ministry to India came out of the most unlikely series of events and through a host of horrible family losses. Even after the family finally landed in India, Mrs. Carey went mad, children died and the first Indian convert was seven years away. Yet, most of the major evangelistic successes occurring today in India, one hundred years later, can be traced back to the Carey family's sacrifice. You can read about them here and here.

Jim Elliot's death at the hands of the Waodani Indians in 1956, along with four others, has been well documented in his wife Elisabeth's book Through Gates of Splendor and in the recent film End of the Spear. Jim Elliot famously said, "He is no fool who gives what he cannot keep to gain that which he cannot lose," in reference to the risks he took as a missionary.

After he died, his widow, toddler daughter and sister became missionaries to the Waodani, forgiving even the man who murdered Jim Elliot, and many Waodoni became Christians. Elliot, his colleagues and the Carey family chose to sacrifice their lives for the sake of unknown people hearing the truth of the gospel. In Elliot's case, he was not the one who brought the good news, but by laying down his life for the Waodani, he opened the way for Elisabeth to share the forgiveness of sins offered by Jesus' death on the cross.

Which takes me to Dietrich Bonehoeffer's reminder that "Christ bids us come and die." How many of us are willing to chose obscurity, death, troubles, embarrassment or inconvenience for the sake of the gospel? Especially if someone else builds on our loss and/or obscurity?

Jesus explained it to his disciples just prior to his death in John 12:23-26:  "The hour has come that the Son of Man should be glorified.  Most assuredly, I say to you, unless a grain of wheat falls into the ground and dies, it remains alone; but if it dies, it produces much grain.  He who loves his life will lose it, and he who hates his life in this world will keep it for eternal life."

Jesus loves me, this I know. Thanks to David Platt's Radical, I'm struggling with how much I, personally, love Jesus.

VBS: It's Not Just for Little Kids

Vacation Bible School (VBS) is a big deal at our church. We're not a particularly large Missouri Synod Lutheran Church, regularly worshipping about 325. But we go all out the week after Father's Day each June and open our church to our community for fun, games, Bible teaching and great food.

We've averaged 180 children so far this week and today after my gig with the pre-VBS children of teachers group, I sat in the back for the opening. We're using a beach theme this summer and the music is reminiscent of the Beach Boys: engaging, easy to learn and full of life. The pastor played the guitar and was backed up by the youth minister and two high school girls. When the music started and the hand motions began, I sat up straight. Was that who I thought it was smiling, laughing and waving her arms widely? And who was the other girl?

I was so surprised, I asked someone, who confirmed my eyes were working fine.

Except my eyes weren't seeing well at that point because I was crying.

I'd never seen the one girl so animated before–that's why I didn't recognize her. She's a quiet, pretty girl carrying some burdens. Our church loves her and has reached out to her, but she always seemed a bit aloof to me until today.

And there she was, bouncing on the stage and leading the singing. My heart leapt with joy to see her so happy.

The other girl stopped by one day several years ago, looking for a volunteer slot for a school requirement. The church secretary, who is good about finding spots for kids, had something for her–a task that caused her to interact with the church kids her same age. She's been coming to youth group for quite awhile now and sang with gusto this morning.

And this is what I love about our church and VBS. The kids attend as students until they reach junior high, and then they volunteer.  As teens, they help in class, act in the skit, play music, walk babies, serve food, laugh through recreation and when it's all over, gather together for lunch and an activity of their own. This year we have forty-nine teens volunteering.

My own daughter attended as an elementary school student, acted in the play, worked the sound board, and helped with recreation until last year when she graduated from high school. She took my slot as the recreation director for the older kids and has been running relays and blowing her late grandmother's PE whistle ever since. She's a natural and the kids love her.

Once you hit college age, you're one of the adults and you can work in the craft department, take a class or hang out with the nursery babies. It doesn't matter how old you are after that–we've got great-grandmothers churning out the food in the kitchen.

Isn't that part of the role of VBS? To teach us about Jesus, of course, but also to provide us with opportunities to share that love with our community, serve one another and simply fellowship?

I can't really tell you right now–my eyes are misting up yet again.

Traveler's Tales: Saint Peter in the Basement and the Apostles on the Roof; 1970

I've been working on my unpublished spiritual memoir today, Loving God without a Label, and thinking about my three visits to St. Peter's Basilica in Rome.

I traveled to the Eternal City–and the Vatican City–at very different times in my life and I reacted to the seat of Catholicism in very different ways.

In 1970, I was fourteen years-old, touring Europe with my family. My teacher mother had insisted we visit museums and climb church towers throughout the ten weeks we camped around the continent. I'd seen a lot of churches by the time we got to Rome and while I realized St. Peter's was the mother church, I wasn't as enthusiastic as my Mom had hoped–until I got inside.

I was determined to get inside because in those days of fashionable mini-skirts and tank tops, I had been turned away two days before at St. Mark's Basilica in Venice. Fussing and fuming that the most devout Catholic in the family couldn't get into the church, I had resolved to dress in a more conservative style when we got to Rome. The nun held up the ruler when she saw me coming in Rome, but my skirt got past.

We started in the Vatican Museum and knowing the importance of the Sistine Chapel–years before it was restored to its current glory–we determined to experience it with as few tourists as possible. As a result, we got in line early for the museum and once inside, bolted to the Sistine Chapel. We wanted to be the first ones there, enjoying the paintings before anyone else arrived.

In 1970, we followed a painted line that wound through the museum–running as fast as we could past artwork of exquisite beauty. We only slowed down when we got to the hall of maps and couldn't believe the glorious mosaics on the wall. But other tourists were coming after us, so we picked up the pace and skidded into the tall, narrow empty chapel.

We cheered. The guards told us to hush.

Panting, we looked around. I recognized God and Adam on the ceiling and a few other stories–though God tossing Adam and Eve out of the Garden of Eden didn't seem as impressive as it should have. Everything wore the grime and smoke of the previous 300 years, and so it was difficult to see why I should be so impressed.

But we were in and in hushed voices, examined what we could see. Afterwards, we wandered back along the galleries and paused to admire paintings. We were gearing up for the big visit to the actual basilica–St. Peter's isn't really a cathedral. We particularly wanted to see Michelangelo's Pieta.

In 1970, the Pieta had not been attacked by an insane man with a hammer and we walked right up to it. We'd already seen Michelangelo's masterpiece at the New York World's Fair in 1964 (It sailed to New York packed in a giant crate full of ping pong balls. The curators wanted to be able to retrieve the statue if the ship went down and they thought the ping pong balls would supply the lift needed). The statue looked the same to me, but I could appreciate it more standing right beside it, rather than trying to see it behind glass as we rode a moving walkway.

I felt proud to be in such a glorious church that belonged to my faith. I stared at tourists and wondered what they thought of the magnificent building and felt a little bit of ownership. Teenagers can be obnoxious that way.

My brothers and I  wanted to go to the top of the basilica where the apostles stared down, but my parents didn't think the trip justified the cost. We wanted to go to the basement to see where Saint Peter was buried, but my parents thought our catacomb trip would be sufficient for admiring old bones.

So we wandered and admired and then checked "St. Peter's" off the list. My mom bought a charm from Vatican City.

On this trip, St. Peter's was a museum, not a house of worship, and a spot that fed my pride in being a Catholic. We were religious tourists admiring works of art and jockeying with other visitors. We saw flocks of nuns following guides and I wondered where you actually heard Mass in the large, echoing building. Later, I realized the small chapels to the sides were the places to worship. That day, however, we were overawed by the magnificence of the church.

My father was a history-lover and he pointed out the immense size had been designed to inspire awe and fear in the populace. Built over 100 years and finished in 1626, it still is the largest Christian church in the world. We were there for one afternoon in 1970, not nearly long enough to appreciate much about it. But the seed had been planted and when I returned fourteen years later, I had a better idea of how to spend my time.

Of course I had no idea, in 1970, how different I would view God, religion and the Catholic church.

Next time: Traveler's Tales: Did You Take that Altar out of the Book of Revelation?

What's the Point of a Flag Day, Anyway?

So, here in the United States, tomorrow is flag day. I'd put out my red, white and blue American flag, except I noticed it was ripped the other day and I'm not sure what my next move should be.

Not too long ago, any flag that was marred, torn, faded or in any way disfigured was supposed to be discard–preferably in a ceremony often done by the Boy Scouts. As scouts, my boys took part in a moving flag retirement ceremony that involved treating the flags with honor–it's considered a funeral for flags. Guests say the pledge of allegiance, the boys review flag history, a bugler plays and at the appropriate moment, the flags are put into an incinerator. They saluted while the flags burned.

We have another American flag in our house, but it's folded into a triangle and displayed in a shadow box. That flag flew over the aft end of the USS Michigan one day, and my husband transfered off the boat, they gave it to him. It's now displayed with all his military medals and his commander shoulder boards. It hold prominent display on

what he calls his "ego wall," where we've placed all his military plaques.

What is the purpose of a flag?

It's a banner, a rallying cry in war. Even at the Olympics, I think it's used to intimidate politically–though it also celebrates national pride.

I put out my flag on days I want to commemorate significant events in my nation's history–the signing of the Declaration of Independence on July 4; the remembrance of those fallen in war on Memorial Day. When we lived in Hawai'i, the boy scouts assembled at Punchbowl National Cemetery to decorate the graves there with American flags. It was beautiful to behold, and something stirred to see the rows of red, white and blue, acknowledging the great contribution so many made on my behalf–and for other Americans like you, as well.

I'm like many Americans; something about that flag swaying in the breeze brings out patriotism and pride in my country. But sometimes, I feel a little defensive about that flag and I know that I'm uncomfortable having it next to the altar of our church every Sunday.

My reading of American history tells me the founding pioneers came to North America in search of religious freedom–they wanted to worship God without the involvement of their king. That's what the pilgrims were doing when they signed the Mayflower Compact off the coast of Cape Cod in 1620.

My very favorite Doonesbury cartoon was from the VietNam War when B.D. was talking with his Vietnamese friend, VC Phred, about Christmas.

"Jesus was the son of God. He came to earth to save people."

"Wow," VC Phred said. "Jesus sounds pretty terrific. Was he an American?"

"Practically!"

I've always loved the irony of that cartoon because, of course, Jesus is not an American. He's not a Republican or a Democrat either. He's the Son of God and above all nations, flags, or attempts to co-op him into our particular point of view.

I like the fact Jesus is not an American, because that makes him accessible to everyone who has ever lived.

Tomorrow is flag day. I'll burrow through the cupboards and find the flag that flew over the US Capital building, that my son received when he became an Eagle Scout. Red, white and blue, it will fly to remind us we've had the priviledge of living in a grand experiment of freedom.

Thanks be to God.

HOW Many Years did it take You to Graduate?

A family member graduates from college tomorrow. Her dream was to get a bachelor's degree before she turned 60. She's beating the deadline by five months.

I'm in awe of her perseverance, one class at a time, for 40 some years. Did I mention she has no school loans and actually has received at least one "good student" prize at graduation?

She reminds me of another friend and another example of perseverance that I've long admired–though it didn't my friend quite so long.

ML lived across the street from us 31 years ago in Connecticut and her first child was born two weeks before my first child, so we were first-time moms together.

Her husband served on a ballastic missile submarine and they went out to sea for 3.5 months at a time out of Scotland in those years. An extremely disciplined guy, the husband was more controlling as a young man than he has learned to be since . . .

During those years, he would not allow her to buy cookies, she had to make them (we make all our cookies, too, but not under orders). So, as soon as he would disappear to catch the boat, she'd show up on my doorstep, baby in the backpack, and say, "Let's go."

I'd pack up my child the same way and we'd walk over to the commissary where she would indulge in a bag of Milano cookies. She usually offered me one.

It's the small things, right?

ML was an RN, but in those days you could get such a degree without doing all the schooling required now, so she did not have a degree.  She spent the next 15 years taking one class at a time to finish.

When she did finally graduate from college, I wanted to commemorate the achievement and after some thought, sent her one bag of Milano cookies for every year she had been in school–with the year written on the front with a magic marker.

She told me that when she opened the box, she laughed so hard she cried.

And her devoted husband hovered nearby in puzzlement. "I'm sorry. I just don't get it. Why is this so funny?"

Up until now, ML was the poster child for educational perseverance in my experience. By the way, she went on to medical school and is now a doctor!

I salute my relative this day and anyone else who has recognized the value of an education and has worked hard to achieve one. Enjoy a Milano cookie if you can get one!

Comfort Novels

When the world is falling apart around you, what do you like to read?

A lot of people would say the Bible, and that's a great answer, but what do you like to read for entertainment–to escape the crisis of the moment?

Many people like to read mysteries because they know the story will resolve with the bad guy getting caught and the mystery solved. That can be very encouraging when you're in the midst of confusion and the ending doesn't look happy at all. (Of course some of us cheat and read the last pages to make sure the story has a happening ending, but we're not counting that.)

During a time in my life when my submariner husband had been gone too long and one too many trials had hit, I spent my evenings rereading all the romantic suspense novels written by Mary Stewart. One in particular, Airs Above the Ground, featured a husband called away from home by government duties who appears to his wife in a disguise. The meeting was so charged with the familiar give and take of people who love each other in a difficult circumstance, that I read it over and over again. The husband sounded a lot like how I remembered my husband, and I missed my guy a lot.

It's hard for me to put a finger on what makes a novel a comfort novel beyond the fact I've read it and enjoyed it. One novel I reread on a regular basis–usually on the night before a trip when I can't sleep–is Eva Ibbotson's The Morning Gift. If you go to Amazon.com, you'll discover it has a mixed set of reviews but something about that World War II story flavored with unusual characters and a touch of Viennese charm, lulls me and helps take my mind off whatever is troubling it.

For me, the comfort books are always novels. I need a distracting story in a different place, to immerse myself and leave behind the everyday world. I need clever women pushing their way through difficult circumstances to happy endings. I don't want my heart revving up with guns, bullets and fear. I don't want an imaginary land of magical characters with fantastic gifts.

I want to read about "normal" women confronting difficulties with verve and charm and having a happy ending.

Is that too much to ask?

I've spent today reviewing the best sellers of the past, trying to get a sense of what makes a book appeal to large numbers of people. I've been focusing on the 1930-1944 time period because I suspect our country is in a similar emotional place. We're confronting challenging times with little money and many people are dispirited. They need comfort novels.

It's an interesting list and you can see both the fiction and non-fiction best-sellers here.

Historical fiction in far off lands seems the major draw, from Pearl Buck's The Good Earth to various volumes in John Galsworthy's The Forsythe Saga. It amuses me to see melodramas, trash novels (Back Street, anyone?) and lots of books we know from the movies: How Green Was My Valley, Mrs. Miniver, Grapes of Wrath and The Song of Bernadette.

Religious themed novels appear on the list nearly ever year, from those mentioned above and including The Keys of the Kingdom and The Robe.

What conclusions can you draw from such a list? What do people like to read when their world is turned upside down?

Obviously, a well-written book is the first need, but it looks to me like people want to read about folks like themselves confronting challenges and getting through them. Mrs. Miniver handled a German flyer in her garden, all the while wondering about her roses. The Joads pushed across the western US for hope in the California vegetable fields. The Chinese family in The Good Earth lived through draconian circumstances and had to make hard choices, but were a family still at the end of their book and lives.

Maybe that's the unifying theme–that when all is said and done, when you've met the enemy and sometimes it was us, when the challenges of life frightened and tried to tear you apart–the people you love are the most important thing and because of that, life may have been difficult, but it was good.

The rain is pouring down today and I'm not feeling very well. I'm going to pull one of my comfort novels off the shelf, find a blanket and wrap myself up in–both the blanket and a good story.

A little resolution is always good for the soul.

The Solution of Pain

I spent eleven hours yesterday sitting at the keyboard writing. I had a deadline and had to compose a proposal to be sent out this morning. It happened. But it was hard.

My forearms ached, my eyes were blurring, I could hardly sit still but I kept on it. The deadline loomed. I had to be done on time.

Someone complained to me about pain the other day and I reminded her that pain is important. If we didn't experience pain, we wouldn't understand that something is wrong. Pain is our body's way of saying, "hey, pay attention!"

I don't buy that concept, "no pain, no gain." I don't like to feel pain.

I do understand and practice the idea, "no stretching, no gain." And discipline means stretching yourself to go forward even when you don't want to.

That's what happened to me yesterday. I couldn't settle myself down to work. I probably could have been finished hours earlier, but the discipline of sitting down and finishing a task just wasn't in me.

So, I got up. I sat down. I ate a cookie. I sat down again. I put laundry in and typed a bit. I had another cookie. I looked up pertinent information on the Internet. Then I wondered about lunch. I read another piece of the proposal and became inspired. Then I ate another cookie and put the container in the dishwasher.

Back in the seat, which was now starting to feel uncomfortable, I wrote for a little while, but then I needed to figure out the dates so I had to get a calendar. The cookies were gone, so I hung clothes on the line. And returned to work.

It went on like that for 11 hours. But at the end of it all, aching body, eyes and mind–I was done.

And it felt very good.

I've been working out at the gym for the last five months. The only time that works for me is six o'clock in the morning. I hate it when the alarm goes off at 5:15. But it's the discipline that gets me up and moving. I have a goal and the only way to make it is to keep pushing on. No matter how much it hurts. No matter how much I have to stretch.

Actually, the gym class doesn't hurt so much as ache from stretching the muscles. When it's not painful because I'm fighting against it, physically as well as emotionally, it actually feels stretchy-good.

This has nothing to do with chronic pain, of course. The debilitating pain I feel in my arthritis-ridden thumbs is miserable–physically as well as emotionally. But the stretching I've been doing in the gym class has in ways that are unknown to me actually made my hands feel better. Perhaps it's the blood flow counterbalancing the sharp pain of rubbing joints?

I don't know. But I like it.

So, my solution to pain? I do what I need to do. Stretch. I examine my body and soul. I try to be grateful I can feel.

And sometimes I can discipline myself to work all the way through to the end. Stretch!

Inside or Outside the Will of God?

What does your life look like if you're outside of the will of God?

I've pondered this question over the years–usually when some crisis or another has hit and I'm suddenly not sure I've been in the right place or done the right thing. Could the calamity befalling me be the result of my missing what God wanted me to do?

With the horrific tornado in Joplin, Missouri, combined with the terrible tornadoes across the southern US this season, added to the Japanese earthquake and tsunami, not to mention the record snow, flooding, cold weather and a host of other natural calamities in 2011, is anyone even talking the possibility Someone may be trying to get our attention?

Is it possible some of us are outside of God's will in our life?

Our Bishop Seabury Episcopal Church pastor from 30 years ago, talked about annoying situations once. During a service one day, the Reverend Ron Gauss mentioned how annoying it is when you can't find the scissors, lose the car keys, forget to pack a lunch. That's actually a good sign, he said, because it means you're probably doing what God wants you to do and Satan is trying to trip you up–to keep your eyes off the task God has appointed by frustrating you.

I think of Ron's comments when stupid irritations crop up over and over again, often asking, "what could I possibly be doing for the Kingdom of God that Satan wants to distract me from?"

But that's not the same thing as wondering if I'm outside of God's will to such an extent that He is using extreme measures to catch my attention.

I remember another time in Connecticut, when I knelt at Bishop Seabury Episcopal Church's altar and prayed: "Lord, I'm drifting. I need you to do something to capture my attention and refocus me on You."

Several weeks later my children, mother-in-law, and I were in an automobile accident; the car was totaled, the children rode an ambulance to the hospital. He got my attention and I made my life right before Him, once again. I felt distinctly like we had been spared our lives and my worship was far more intense than it had been in some time.

But was I outside of the will of God? Or did I just need some realignment of my priorities? And does it make a difference?

When we turn to the Bible and look at the life of David, a man after God's own heart, we see instances where he clearly was outside of God's will. What the result?

King David's behavior with Bathsheba, wife of the soldier Uriah, obviously was outside of God's will. David's subsequent chicanery to cover his sin–made obvious in Bathsheba's pregnancy–caused Uriah's death and that of other good soldiers.

Throughout that time, the attempted cover-up time, David felt harried. He grew frustrated at Uriah's ethical behavior. He tried to tempt Uriah into violating the soldier's beliefs and his men. He grew angry. He got drunk. I see no indication David tried to talk to God–he was avoiding God.

The good news is, the Lord loved David enough to send the prophet Nathan to confront King David with his sin and urge him to repentance.  When David repented, he returned to the will of God–a broken man with a contrite heart, who had more griefs to bear.

Is God trying to get our attention with these extreme "natural disasters?" How would we know?

Can I be outside of the will of God, if I pray, read the Bible, and submit to the spiritual authorities in my life? Am I likely to be outside of the will of God if I ask Him to direct my steps?

David knew he was wrong in the Bathsheba-Uriah story. He avoided God.

I'm not so sure I'm outside of God's will in my present circumstances–but I do know the emotional longing to climb into God's lap and just sit.

The good news is, His lap is always open ready to receive me. Loving and forgiving me–and you–that's definitely in the will of God.