Repentance Homework (Matthew 3)...

I thought I would start working ... seriously ... on the homework for my next catechesis lesson, even though it is still two weeks away.

A Lutheran once pointed out a bible verse about us needing pastors to teach the Scriptures.  I do not remember where it was or if it was one that was clear to me or left me scratching my head in further confusion.  However, I wouldn't mind a bit of ... hints ... about why I am to read what I am to read for my homework.  And, yet, as a teacher, I always held study guides with high distain.  Let the student think on his or her own first.

Harumph.

I already wrote about my thoughts that arose from encountering honey in this reading of John the Baptist.  But those thoughts were nothing about repentance.  I am actually rather ... puzzled as to why read Matthew 3 as a part of preparing to talk about repentance.  So, my thoughts are not much ... coherent, I suppose:

ONE
I cheated.  I read Matthew 3 and then promptly looked up the reference in my Harmony of the Gospels.  I found it ... odd ... that John the Baptist is not in the book of John.

TWO
In comparing the other three Gospel accounts, I noted that Matthew is the only one that actually mentions repentance in equivalent of verses 11-12 (Marke 1:7-8 and Luke 3:15-18).  In Matthew, John states that he baptizes with water for repentance.  Now, that "for" is noted in the margins as also being "by" or "with," but that does not catch my attention so much as the preposition "for," which is defined as meaning 1) intended to help or benefit someone/something and 2) used for stating the purpose of an object as the first two entries of the MacMillian Dictionary.

I would have thought that the word would have been because, which is used for showing the reason something happens or the reason it is described in a particular way.  That would be the evangelical translation, I think.  Because you have repented, I will baptize you.  The for implies that repentance is a result of the baptism.

For ... laughs ... as I was checking out several translations of Matthew 3:11, I peeked at the amplified version:  11 I indeed baptize you in (with) water because of repentance [that is, because of your changing your minds for the better, heartily amending your ways, with abhorrence of your past sins]. But He Who is coming after me is mightier than I, Whose sandals I am not worthy or fit to take off or carry; He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and with fire.  Yeah, uhm, another way to translate that is Now that you have prayed the Jesus prayer and accepted Him as your Savior and begun your journey of faith, I baptize you for that good work.

SIGH. I have way more evangelical brain cells than Lutheran ones.

Interestingly, both the King James and the English Standard use the preposition unto.  That is an old way of saying to, which would then put the meaning as  I baptize you to repentance.

All that translation mucking about aside, why is it that Matthew is the only what that mentions repentance in that bit of John the Baptist's words to the pharisees and sadducee who had sought him out?

THREE
In Matthew 3:14-15 (something that does not appear in the other Gospel accounts), John protests Jesus request to be baptized, noting that Jesus should be baptizing him.  Jesus response is: "Permit it as this time for in this way it is fitting for us to fulfill all righteousness."

Well, what does that mean? Is Jesus not already righteous?  Has he not already received repentance?  [That question belies the thoughts I have from the Christian Book of Concord passages on repentance about it being something we receive, too, as opposed to something we do ourselves.]  Or is Jesus saying that since He is flesh He needs to do all that flesh would do, all that man would do?

The references for His response in my NASB 1977 bible are:  Psalm 40:7-8, John 4:34, and John 8:29.  Isn't it kind of curious that the New Testament references are both from the one Gospel that does not share the account of John the Baptist??

Psalm 40: 7-8 is:  Then I said, “Behold, I come; In the scroll of the book it is written of me; I delight to do Thy will, O my God; Thy Law is within my heart.”  Okay, that just confused me, so I read through the entire Psalm:


I waited patiently for the LORD;
And He inclined to me, and heard my cry.
He brought me up out of the pit of destruction, out of the miry clay;
And He set my feet upon a rock making my footsteps firm.
And He put a new song in my mouth, a song of praise to our God;
Many will see and fear,
And will trust in the LORD.

How blessed is the man who has made the LORD his trust,
And has not turned to the proud, nor to those who lapse into falsehood.
Many, O LORD my God, are the wonders which Thou hast done,
And Thy thoughts toward us;
There is none to compare with Thee;
If I would declare and speak of them,
They would be too numerous to count.

Sacrifice and meal offerings Thou hast not desired;
My ears Thou hast opened;
Burnt offering and sin offering Thou hast not required.
Then I said, “Behold, I come;
In the scroll of the book it is written of me;
I delight to do Thy will, O my God;
Thy Law is within my heart.”

I have proclaimed glad tidings of righteousness in the great congregation;
Behold, I will not restrain my lips,
O Lord, Thou knowest.
I have not hidden Thy righteousness within my heart;
I have spoken of Thy faithfulness and Thy salvation;
I have not concealed Thy lovingkindness and Thy truth from the great congregation.

Thou, O LORD, wilt not withhold Thy compassion from me;
Thy lovingkindness and Thy truth will continually preserve me.
For evils beyond number have surrounded me;
My iniquities have overtaken me, so that I am not able to see;
They are more numerous than the hairs of my head;
And my heart has failed me.

Be pleased, O LORD, to deliver me;
Make haste, O LORD, to help me.
Let those be ashamed and humiliated together
Who seek my life to destroy it;
Let those be turned back and dishonored
Who delight in my hurt.
Let those be appalled because of their shame
Who say to me, “Aha, aha!”
Let all who seek Thee rejoice and be glad in Thee;
Let those who love Thy salvation say continually,
“The LORD be magnified!”
Since I am afflicted and needy,
Let the LORD be mindful of me;
Thou art my help and my deliverer;
Do not delay, O my God.

~Psalm 40 (NASB 1977)

Of course, that made me wonder, Is this another "Jesus" psalm my past evangelical teachers didn't know about?  I mean, the "heading" for the psalm is: God Sustains His Servant.  So, you think me, us, man, children of God.  But Christ was His servant, too.

Setting aside my ... confusion as to why Psalm 40:7-8 was noted as a reference, I turned to John.  In 4:34, we read:  Jesus said to them, "My food is to do the will of Him to sent Me, and to accomplish His work."  The context is too much for me to ponder now, but feel free to read chapter 4 yourself (and then explain it all to me).  John 8:29 has more of the same, really:  And He who sent Me is with Me; He has not left Me alone, for I always do that things that are pleasing to Him.  Well, that sort of joins the first two passages together.  However, why do all three of them serve as references for Matthew 3:15?

In Psalm 40, the words in the scroll of the book it is written of me.  I think of Psalm 139, in reading this, were the psalmist declares, And in Thy book were all written The days that were ordained for me, When as yet there was not one of them (16). Now, the NASB has this nifty little way of capitalizing things that have to do with God.  So, in Psalms 40 and 139, the pronouns (written of me and ordained for me) are not capitalized, leaving me thinking mostly about man.  But, well, the whole bloody Old Testament is about Jesus, about the Promise, about the need for Christ and the long, arduous journey of time and mankind between that first temptation and the resurrection.  So, well, which book?  Which me?

However, all that I just wrote pales in comparison to my wondering about the words Jesus speaks (rather than the references for them):  "Permit it as this time for in this way it is fitting for us to fulfill all righteousness."

And, then, back to the first question:  why that preposition (for) and why/how is repentance tied to baptism?

Lord, I believe.  Help my unbelief!

Again...

Never.   Never have I been in as much pain from a weather front as I have been in today.

This was my magnolia tree yesterday.

As you can see, the blooms were opening and the grass in my yard is becoming quite GREEN ... even growing!

This is my magnolia tree tonight.

Because it is SNOWING.
Again.
SIGH.

Finding my main floor to be 79 degrees yesterday, I turned on the air-conditioning and ran it all night just to cool down the house.  Around noon, I turned it off.  I turned it off when I was fetching new ice packs and more pain medication, wondering just how much more misery in my joints I could take.

When I saw the snow falling, I just about died.  I called Marie and she, too, was just about dying, having commiserated with someone at the grocery store about the agony of more snow.  At the symphony Saturday night, the long, long, long and very much snow-laden winter was the main topic of conversation.  Mostly, folk were comparing winter mental anguish war stories.

I started weeping when I saw the magnolia tree.  For sure, whatever blooms that were there will all be brown and dying as the snow melts.  And, I suspect, the rest of the buds will not open.  My weeping cherry tree was just starting to show the tiniest bit of white on the bud tips.  The forsythia bush and the crabapple tree both also held buds clearly on the cusp of opening. What will become of them?

Amos was delighted—the Rat Bastard—to see the snow.  He's been ever so fearful of the return of the GREEN grass, and our tending-to-business sessions have been rather contentious of late.  Snow is his beloved friend.

I like snow.
A lot.
Just not so much now.

I have not been able to sleep much last night or today, for I cannot find a comfortable position or enough distance from the misery of my body to drift off.  I wonder.  Will the same happen when it warms up again in just two days?


I am Yours Lord.  Save me!

Two things...

Marie has told me two things that I think are just beautiful:

I was talking with her about how awkward it has been for me to be around people.  I cannot say my whole life.  But most of my life.  I feel like an alien.  I do not know how to stand or where. I do not know where to look or what to say.  I am fine, mostly, one-on-one. I was really fine whenever I was teaching or leading a workshop or speaking at a conference.  But in small groups ... or large ... I didn't know how to be around people.  When the cumulative shame of my life—and all the secrets—broken through, I found myself really unable to look at anyone outside of work, outside of the role I had to play to survive.  Anyway, I was talking about social awkwardness and Marie chimed in that when she is talking with someone and another person walks up, she oft does not know when her conversation is over or what to do with the conversation at that point.  She becomes lost.  Music to my ears.  I totally understand that confusion.

Today, Marie came over to help her sister transition to her way station along the way to them living together in a fiscally brilliant move to save costs on all parts whilst her beloved stays at the seminary next year to get his graduate degree.  Whilst she was here, I was spewing forth symphony talk, gushing as I do the first few days after a performance, assuming that she had not yet read my blog.  Marie sort of interrupted me to tell me that she had.  That wasn't the beautiful  part.  Nope.  The beautiful part was that she said she totally understood what I was saying about Lewis Carroll and Alice in Wonderland.  I am not alone!! I am not the only one who finds the chaos of that text anxiety producing and altogether discombobulating!!!!

I have been trying to encourage someone to be a more honest writer.  My own feeble attempts aside, I believe the person could have good things to say, could help others in sharing more honest thoughts and feelings.  Later, I was talking with that person about an email I got.  I offered to do something and was essentially told "don't."  The email hurt.  To me, it was yet another instance of where I volunteered—or tried to do so—and was not wanted or found useful.  The person said that it was more likely that the emailer thought I didn't really want to do what I offered and was trying to spare me.  My first thought was:  That's bollox!  Then, I wanted to weep.  Mostly, because it seems to me that actually no one ever believes anything.  Or rather that all that is left in the world is verbal dancing.

Now.  I am the black pot.
I know that.
I am trying to learn to be otherwise.

For the most part, if I say that I want to do something, I actually want to do it.  I have also worked at speaking when I do not want to do something.

There was this beautiful moment with Becky before she and her mother were coming to visit.  I had called her and wailed all the things I was worried about the impending visit.  After spewing my fears, Becky's response is to say that I was better, that she was proud of me.  I was stunned silent.  Then I asked how she could think such a thing, and she replied that I was voicing my fears, something I wouldn't have done her last visit.  That was not the response I was expecting.  I tell her nine and twenty reasons why I am afraid her and her mother's visit will be a disaster of grand proportions and she responds with grace, mercy, gentleness, and pride.  Huh?

So, for example, with Becky's store business workings, I am willing to help her edit grant proposals and can even discuss questions/answers with her and provide advice and feedback on a grant application, but I asked her not to ask me to write a grant proposal.  If she asks, I will agree.  And the stress and strain and burden of what getting that grant would mean to her and her beloved would destroy me.

It bothers me, thus, when I offer something and that something is declined and the reason for the decline, spoken or assumed, is that the other person doesn't really think I want to do what I offered.  It bothers me immensely.  It is both as if I am being called a liar and as if the other person is agreeing with my secret thoughts and feelings that I am essentially a waste of space on the planet now.

I went from the person who did everything to the person who does practically nothing.
And falls apart doing nothing.
And who still hides in her closet.

Silly Myrtle found out the name of whom she should contact and wrote the Fort Wayne Philharmonic, giving a plethora of ways I might volunteer for them, as long as it is not in the mornings.  They really do not need volunteers.  They need funding.  And fundraisers.  I am too fragile for fundraising work.  Unless it is folding, stuffing, labeling, and pulling the cover off of the sticky strip of an envelope.  That. That I can do.

And I can give advice.
And write or edit.
And I can talk strategic planning or board development or communications planning.

When I am not nauseous or fearful or drowning in an ocean of spiritual fear.  Yes, well, I didn't put those things in the email.  I might as well, though. I think.  Seriously, I am not fit to be in public.

The other day, Becky asked me a curious question.  Of course I cannot relay the gentle, round about manner in which she asked, but you can just imagine that for yourself.  She mentioned how much I have disliked it when others treat me like a child and noted that that was at odds with a person who finds comfort in wearing stubby braids.  The childish stuff, really, is more when I am told what I am thinking or how to think, what to believe, what to feel, what I am not feeling ....  That stems from both abusive folk and folk who believe they can (and should) fix me.  I don't need fixing.  I need healing.  And healing comes from Jesus and from it being okay to be me.

Tonight, when I mentioned that I was still thinking about her question, for it distresses me in ways I do not understand, Becky, being most magnificent, quipped that she had realized that my desire to wear and comfort in wearing braids comes from my Mexican relatives.  Hah!  She was saying it is an atavistic proclivity!

My great-great grandmother.

My great-grandmother.

While not stubby braids, I come from a long line of women who wore long braids wrapped around their heads.

I don't care how much my head aches.  I am not cutting my hair off again!
I miss my braids.

I do not like to even think about, much less acknowledge—though I want others to acknowledge and understand it—that there is a part of me who is still that scared little girl who stopped growing when she was violated by others.  I still have her thoughts and feelings about certain things, instead of the thoughts and feelings one growing ever closer to her 50th birthday (come Lord Jesus ... before then).  I still respond as she would in certain situations.  And some of her, no matter how much I learn, might always remain.

Then there is the one who is growing backwards in her cognition.  Losing what she has gained.  Becoming confused over the smallest of matters.  Lost to time and place.  Flooding her home.  SIGH.

There simply are too many Myrtles.  The Myrtle who make others uncomfortable. The Myrtle who scares me.  The Myrtle I was. The Myrtle I am now. The Myrtle I want to be. The Myrtle I am afraid I actually am.  The Myrtle I am becoming.

The Myrtle who eschews being around others in social situations because she doesn't know where or how to stand, where to look, what to say, and if she actually manages to be part of a conversation, doesn't even know when that conversation is actually over.


I am Yours, Lord.  Save me!

Pearled and perfumed...

I do not much like how I am feeling, even if I do not understand what I am feeling. I do not like the conflicting thoughts in my head.  Nor do I like how deeply unsettled I am.  So, even though it turned out I would be going alone to the symphony at the location I do not really know, I went.

I wore my pearls.  I wore perfume.  I wore lipstick and feminine clothing and my jeweled butterfly clasp in my hair. I felt wretched, so I tried not to look so.

Thankfully, this time the valet parking was actually in place.  So nervous was I about finding the music center on the campus by myself, I arrived 30 minutes ahead of the concert.  However, that was still not early enough for the plethora of handicapped parking out front.  I do not know ... do not remember ... if I have ever valeted my car before. I don't think so.  It was hard to hand over the keys.  Mostly, because I left Maggie (my GPS) in the car and knew if something happened to her I would never get home.  And, a little bit, because I do wonder what will happen if my car dies before I do.  There simply is no way I could afford to buy another car.

Having brought my Kindle, I made my way to my seat and set to reading.

While I am still in love with Hanson, I think, perhaps, I could love Samuel Barber more and he's way, way, way too young for my liking.  After all, the man was born in the last century!

The Fort Wayne Philharmonic played Barber's Symphony No. 1.  Best 20 minutes of this year, I would definitely say.  Twenty minutes of pure bliss and pure peace and nothing but beauty.  I marvel, really, at the Creator God is.  I mean, He created a brain that could envision and understand how dozens of instruments playing together could sound.  God did this.  He created a brain that, still, is more sophisticated than any computer, than any technological advance in all of history.  A brain that,  to all our vaunted science, still remains much of a mystery.  And, tonight, I was reminded that He created a brain that could envision an orchestra playing even though the ears attached to it were deafened.  Yes, Beethoven came later.

What I found most extraordinary about Barber is that he completely and utterly won me over to brass.  Now, I have been teetering on that move for the past two concerts.  I mean, remember the tuba last time?  And remember how Hanson showed me that a French Horn could be so beautiful??  But, tonight, I found myself hungering for more of Barber's masterful weaving of brass and string.  Frankly, I would have been deeply, deeply, deeply happy had the orchestra simply repeat their performance instead of playing the second piece of the first half.

Something that came to mind, as I read the program notes, was that Barber wrote this work in 1936.  The world was about to fall into an abyss of original sin magnified by hatred and jealousy and a longing for something that was other that what was resulting in the murder of millions and torture of more still.  But in 1936, America had its first building completely covered in glass.  Our first masked hero in a skin-tight costume appears on the scene.  The marvel that is the Hoover Dam is completed.  The Triborough Bridge in New York opens.  Jesse Owens wins the 100 meter dash at the Berlin Olympics.  The US Men's basketball team wins its first ever Olympic tournament.  The Dust Bowl is coming to an end and the success of the New Deal leads President Roosevelt to a landslide victory and second term.  A cripple so powerful and so engaging and such a profound leader that few remember his handicap.  Things were looking up, as America was climbing its way out of the Great Depression.

Berber was just 25 when he wrote his first symphony.  He was young and extraordinarily talented and literally had the world at his fingertips.  He would go on to win two Pulitzer Prizes in music.  His second symphony, written during the war while he served in the Army Air Corps, distressed him so much that he destroyed it.  Later, scholars pieced the score back together.  But could you imagine trying to piece back together Van Gogh's Starry Night?  I wonder what Samuel thought of the world between his first symphony and his last composition.  

I also wonder what it must have been like to be seven years old and composing your own music.  The minds God creates.

And then there was the second piece.  SIGH.

Yes, for me, Joel Puckett is everything I loathe about modern orchestral music.  I didn't even have to look at the program to know that he is still alive.  He is.  Younger than I am, in fact.

There is this wonderful moment in the movie Jurassic Park where Jeff Goldblum says, "...your scientists were so preoccupied with whether or not they could that they didn't stop to think if they should."

That is exactly how I felt about the flute and clarinet concerto.  UGH.  See, in Berber's work, I was marveling at exquisite music the flutes were making.  Now, mostly, I felt like I was in a Lewis Carroll novel.  I, the ex-literacy professor, expert in children's and young adult literature, loathe Alice in Wonderland.  It it too chaotic.  I do not like how it makes me feel.  The concerto was worse.  If it were not the height of poor manners and blatant disrespect to the musicians, I would have fled outside until the piece was over.  I truly, at one point, was rather worried about myself.

What boggles my mind is that, after the concert was finished, several people around me were gushing about the concerto. They thought it was the best piece of the evening.  Huh??

Beethoven's Symphony No. 5 in C Minor was the second half of the evening.  Just to let you know, the last performance, a four-hour one, has Beethoven's Ninth Symphony as the second half of the evening.  SIGH.

What I recognized, what I hummed along with, was actually only the first movement of Beethoven's symphony.  The other three movements were new to me.  If not actually new to me.  I disremember if I have ever heard this piece at any of the concerts I went to in my past.  Whether truly new or not, I savored his brilliance and beauty.  Another piece written in a time of great conflict and uncertainty.  And, yet, really all I can think about is how in the world can a man imagine how so many instruments will sound and then write such a score.

What must he have felt when he realized his hearing was deteriorating?  
How could he continue to write once he was totally deaf?  
Was music so engrained in his being that ears—the means by which music is encountered and perceived and received—were no longer of any consequence?

When I read the program notes or even descriptions of music elsewhere, I really cannot follow what is being said.  There is too much cant for me to comprehend meaning.  Sometimes, really, when I try to follow current "theological" ... wars ... in comments on posts, such is the same.  So many particular words and phrases exclusive to the profession are used that this "simple folk" cannot understand.  And yet listening to Beethoven's music, I do not think it matters much whether or not I know what an interpolated scherzo section is.  I feel the same about ... well ... I was going to quote some phrases, but that would mean going back to online places I have left.

You know, for all the complexity of the Apology to the Augsburg Confessions, I happen to believe the only real difficulty of it is presentation.  By that I mean incredibly long paragraphs and even longer lines of thought without breaks for the reader.  At the end of the day, if you take those long paragraphs and break them down—the way that you do when you diagram a sentence—they are not complicated.  Nor are they above the common man.  Yes, there are some historical references and references to factions of the Church (such as the Donatists) that provide contextual meaning, but even without that the help of those contextual clues, the overall meaning is clear.  Christ crucified.  For you.  Because you can't.  Period.

At the Embassy Theatre, I am privileged to sit behind the president and CEO and next to a board member.  By privileged, I mean that those rather nice folk have spent the season explaining things to me.  Tonight, the president sat down next to me for the second half of the performance.  So, I finally asked the question that has been lingering in my mind all season.  Yes!  He told me the real name of that instrument that fascinates me so (I had picked it incorrectly in my Googling):  the contrabassoon.  I came home and tried to read about the instrument, but quickly became lost in all the musical cant.  What struck me as I was floundering through the words was that it really didn't matter.  The photo matches what I have been watching and sounds coming out of it are what matters to me.  Not the technicalities of the instrument and how those sounds are produced and what they are termed.

I wonder if others see the Christian Book of Concord as cant or as plebeian.  For me, it is the latter.  But I do wonder. I wonder if, for others, it is cant.

This week, I received my subscriber packet for next season.  It is still a marvel to me to see $0.00 as the price for my tickets.  Surely, a thank you letter to whomever is sponsoring the second season for all new subscribers this year is in order.  Each time I go to the symphony, I am blessed with the good gift of classical music.  Next year, no matter how ill I am, I am not going to miss any concerts.  I, also, am not going to give up any of my tickets.

I may know nothing technically about music, but I do know that it is a gift to be treasured.  And, tonight, it made me think about how, even though there is so much popular theological cant that I do not understand, my Good Shepherd has given me a pastor who is teaching me the pure doctrine and a deaconess friend who is ever so generous in giving the sweet, sweet Gospel, but who is also immensely skilled at translating that sweet, sweet Gospel into Myrtle speak.  Plus, well, she doesn't mind if she has to do so again.  And again.  And again.


Lord, I believe.  Help my unbelief!

A bit of Myrtle Lent...

Marie is sick and out of freezer food.  With her work schedule (and prep time to work), the only way she and Paul can have good food during the week is to make it ahead of time.  I have been wanting to try bartering with her:  my culinary labor for her cleaning labor.  So, we took a shot at that today.  Well, I did.

I chose things for which I had the items already on hand.  After all, I am not merciful enough to drag myself to the grocery store and cook.  So, I made her Spicy Dr Pepper Pulled Pork, Chipotle Chicken Chili, Myrtle's Black Eyed Pea Medley, and a new dish that I made up: Roasted Butternut Squash and Goat Milk Pasta.  I also made her a batch of flour tortillas to go with the pulled pork.

I am very  pleased with my latest attempt at roasted butternut squash.  This is from the other day, but I used the same method.  First, I smeared copious amounts of olive oil on the split halves that had their innards scooped out.  I used my fingers to rub in the olive oil and ensure every bit of flesh was thoroughly coated.  Then, I generously sprinkled sea salt and McCormack Peppercorn Medley®, before sprinkling on ground thyme.  You could hear the tops sizzling in the oven!

I thought that the end result was pretty fantastic for someone who was trying to come up with a dish using items she had on hand.  I only wish that this was headed to my freezer, instead of Marie's.

After nine and a half hours of cooking, I have 32 servings of main dishes and 13 tortillas dough balls.  I also finally have a clean kitchen again.  I am bloody exhausted, but now my friend and her beloved will not starve, nor will my friend jeopardize her health trying to cook when she's feeling so very wretched.

It was sheer AGONY to smell the spicy Dr Pepper pulled pork for FIVE hours.  Its fragrant aroma filled the first floor.  No matter that I have 10 jars of the stuff in my own freezer, I wanted all of the new batch for myself.  In fact, frankly, I wanted all of all of the tastiness being made in my kitchen for myself.  The whole endeavor was this rather intense object lesson on my own greed, gluttony, and weakness.  Yes, this sinful, silly sheep needs a Savior who will daily and richly forgive her.

Is that not what Lent is about?
Am I not supposed to be reflecting upon my inescapable sin?
Am I not supposed to be reflecting upon the Son of God who came to address that inescapable sin?


I am Yours, Lord.  Save me!

That sweetness again...

So, the reading of Ezekiel is not really progressing all that much.   What I know is that Israel is stubborn and obstinate and not really interested in the Word of the Lord.  Rebellious.  With eyes to see, but do not ... ears to hear, but do not.  Man enmeshed in their flesh, in original sin.  Even knowing this was the case, God still sent Ezekiel to teach them, to warn them, to give them a future and a hope.  After.  After the consequences of their obdurate disobedience came to bear.  After the only way that the Law could be fulfilled came to fruition.

My only real thought is that the imagery of the appearance of a man standing on a chariot driven by four cherubim, flames downward from his loins, light above them, is probably why the imagery of a man riding a donkey into Jerusalem did not quite fit with the idea folk had about the Son of God, the Messiah, the King.

I shall keep reading, though.

My homework for my next catechesis lesson is to read Matthew 3, 4, 16, and 18.  Now, I mixed things up and started with chapter 2, wondering what in the world chapter 2 had to do with repentance.  Then, I checked my assignment again and started reading chapter 3.  Am I weird that I find it ... interesting ... that John the Baptist's food was locusts and honey??

Then He said to me, “Son of man, eat what you find; eat this scroll, and go, speak to the house of Israel.” So I opened my mouth, and He fed me this scroll. He said to me, “Son of man, feed your stomach and fill your body with this scroll which I am giving you.” Then I ate it, and it was sweet as honey in my mouth. ~Ezekiel 3:1-3

How sweet are Your words to my taste! Yes, sweeter than honey to my mouth! ~Psalm 119:103

O taste and see that the Lord is good; How blessed is the man who takes refuge in Him! ~Psalm 34:8

I did a quick search on the word "honey" in the Bible and came up with 60 references.  Curious, of all of those references, only three come in the New Testament:  one each in Mathew and Mark regarding John the Baptist's food and the other in Revelation, regarding the little book that John was given to eat.  A book that was sweet in his mouth, but bitter in his belly.

Were I a poet, I would, at this point, setting myself down to compose an ode to honey.

God sustains His people with honey and with manna, the bread that tasted like honey.  The Word of the Lord is as honey on the tongue.  And many times over, that Word is to be consumed.  Like I said. Curious.

You might think, having had many a sermon on Revelation and all those years of reading evangelical fiction on end times, I might have an inkling of the book.  But it is as foreign to me as is Ezekiel.  Interesting that in both books a written Word from the Lord is given to the prophet to consume.

I really have but two thoughts about Revelation, other than this new-found curiosity about chapter 10 and the little book that tasted like honey:

• I know a praise song that is straight from Revelation 5. I have taught it here and there and love, love, loved it when I got whole churches to sing it.  It is a song much like the Litany in which the end of the first line overlaps with the beginning to the response line.  Plus, it is a beautiful melody.  Simple.  SIGH.  Would that it were someone would sing it with me still.
• The most curious part of Revelation, prior to this newfound knowledge about chapter 10, is the fact that it holds a bit that is the reverse of a bit that is in Matthew.  I think of those passages as two sides of the same coin.

Ask, and it will be given to you; seek, and you will find; knock, and it will be opened to you. For everyone who asks receives, and he who seeks finds, and to him who knocks it will be opened. ~Matthew 7:7-8

Behold, I stand at the door and knock; if anyone hears My voice and opens the door, I will come in to him and will dine with him, and he with Me. ~Revelation 3:20


With the whole nonsense (which I understand now that it is nonsense) about how Jesus cannot come into your heart unless you invite Him in by praying the Jesus prayer, by asking Him to be your personal savior, I find it curious that Jesus is the one who both knocks and is waiting for the knock.  In one place the opening of the door is passive and the other it is active.  Yet is not the end result, the work if you will, Jesus in both passages?  Jesus gives and Jesus feeds.

I have not a clue what is the pure doctrine regarding either passage. I have just always found it curious that switching of roles with regard to knocking.  And, frankly, the whole hearing of Jesus' voice being the impetus to open the door smacks of receiving the faith to believe that opening the door will result in good things.

To put it bluntly, you cannot "choose" God until He has revealed Himself to you first through the Living Word.  That point was always overlooked in the praise songs and bible studies and Sunday School lessons, and sermons about Revelation 3:20 ... a popular passage in the evangelical world.

I wonder ... are there any differences in Hebrew and/or Greek in all those instances of honey???


Lord, I believe.  Help my unbelief!

A taste of honey...

So, Mary, being ever so gracious, gave me an overview of what I missed last night not understanding about dry bones.  Actually, the 37th chapter of Ezekiel is rather interesting and incredibly fascinating from a this-is-what-Jesus-is-going-to-do perspective.  Mary told me the story and then, later, I went back and read the passage (1-14) again.

Being me, I then thought that I should read the whole book of Ezekiel.
Just a few verses into chapter one, I am lost.
Should I even keep reading if such Words are completely over my head?

When is the last time that you had honey on your tongue?  I mean, just honey?  If you haven't recently, if you have not tasted that exquisite explosion of sweetness that envelops your being, makes all else pale in comparison to that moment, and lingers on your tongue long after the honey has been swallowed, do it now.  Seriously.  Right now.  Go eat a dollop of honey.


Then He said to me, “Son of man, stand on your feet that I may speak with you!” As He spoke to me the Spirit entered me and set me on my feet; and I heard Him speaking to me. Then He said to me, “Son of man, I am sending you to the sons of Israel, to a rebellious people who have rebelled against Me; they and their fathers have transgressed against Me to this very day.  I am sending you to them who are stubborn and obstinate children, and you shall say to them, ‘Thus says the Lord God.’  As for them, whether they listen or not—for they are a rebellious house—they will know that a prophet has been among them. And you, son of man, neither fear them nor fear their words, though thistles and thorns are with you and you sit on scorpions; neither fear their words nor be dismayed at their presence, for they are a rebellious house.  But you shall speak My words to them whether they listen or not, for they are rebellious.

“Now you, son of man, listen to what I am speaking to you; do not be rebellious like that rebellious house. Open your mouth and eat what I am giving you.” Then I looked, and behold, a hand was extended to me; and lo, a scroll was in it. When He spread it out before me, it was written on the front and back, and written on it were lamentations, mourning and woe.

Then He said to me, “Son of man, eat what you find; eat this scroll, and go, speak to the house of Israel.” So I opened my mouth, and He fed me this scroll. He said to me, “Son of man, feed your stomach and fill your body with this scroll which I am giving you.” Then I ate it, and it was sweet as honey in my mouth.

Then He said to me, “Son of man, go to the house of Israel and speak with My words to them. For you are not being sent to a people of unintelligible speech or difficult language,but to the house of Israel, nor to many peoples of unintelligible speech or difficult language, whose words you cannot understand. But I have sent you to them who should listen to you; yet the house of Israel will not be willing to listen to you, since they are not willing to listen to Me. Surely the whole house of Israel is stubborn and obstinate.  Behold, I have made your face as hard as their faces and your forehead as hard as their foreheads. Like emery harder than flint I have made your forehead. Do not be afraid of them or be dismayed before them, though they are a rebellious house.” Moreover, He said to me, “Son of man, take into your heart all My words which I will speak to you and listen closely. Go to the exiles, to the sons of your people, and speak to them and tell them, whether they listen or not, ‘Thus says the Lord God.’” ~Ezekiel 2:1-3:11 


Then I ate it, and it was sweet as honey in my mouth!

How sweet are Your words to my taste! Yes, sweeter than honey to my mouth! ~Psalm 119:103

Then I ate it, and it was sweet as honey in my mouth!!

O taste and see that the Lord is good; How blessed is the man who takes refuge in Him! ~Psalm 34:8

Then I ate it, and it was sweet as honey in my mouth!!!

How wild is that?  Ezekiel is eating the Word of God and tastes it as if he had eaten honey!  Also, how weird and wild is it that the Word of God was placed in his mouth and now, in the Lord's Supper, the Living Word is placed in our mouths?

I have had folk make ... comments ... about my tendency to write, especially in things for public, the words "sweet, sweet Gospel."  I hear that we don't really need two instances of that adjective.  But also that we do not even need one.  Only, for me, I get the honey.

When I hear the Living Word, when it falls upon my ears and the Holy Spirit works it into my being, it is as honey.  That explosion of flavor that envelops my being, makes all else pale in comparison to that moment, and lingers long after it is gone.

Lord, I believe.  Help my unbelief!

I'm not ready...

Three nights of writhing is really undeniable.  I just cannot pretend that I am slipping back into that  world of innards misery.  I do not understand why it is that the erythromycin does not seem to be as effective, but I have been nauseous after eating a second or third meal of the day for nearly three weeks now.  And for three nights, I have not been able to bear even the weight of a bed sheet on my abdomen.  SIGH.

I was so nauseous after eating a small lunch that I took Zofran and then fell asleep for four hours.  Was I exhausted from being up so much during the night?  Is the higher dose making me drowsy?

What will happen when the doses of the erythromycin solution run out?

Tonight, after such a dreary day, I asked Michelle if she wanted to finish watching "Firefly" abad built a fire.  I've decided that fires in April are just fine if it is not actually April weather going on here.  I very much welcomed the distraction.

My abdomen hurts so very, very, very much.

Poor Amos has forgotten the first two years of not being able to drape himself across my person whenever he wanted.  I've been shoving him off my midsection for three days.  It is hard for me to be gentle with him when he flops his person upon mine without regard to position.

At church tonight, there was a line in the hymn that said Jesus when cheerfully to His crucifixion.  Given His night in the garden of Gethsemane and knowing what was about to happen to Him, I cannot imagine Jesus being cheerful about the agony and death before him.  I mean, is not willingly a more accurate description of how Jesus approached the crucifixion?

I don't remember.
I don't remember the readings.
I don't remember if Jesus was cheerful.

Tomorrow, before I eat.  Before the day become another battle, I want to remember to read of His passion in my harmony of the Gospels.  I think, though, I should figure out why the thought of a cheerful Jesus dragging His cross up the hill on His beaten body bothers me.  Frightens me, really.

The readings and sermon had talk of dry bones.  More foreign bits of the Bible, so much have I lost.  The reading was not printed out and for once I did not have my Bible with me.  The pew Bible in one in which by the time I finish fumbling about to find the reading, the reading is over.  So, I was a bit lost.

This whole day I have been lost.  Lost in the wretchedness of my body.  Lost in what I no longer know about the crucifixion.  Lost in how dry bones could be Gospel.


I am Yours, Lord.  Save me!

The deviled egg is my original sin...

The deviled egg is the epitome of my original sin.  Totally.  Utterly.  Completely.

Picture some sort of multi-person gathering, where in a platter of deviled eggs is set out on the feasting table.  I will, unrepentantly and unashamedly, sidled up to the table, snitch a deviled egg, pop it in my mouth, and then discretely adjust the ones remaining on the platter so as to leave no evidence of my pre-meal theft.

Then I will do it again.
And again.
Until there is no way to hide my theft.

Fast forward to being seated at the table, with the commencing of the passing of platters.  My eyes are glued on the deviled egg platter.  I think mean and hateful thoughts toward anyone who takes a deviled eggs.  I cannot even speak of the thoughts I have for anyone who dares to take two deviled eggs for himself/herself.  They are dead to me, deserving of all the hell, fire, and brimstone that can be heaped upon them.

Once the platter reaches my hands, I quickly pop one into my mouth, after checking to see that no one will notice.  Then, I boldly claim three deviled eggs for my own, putting two together and sticking the third one all by itself, far away from the pairs.  After passing on the platter, I pop that third one into my mouth so as to leave my plate showing only two deviled eggs.  All the while, I am keeping an eye on the platter so as to mark its completion around the table.

Once the platter has made its circuit, I ignore all talk until I have gauged a sufficient enough time to ask someone to pass me the deviled eggs.  At this point, my plate is devoid of deviled eggs.  Once the platter reaches my hands, I again pop one in my mouth and place two on my plate.  Timing is everything.

I will pretend to be solicitous of others by lifting up whatever platter or bowl is nearest me to see if anyone wants seconds.  That way, I will secure a nearby resting place for the deviled egg platter.  And I will continue to stuff myself with as many deviled eggs as possible.

Should I not manage to clear the platter by the end of the meal, I will, during the "after" visiting, contrive to secure the remaining deviled eggs in some fashion. In fact, if I am certain deviled eggs will be on the menu, I will bring my own container.  I do not care that someone else made them and has the right to bring home his/her leftovers.  They are deviled eggs.  They belong to me.

[This is not a joke. I am not being facetious.]

If you visit me, I will not share deviled eggs.
The whole idea of I will make some for you and some for me goes out the window.
All deviled eggs are mine.

I have no mercy about deviled eggs.
I have no grace about deviled eggs.
I have no forgiveness about deviled eggs.

None.

I am a sinner.
I am blinded by all truth when it comes to deviled eggs.
And, the fact is, I am not all that interested in being otherwise.

I have striven mightily against the culinary selfishness in me. I have learned to share Dr Pepper and chocolate and even stew.  I think, though I have not really had to do so yet, I could even share chipotle chicken chili.

I have no desire to learn to share deviled eggs.

When folk start going on about how humans are basically good, I scoff at them.  In my opinion, slavery, the Holocaust, current racial/cultural/religious genocide, and the fact that rape—rape even of children—is a favored weapon of war makes any argument about the goodness of human beings moot.

For me, it is deviled eggs.  I know my sin. I know the greed that ensnares me, consumes me, when confronted with a platter of deviled eggs when in the company of others.  At the core of this human being is a vile blackness that no light or work of mine can obscure.

I seriously wonder how it is possible to even think that I might have faith when I think and feel and act this way about deviled eggs.


I am Yours, Lord.  Save me!

Production time...

Amos is fired as my puppy dog.  He ate my deviled eggs, today, whilst I was getting some tea to go with my lunch.

I consoled myself by cooking up some bacon to add to my salad, the salad for which I had bought an avocado.  It was a very, very, very tasty salad.  Since I was cooking up some bacon, I plunged into making more deviled eggs, stock (from the bones I received in barter from Marie), a double batch of naan for Marie, because she is in a very busy spell between work and training sessions, a roasted acorn squash (donated because it was getting a tad ripe), and some lemon brownies (because the recipe that flashed across my computer screen was a relentless siren song).

I went ahead and posted the recipe for these Lemony Lemon Brownies, even though I basically failed at the glaze.  Follow the link to the recipe and you will notice the difference.  I need a master class on glaze making.

Still, they were tasty.  For one, Michelle LOVED it.  I think it is a good cross between a lemon bar and a true brownie.  It lacks the fudginess of brownies, but is not a blondie.  It also lacks the shortbreadness of lemon bars and is a bit less tart than a true lemon square.  Once I figure out how to make a glaze properly, these will most certainly be a staple in my larder.

The acorn squash is rather tasty, too, since I felt completed to taste a few bits as I was stripping off the peel.  I have yet to decide if I should just polish it off as a side to something or create another pasta dish with it.  I have enough applewood smoked bacon bits for tomorrow's salad and for some sort of pairing with the acorn squash.

For the stock, I tried something a tiny bit different.  Marie's mother had sent me a Christmas basket of cooking items, so I used the large flake smoked sea salt in the stock.  I must say, there is something immensely satisfying in pulling out a bag of vegetable scraps from your freezer and dumping them in the stock pot.  This time, I used the smoked sea salt, cracked black pepper, garlic, bay leaves, chicken bones (with a bit of meat and skin), onion, carrot, parsnip, broccoli stem, and asparagus stem.  Of course, I tossed a half a stick of butter in there for good measure.  The chicken carcass being smaller than the turkey, I ended up with five bottles of stock.

I would really, really, really like to make some beef broth next, so that I can use it on my next batch of stew.  I would, of course, need to drink some more of that wickedly delightful Snapple raspberry tea since all my glass bottles are now currently filled with vegetable and chicken stock.  I am just not all that sure how to obtain beef bones ... of if my weak mind might be able to endure the sight of cooking with them.

After all the food production, I was bloody exhausted.  Strange, too, given that I do not need to do any cooking for a long, long, long while.  My larder is overflowing.  It was so soothing, though, to be working in the kitchen.

I was also pleasantly surprised that I receive a small check from my old job, regarding the reimbursement from Blue Cross Blue Shield Care First.  I was dismayed to see the documentation provided included a copy of the check they receive last July and a spreadsheet of how the money was to be distributed to plan participants.  What irked me is that in the column next to my name, instead of PPO, which should have been there, was the phrase "opt-out," as if I had no health care, when I was on the PPO plan via COBRA coverage.  It makes me wonder, seeing the list of all the others marked "opt-out" if anyone in the company at all received their reimbursement or if the organization just kept the 2K+ for overhead.

It was very, very, very difficult for me to write asking for the other money due me and for the insurance reimbursement.  My counselor had wanted me to write the first letter two years ago.  It was two years of wanting to do so and two years being terrified to do so.  In both letters, I was pointing out a wrong and standing up for myself.  In both letters, the fear stemmed in large part to abusive behavior, to being bullied and thus, still, even now, cowed by fear and shame, still bent beneath the power those who acted inappropriately with me wielded.

In one of my international television shows, I saw the very best presentation of being ensnared in the power of another that has ever come my way.  It was an episode where a detective was trying to get a battered wife to testify against her husband, for the man had hurt others, too.  There were two scenes that stood out:

• In one, one of the other detectives was speaking derisively about the abuser, noting what a whimp he really was.  He questioned why the wife would be so ensnared by him. Very quickly the response was that it is the power that matters, not the one wielding it.  Power immobilizes, wounds, crushes, tears at the mind, body, and soul.  The vessel who wields it doesn't have to be a strong and mighty person.  The vessel who wields it merely knows how to do so.  Words, often, can be the most cruel, the most debilitating, the strongest of cages.  It is not the person wielding the power who matters, but the power itself.
• In the other scene, the detective was sitting with the battered wife and began telling her own story.  The man she dated for three years hurt her and even though he was hurting her, leaving him took three years.  The wife protested, saying that the detective was strong and smart ... had to be to do her job.  The detective agreed that she was strong and smart, but added that she was also very, very, very scared.

I was so very ... encouraged ... watching that episode.
And less alone.


Be gracious, O God, for man has trampled upon me;
Fighting all day long he oppresses me.
My foes have trampled upon me all day long,
For they are many who fight proudly against me.
When I am afraid,
I will put my trust in Thee.
In God, whose word I praise,
In God I have put my trust;
I shall not be afraid.
What can mere man do to me?
All day long they distort my words;
All their thoughts are against me for evil
They attach, they lurk,
They watch my steps,
As they have waiting to take my life.
Because of wickedness, cast them forth,
In anger put down the peoples, O God!

Thou hast taken account of my wanderings;
Put my tears in Thy bottle;
Are they not in Thy book?
Then my enemies will turn back in the day when I call;
This I know, that God is for me.
In God, whose word I praise,
In the Lord, whose word I praise,
In God I have put my trust, I shall not be afraid.
What can man to do me?
Thy vows are binding upon me, O God;
I will render thank offerings to Thee.
For Thou hast delivered my soul from death,
Indeed my feet from stumbling,
So that I may walk before God
In the light of the living.

~Psalm 56 (NASB 1977)

The actress portraying the battered wife did so beautifully.  You could see and hear and feel her shame, her fear, her despair.  It was amazing to watch her step away from that power long enough to speak a wrong.

I am afflicted and needy.

And I long to learn to trust in the Lord.

To declare This I know, that God is for me. unreservedly, confidently ... even in fear.

Lord, I believe.  Help my unbelief!

A good day...

Even though I have spent the evening rather concerned about my feet, it has been a good day.

For one, Becky helped me open a new checking account.  Well, she stayed in my ear whilst I did so because I was so nervous.  Seriously, who would want to open a fourth checking account in a little over three years??  I found a bank that offers a free eChecking account with no minimum balance.  Whilst I did not close my current checking account, I got the new one opened and started the process to linking it to my online financial accounts.  Once the check I deposited today clears, I will close my current checking account ... my goal to be accomplished by next Friday.

I also fetched my prescriptions and did not cry when I picked up the third to last bottle of erythromycin solution.  I was shaking rather violently when I peeked into the bag, because I was so worried that, even though I did not receive a call telling me otherwise, I would not be able to get the Larin.  That little plastic box with the tiny pills near impossible to punch out is safely in my house!  I was so utterly relieved ... and now all I can do is ask my friends to help me watch how this next cycle goes ... how I seem ... and wait to see if the emotional storm comes.

So happy was I to pick up my prescriptions, I treated myself to an avocado for salads before I left Target.

I thought I had gotten used to the Reynaud's, but a foot more black than blue—and the one usually only white turned blue—tonight scared me deeply. I put my feet in tepid water until the pain stopped, boiled my whole being in the shower, carefully applied the Nitro Bid paste to my feet, covered them with cotton socks, and then added wool socks. When my grandmother was dying, she threw a clot in her lower leg and her foot became gangrenous. Black is simply not a color you want your feet to be.

The problem with the Nitro Bid paste is that it lowers blood pressure.  When I am not stressed—which happens so darn easily—my blood pressure is already low.  So, I've been ensconced in the GREEN chair, sipping Gatorade and trying not to worry overly much.

[Yes, you may laugh at that.  I won't be offended.]

After initiating the new checking account linkage, I thought I would plow ahead in productivity.  I went ahead and filed my federal taxes, since I learned I can eFile, but set the payment for later (I plan on eking out every penny of interest before I send that overly large payment).  I also enrolled in an electronic payment system for the 2014 tax pre-payments I will have to do this year, since this will essentially give me access to payment receipts.  I want receipts because I haven't figured out how I prove that I made quarterly payments when it comes time to doing my 2014 taxes.  I cannot seem to figure out if I get a 1099 from the IRS or some other form.  The good news about enrolling tonight is I did not know I would have to receive something in the mail to finish enrolling.  So, now, I might have done this early enough to electronically file the first payment, also due April 15th.  Taxes ... smaxes.  SIGH.  I really did not want to be learning all this new stuff.  Anyway, I also printed my state taxes forms, wrote that check, and readied the envelope.

Next up was to update the medical expenses spreadsheet with the most recent prescriptions.  And I adjusted my calendar reminders for picking up the rest of the erythromycin solution since the day-count is off from the original reminders.  That done, I did the filing from all this work, including creating a folder for my new bank account.  Is there anything better than an empty filing tray??  When I was creating a new account in my computer checkbook register program, I was delighted to figure how how to rearrange the order of the accounts listing on the left side of the home screen.  Now, instead of being in alphabetical order, they are in an order that makes much more sense to me.  Finally, I called in the receipt of an updated credit card, so I could peel off that annoying reminder sticker.  That means all the niggling little things and all of the pending important paperwork is taken care of ... at least for now.

Another good bit to my day—apart from finding a new bank and getting the Larin—was learning that my sister sent me some Myrtle's-gargantuan-water-bill money.  I also received a repayment for money that has been long, long, long overdue.  Both surprised me.  The latter was a large amount, more so even than my unfortunate 2014 tax miscalculation.  So, in one opening of the mail box, I no longer have to worry about the water bill and the tax payment calculation error ... and ... might even have enough left over for the airing porch railing.  I am also feeling far more positive about finding a way to pay Firewood Man to mow this year since having him do it last year—a gift from my mother—proved to me that I should not be mowing/fainting/mowing my yard anymore, especially since Firewood Man agreed to let me pay him half each week and then continue paying him on into the winter until what I owe him is done, to spread out the cost a bit.

I am still sort of digesting all of this financial news, not really able to grasp that I will be able to do a bit less number crunching and a bit more simply clutching my beloved puppy dog.

Aside from the African praise songs I learned as a missionary, in my early evangelical-church-going days, I learned three other praise songs that are from the Psalter, though not quite as word-for-word.  One of them comes from Psalm 86:

Incline Thine ear, O Lord, and answer me;
For I am afflicted and needy.
Do preserve my soul, for I am a godly man;
O Thou my God, save Thy servant who trusts in Thee.
Be gracious to me, O Lord.
For to Thee I cry all day long.
Make glad the soul of Thy servant,
For to Thee, O Lord, I lift up my soul.
For Thou, Lord, art good, and ready to forgive,
And abundant in lovingkindness to all who call upon Thee.
Give ear, O Lord, to my prayer;
And give heed to the voice of my supplications!
In the day of my trouble I shall call upon Thee,
For Thou wilt answer me.
There is no one like Thee among the gods, O Lord;
Nor are there any works like Thine.
All nations whom Thou hast made shall come and worship before Thee, O Lord;
And they shall glorify Thy name.
For Thou are great and doest wondrous deeds;
Thou alone art God.

Teach me Thy way, O Lord;
I will walk in Thy truth;
Unite my heart to fear Thy name.
I will give thanks to Thee, O Lord my God, with all my heart,
And will glorify Thy name forever.
For Thy lovingkindness toward me is great,
And Thou hast delivered my soul from the depths of Sheol.

O God, arrogant men have risen up against me,
And a band of violent men have sought my life,
And they have not set Thee before them.
But Thou, O Lord, art a God merciful and gracious,
Slow to anger and abundant in lovingkindness and truth.
Turn to me, and be gracious to me;
Oh grant Thy strength to Thy servant,
And save the son of Thy handmaid.
Show me a sign for good,
That those who hate me may see it, and be ashamed,
Because Thou, O Lord, has helped me and comforted me.

~Psalm 86 (NASB 1977)

The weird thing is that I only learned one part, and we sang it sort of as a chorus with no verses, but with key changes.  Odd.


Hear, O LORD, and answer, I am poor and needy,
guard my life for I am devoted to You.
Hear my prayer, O LORD, and my cry for mercy,
In the day of my trouble I will call to You.



I like the NASB 1977 translation better: "afflicted and needy."  However, I do think that the confidence of the first part of the first line is a good thing:  "Hear, O LORD, and answer."  The expectation is that the God will answer the cries of His children.  Not might answer, but will answer.  In the midst of all the doubt and anguish and shame and even petulant complaining of the Psalter is this certitude in the relationship between God and His children, between Christ the Savior and His sheep.  On the man's side, there may be all sorts of discombobulation with regard to faith, but on God's side there is only delight, love, mercy, forgiveness, refuge, and eternal life for the righteous.  Righteous not by piety, but by the birth, life, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ.

Funny, I have sung that chorus repeatedly over the years, but I never really understood just what I was confessing and begging and expecting.

I think tomorrow might be a good day, too.  For whatever else may come, it is a day I plan to help out a friend.  She has this psalm project to do and asked me if I wanted to take it over.  Hah!  That's like asking me if I want to eat your chocolate!!  Of course the answer is a resounding, "Yes!!!!!"


Lord, I believe.   Help my unbelief!

What will come will come...

Tomorrow I pick up the last bottle of the erythromycin solution that Target was able to find.  It is really a half-bottle, seven days' worth.  Then, Target will transfer the renewed prescription back to CVS and I will pick up their two three-quarters bottles.  Twenty-seven days.

When I was talking about this with Marie, tonight, I was bewailing my misery about this upcoming return to constant innards misery.  With each dose left that I take, I try really, really, really hard not to think about what's coming.  What I was bewailing, in part, was my worry that I will no longer be able to eat all the tasty things I have learned to make.  However, we talked about how, back when I was writhing all the time, I was not eating primarily fresh and homemade foods.  Maybe that will make a slight difference.  Maybe.  Maybe not.

I have been wondering if there is any way to take just the erythromycin part somehow.  The pessimist part of me says that I would have already heard so from my GP or found the treatment plan online.  The other classes of prokynetic drugs have some serious side effects, such as fatal arrhythmia and permanent neurological damage, such as tardive dyskinesia.  The whole situation seems rather bleak to me and I am struggling to look at it any other way.

Again, I fail ... utterly ... at being the suffering saint.

Marie has training again tomorrow, but next Friday she'll need to do some freezer cooking again.  And I will get a chance to cook up a new recipe with her.  I have been hankering, like crazy, to find a way to make beef schwarma.  However, I have a recipe for carne asada tacos that just might make it to the menu.  The one I want to try is this Asian flavored skirt steak.  But I keep getting confused between skirt steaks and flank steak, even though I found a great tutorial blog post about the differences in the cuts of beef.  Whatever recipe I dare to try, I am looking forward to cooking with Marie again.

This is another psalm I learned from the African praise songs:

Hear my cry, O God;
Give heed to my prayer.
From the end of the earth I call to Thee, when my heart is faint;
Lead me to the rock that is higher than I.
For Thou hast been a refuge for me,
A tower of strength against the enemy.
Let me dwell in Thy tent forever;
Let me take refuge in the shelter of Thy wings.

For Thou hast heard my vows, O God;
Thou hast given me the inheritance of those who fear Thy name.
Thou wilt prolong the king's life;
His years will be as many generations.
He will abide before God forever;
Appoint lovingkindness and truth, that they may preserve him.
So I will sing praise to Thy name forever,
That I may pay my vows day by day.

~Psalm 61 (NASB 1977)

If I close my eyes, I can hear the voices of the Liberians singing these Words of God to me.  I cannot remember. I cannot visualize, the sights, the sounds, the smells.  I cannot go back there in my mind.  But the Word remains in my ears.


I am Yours, Lord.  Save me!

What to do?

The local bank I chose (bank account number three since moving here) was bought out.  So, my free checking, once again, is no longer going to be free.  The hunt for another bank that has free checking begins ... once again.  I have until April 24th to open a new account and close my now-no-longer-free-local-checking-account.  SIGH.  I have to fetch prescriptions on Friday, so I would like to see if I can find something then.

Last month, I ran out of sour cream.  I also ran out of chicken, sort of, since the only chicken I had left was earmarked for a batch of chipotle chicken chili.  So, when I went to buy groceries last week, I sort of went nuts over chicken.  I have enough chicken to feed several meals to Celia's, Mary's, Becky's, and Marie's families.  Many meals.  However, since it is technically impossible to have too much sour cream, I will only note that I have a sufficiency for all the spicy Dr Pepper pulled pork tacos and chipotle chicken chili I shall be consuming between now and the next budget cycle.

The extra chicken is putting a bit of a damper on my goal to have fresh things all throughout the budget cycle.  I could, legitimately move the cost of one (or more) of the packages into next month, but I am trying really hard not to fudge with this budgeting stuff.  So, I have been reading lots and lots and lots of articles about budgeting and slimming down expenditures.  I mean, it is not as if I am a stranger to budgeting.  I had to do a lot of that as a communications manager and I have never been a spend thrift in my personal finances.  But this ... life of mine ... is hard.  Impossible.

I found this interesting article by LearnVest regarding the 50/20/30 Rule.  This is a budgeting approach that is new to me.  Basically, no more than 50% of your expenses should go to your basic needs (shelter, food, utilities), 20% should go to your financial priorities, and 30% to your lifestyle, which includes things like cellphones, cable, and Internet, as well as things such as entertainment and vacations.  I see lots of information about how housing should be no more than 30% of our budget—that's HUD's standard—but I think that, too often, that as seen as a standard, rather than a high end number.  Start adding the other essentials to that 30% threshold and your basic needs can eat up well over 50% of your budget.  That really is one of the main factors for the housing crisis; just because you can afford a mortgage that is $1,700 a month according to the bank's math, it does not mean that you should actually have a $1,700 mortgage.

The other thing that I really liked about the brief article, even though it is presented by an investment company, is the 20% is designated toward financial priorities, including retirement, savings, and big ticket items you would like to purchase.  Fiscal literacy is sorely lacking in our education system.  And I suspect many might find that number rather excessive, especially since, in my past jobs, trying to help employees see the value of a 100% match to a 3% retirement deduction was like pulling teeth.  Worse, really.  Few were willing to even have 3% of their pre-tax salary set aside; few could see the great benefit of the match.  I believe that the best way to work on your financial goals is to have the funds re-directed before you get your paycheck.  What you don't see, you won't think about spending.  With the prevalence of electronic paychecks, it is an easy thing to have your paycheck divided between a checking and a savings account, after you have made your retirement deductions, too!

Of course, for me, the whole 50/20/30 goes out the window because of my medical expenses, which have been between 40-50% of my income.  SIGH.  However, my long-term goal is to, barring hospitalizations, find a way to live on 80% of the disability income in preparation for possible cuts beginning in 2016, when insolvency is projected to begin.  So, if you look at it that way, the 20% I am trying to learn to live without is my financial priority.

Anyway, even though I am barely into this month's budget cycle, with 23 days to go, I am projecting that I will meet that reduced goal of $750 in the multiple category budget line easily.  Now, I have just $40 left in grocery funds, of which at least $7 will need to go to milk.  Maybe $10.  So, I am not sure how I can meet my goal of having a Grannie Smith apple each day (I currently have six left) and fresh vegetables each week.  But I actually still have $140 of that grouped category left, even with the prescriptions left in the month still to be purchased.  That is huge, given that I paid my car registration this month.

Of course, then you need to say, "Wait, Myrtle, remember the flood!"  Yes, well, okay.  I would not be surprised if all of that $140 is eaten up by the water bill.  Firewood Man didn't know about the flood and he came by to power wash the sidewalks to clean up after his gutter pipe extension work.  They look like the dentist visited, which is just lovely to me, but that water bill is going to be mammoth!

Today, I took down some of the stew jars that I had stashed in my kitchen freezer down to the basement, to swap them with a mixture of meal options to bring back upstairs.  As much as I sniff, I smell no water, which is an immense relief to me.  However, all the photos I had hung up are wrinkled, ruined.  I won't be reprinting them and can still savor why I chose them in the first place, but the wrinkles are a reminder of my colossal memory fail.  SIGH.

Yet, whilst I was down there, I was momentarily staggered looking at the rather full freezer.  Even though I have been doing all the cooking and baking and dough-ball-making and freezing, I struggle to wrap my mind around how much my life has changed in such a short period of time.  I mean, I about near panicked, coming home from the store, because I had not purchased any butter.  I feel as if I am nearly out of butter.  Dangerously low.  However, if you add up what is in both freezers and my refrigerator, I have 7 sticks of regular butter and two slabs of European butter.  One of those sticks is ear-marked for another batch of black-eyed peas, but the remaining six sticks of butter is not exactly "nearly out of butter."  This is especially true if you take into consideration that I had a long talk without myself about not doing any more baking until I eat down the eight different desserts filling up one and a half shelves of my kitchen freezer, as well as the three different types of muffins.

It is strange to me to have such an abundance of tastiness.  It is also strange to me to think that, should a veritable hoard of visitors descend upon me, I could feed them all from my freezer.  I could, in fact, try out two of the new beef recipes I have been hankering to make since those cuts were purchased in February.  Especially ... especially since I can now grill without worrying about blinding snow storms or sub-zero temperatures.

The point is, I really don't have any need for much cooking in April.  Nor is there any area in my home needing organizing or reducing.  Whilst I had a fire tonight, even if I were not nearing the end of the last rank of wood, the weather is definitely getting warmer.  What am I to do?  What am I to do with managing those pesky emotions I do not understand?

When Firewood Man was here, we talked about making the form for the raised bed so that I can grow herbs that my beloved puppy dog cannot "water."  With the first great rain due to start falling today (it did not), I hauled three bags of mulch up to the fern bed—where Tim had to dig to replace the gutter pipe extensions—to prevent dirt running off onto the sidewalks.  Then, thinking about all that ground cover soon to explode in my targeted herb bed, I decided to start working on digging out the snow on the mountain roots.

Amos tried to be helpful.  He kept watering the bed to keep the ground loose.

If you have never seen snow on the mountain roots, you will most likely not be able to grasp the enormity of the task.

Think spaghetti.  Lots and lots of spaghetti that is near impossible to remove.  Any little piece left will grow into another plant.  And it grows very, very, very deep.  From the photo, you might also surmise that I might possibly have finished my gardening in the dark.  Yep, I was wearing my headlamp.

Since the rain held off its arrival, I snapped a picture of the bed today.  I dug down eight inches.  Believe me, after the rain, I guarantee that I will see new sprouts of the ground cover.  Tim talked about putting down landscaping cloth before setting the frame in place, but the pernicious nature of the ground cover made me want to create the best foundation possible.

Plus, I wanted to work out some upsettedness.

You might also see one of the other dilemmas with the bed in the photo.  The bed narrows from top to bottom.  I believe that it will make for a better visual presentation if the frame follows both the fence and the sidewalk.  However, that will make for more of a parallelogram rather than a rectangle ... if I am remember my math terms correctly.  Or maybe some sort of canted trapezoid?  Whatever it will be it will not be even and equal.  If I follow the two larger visual markers.

What to do about that?

Long into the evening, I sat on the ground, digging my fingers into the soil, pulling out the spaghetti roots bit by bit.  I shoveled the entire bed, but I still need to 1) cut along the entire length of the sidewalk and 2) dig at least another six inches.  However, my evening served as an entire growing seasons worth of labor for me.  In other words, that was enough labor for me.  It is my most fervent hope that once the plants are in, all I will have to do is water them.

Well, I will have to stain the wood.

Should I mention that Tim offered some alpaca droppings to use in lieu of compost when mixing up the soil?  Free things are great.  But do I really want alpaca manure?  The bed is already filled with wonderful soil.  I would like to dig out a foot's worth, fill in the trench with the cheapest top soil possible, and then fill the new frame with what I dug out.  But can you imagine me doing all that work?  Plus, where would one put all the soil during the exchange?

If cooking and organizing and gardening and fires are out, what am I to do in times of upsettedness?


I am Yours, Lord.  Save me!

Atop a refuge...

Fear conquered me today.  Whilst you might think that normal, I was surprised.

The plan was to pop out the attic window and slap some caulk on the two front corners of the gutter.  They are both leaking.  Now that I have beautiful water drainage from my new gutter extensions, I wanted to finish off my water-in-the-basement-channels home maintenance project.

[Sorry, I distracted myself there with that video.]

When I peered out the window, I was surprised to see just how little maneuvering room there was between the window and the gutter—a mere five tiles.  I shimmied out the window and then immediately scampered back inside.  I tried again and got just past the window onto the larger portion of the roof.  It is really, really, really steep.  I scurried back inside.  I tried to visualize myself applying the caulk, but I cannot visualize anything.  That was a futile bit of procrastination.  My plan then became to get out the window, roll on to my stomach, and inch my way to the corner.  I got out the window, rotated to my hands and knees, and tried really hard to lie down on my stomach.  I couldn't.  I am too chicken, I suppose.

Now, perhaps you are thinking that is just being sensible.  But you do not know that roofs are my friends.  They are.  When I was young, I would take a book and climb up on the roof as refuge from the chaos drugs and alcohol can bring to a home.  I loved the quiet and solitude and safety of the roof.

The airing porch has no railing.  When I bought the house, I insured it with the company who covered my last home.  A few weeks after I arrived, an inspector came round, saw the lack of railing, and canceled my policy.  My policy was canceled even though the mortgage company required that I have the door to the airing porch screwed shut.  Locks don't seem to be important.  So, the company that holds my auto policy agreed to cover the house.  The agent knew the area and knew many homes had airing porches.  All was fine.  Now, not so much.

Firewood Man came over to sow grass seed into the dirt from the trenches he had to dig for the gutter pipe extensions since tomorrow starts a long spate of rain.  He also went out onto the airing porch to measure for a railing.  Whilst he's willing to build a nice one, I am opting for the most economical, plain, black metal railing.

Somewhere along the way, someone switched it from a flat roof to a pitched one.  It is a gentle pitch, but it is also shingled.  So, really the porch isn't meant to be used as a porch now.  I would, however, like to be able to be out there with Amos, high above everything else.  I would really like to figure out a way to have a glider rocking bench (such as this one) set leveled on the porch near the house.  Today, Tim and I spent over an hour, sitting with our backs to the house, savoring the peace of being up there.  Or, perhaps, I did the savoring and Tim did the wishing a railing was already installed.

I suppose I mention this because I really am surprised how frightened I was trying to get on the second story roof.  And, truthfully, I was surprised at the peace and sense of safety I felt sitting on the airing porch.  It was as if I were thirteen again, climbing up the fence, traversing the garage roof, and on atop the house.  My secret hiding place.  My refuge.

Did you know that 29 of the psalms (19%) specifically speak of or refer to refuge, such as with Psalm 27 I hid in yesterday:


For in the day of trouble He will conceal me in His tabernacle; 
In the secret place of His tent He will hide me; 


Six more of them speak of being lifted up, lifted up to safety, by the Lord.  Maybe a rooftop is not such an odd refuge.

A segment of Psalm 91 is another one of the African praise songs I learned.  But, really, the whole thing is wonderful, is soothing, is perfect for me.


He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High
Will abide in the shadow of the Almighty.
I will say to the LORD, "My refuge and my fortress,
My God, in whom I trust!"
For it is He who delivers you from the snare of the trapper
And from the deadly pestilence.
He will cover you with His pinions,
And under His wings you may seek refuge;
His faithfulness is a shield and bulwark.

You will not be afraid of the terror by night,
Or of the arrow that flies by day;
Of the pestilence that stalks in darkness,
Or of the destruction that lays waste at noon.
A thousand may fall at your side
And ten thousand at your right hand,
But it shall not approach you.
You will only look on with your eyes
And see the recompense of the wicked.

For you have made the LORD, my refuge,
Even the Most High, your dwelling place.
No evil will befall you,
Nor will any plague come near your tent.

For He will give His angels charge concerning you,
To guard you in all your ways.
They will bear you up in their hands,
That you do not strike your foot against a stone.
You will tread upon the lion and cobra,
The young lion and the serpent you will trample down.

"Because he has loved Me, therefore I will deliver him;
I will set him securely on high, because he has known My name.
"He will call upon Me, and I will answer him;
I will be with him in trouble;
I will rescue him and honor him.
"With a long life I will satisfy him
And let him see My salvation."
~Psalm 91 (NASB 1977)


I very much am looking forward to that railing.  I could almost thank the insurance company for making it a requirement.  Too bad I cannot get them to make a seat up there a requirement, too.  Peace—even that of being up on a roof—is a rare commodity for me.  I would like more of it.

The pair of robins who spent the winter with me came and sat on the power line watching me.  Their nest is just below the right corner of the airing porch, where the gutter pipe curves down beneath the roof to run down the side of the porch.  The funny thing is ... a pair of house finches have absconded the nest, working for a while now making it the right size for their tiny bodies.  The robins just watch them.

All God's creatures need refuge, eh?


I am Yours, Lord.  Save me!