Screw triumph...

The handle is gone!  I really am not sure why it was there, but I managed to finally get enough of the paint off the four flat head screws to start working on them.  Back in the dark ages, when I was a freshman at college, I had a guy from church admonish me about the necessity for a tool kit in my car.  He bought me this black, flat case with all sorts of tools I still do not really understand.  However, in it are two screwdrivers that have very short, thick GREEN handles.  I have found that when you have a stubborn screw, those short handles make the job easier.

I worked and worked. I cursed and wept.  I yelled and asked forgiveness.  Seriously, I apologized to a door.  I even said that I would not throw away the handle but look for a better use for it some place else.  That latter bit of concession worked.  The first screw moved the tiniest bit.  Pressure. Wiggle.  Switch.  Pressure. Wiggle.  Switch.  A gazillion times of switching between the four screws later, the handle came off!

To me, the door really looks like a door now.

I started filling the bazillion holes in it and I filled the cracks where I could not snug the new wood against the existing frame.  I am conflicted about the rest.  By this I mean, the original work on the door did not include good coping at the horizontal panels.  I want to not fill in those gaps.  I want it to look as close to its original state as possible.  If I paint down in those gaps, the wood will be protected.  And there is a significant overhang of the roof, so the door rarely gets wet.

As far as the miter cuts go, apparently my putty skills are no where near the level of my drywall patching skills.  I can float and tape with the best of them.  I am also a fairly skilled caulker.  Putty, well, it looks like a kindergarteners was working on the door.  I am, at this point, hoping paint will cover a multitude of sins.

The back of the door has a strip of extra wood at the top and at the bottom.  I suspect it was to brace a door that was falling apart, even though I cannot see any cracks or gaps there.  I would like to take off the wood, but I am genuinely fearful the door will fall apart.  I would like to take off the rather large pieces of wood and replace them with thinner ones.  But I should probably just leave the door alone.  It is only that I see those errant pieces of wood each and every time I pull into the garage that this thought came to mind.  I suspect this is a let-sleeping-dogs-lie issue, but to me it is a Pandora's Box.  Of course, you know how the latter turned out.

But this!  This is what irks me.  I can live with the horrible miter cuts.  I can live with the slightly crooked framing board from where I trimmed it freehand with a circular saw.  I can live with the older wood on the outside of the frame that had to stay (because I need my laundry lines).  I can live with the fact that I had to buy a new pane of glass because I broke the first one.  I can even live with the chunk the blasted contractor cut out of the threshold.  However, it is KILLING me that I will be painting over screws that are sticking so far out of the wood.  What TERRIBLE work.  SIGH.

If you look up in the left hand corner, you will see a screw I was able to properly sink.  However, there are far too many screws that no matter how hard I pressed, no matter how hard I backed them out and started again, no matter how much I moved them, I could not sink them flush.  I know, though, that reality is that I will not be able to find me a man and a hammer drill. I know that I will be forced to live with my failure, with having it taunt me each and every time I go through the door.

[I am fairly sure no real craftsman would use wood filler that goes on purple and dries white, but I thought it was a genius move on the manufacturer's part.]

I am not sure I am up to painting.  Actually, I am not sure if I have a paint brush left because I sacrificed one when I helped Sandra paint her deck and it might have been my last brush.  But I believe I should go ahead and prime tomorrow, if I can.  Or at least as soon as possible.  We still are having warm days, but the nights are cooling off.  I do not know how cool it can be before painting is not a good course of action.  I have to do some lab work tomorrow, so I thought I would fetch the paint while I am out ... and a brush if I am right about using up my last one.  [I can be pretty miserly with them, but there comes a point in time when you have to admit that you have squeezed that last penny of use from a paint brush.]

Because I am mostly bemoaning my door, I thought I would post two more photos.  This first one is my trying to see just how much polarizing my polarizing filter could do.  I was blinded when I aimed the camera into the sun, but the filter actually made the shot possible.

I wonder if I had spun the filter bit by bit, taking shots, if I could have eliminated the halo, and had just the rays show.

This next photo is totally boring, unless you are Myrtle.  Then it is chock full of bliss.  You see, we have had weeks and weeks of no rain.  Last summer, I spend hundreds of dollars trying to keep my yard GREEN during the drought.  All my neighbors had brown yards.  I did not.  I did not at a price I could not afford.  I will admit opening the water bill was nauseating and embarrassing and guilt inducing.  However, when the rain started in September, everyone else also had GREEN yards.  I felt so stupid and so very foolish.  I thought I was saving my grass.  I was only wasting water and money.  SIGH.

So, this summer, over the past month or so, when the sky dried up, I did not water my yard.  Over something like 5 weeks, I watched all my GREEN lusciousness, my comfort, my bliss, shrivel up and turn into a great expanse of depressing BROWN.  I did water one evening because my two-year-old weeping cherry tree, smoke bush, and crabapple tree all started looking really peaked. I also lost an entire branch of the rhododendron.  It took every bit of my will power to not recklessly run the sprinklers every few days.

Well, this past week, we had three full days of a beautiful, steady, ground soaking rain.  This is how my yard looks now!

I do not know what kind of grass this is.  While a few spots in the yard are something else, most is this skinny stuff.  This beautiful skinny stuff that looks like a prairie when it is tall and the wind blows across it.  Sometimes, I just sit on the back steps, holding my puppy dog, and watch the waves rolling across my yard.  

In a single summer, Firewood Man got rid of the weeds and all of the bare spots filled in using his super magical formulas for fertilizer and weed killer.  I will be forever grateful he advertised wood (did I mention that I bought up all his wood and now need a new source) and then mentioned that he works as a landscaper.  Twenty bucks.  Twenty bucks every three months and I have lusciousness!

Oh, my dear lawn, I am so very happy you are back!!

I am Yours, Lord.  Save me!    

Some things really are not possible...

I have learned that I have absolutely no skill when it comes to miter cuts.  None.  Zilch.  Nada.  I have also learned the following:

• You cannot use a hand-held circular saw to miter cut glass bead trim.
• You should wear protective eye glasses if you attempt to use a hand-held circular saw to miter cut glass bead trim.
• You cannot use a hand-held Kobalt small saw to miter cut glass bead trim if you want straight cuts.
• You cannot make 45 degree miter cuts for a window frame that is not also cut at 45 degree angles.
• You must need years of training in order to calculate the proper angles needed for a window opening whose left and right measurements do not match, nor do the top and bottom measurements.
• It is VITAL that you account for the width of the saw blade as you measure and make your cuts.
• Is it VITAL that you hold the glass bead in the same direction as you attempt miter cuts so that you do not end up trying to match the flat edge down to round edge down at the corner.
• It is VITAL that you wear gloves when picking up and setting in place a raw cut piece of glass.
• The screw-on capped silicone tubes are really worth the extra price because the remaining silicone will still be soft and usable eons later.
• Puppy dogs are absolutely no help when it comes to measuring, making miter cuts, setting in glass, calking, setting in the trim, and nailing the trim to the frame.  They are actually rather unhelpful.  

Here is the current progress of the garage entrance door.  At the moment, I am actually glad that I shake so much because I simply could not get a clear photo of the trim.  That means, you cannot actually see the gaps in the corners where my mitered cuts are joined (and I am using the word "joined" rather loosely).  I am hoping that my wood-filler skills are far, far, far better than my miter cut skills.  I do give myself HIGH PRAISE for installing the window and the trim without actually breaking the new pane of glass.

I need a man.  I need a man and a hammer drill.  Period.

If I want to snug up the new inside trim boards, I need a man with muscles and a hammer drill with far more power than my own regular cordless drill.  Period.  Otherwise, there is no possible way for me to close the gap on the left side.  I gave it my best shot (three times with fresh batteries and brass self-drilling screws) and failed.

I want so badly to find a man with a hammer drill before I prime and paint the door.  However, I need closure on this project.  Its incompletedness is beginning to taunt me each time I sit on the back steps waiting on Amos to conquer his fear of grass.

Being rather lazy, I did not scrape the thick layers of ancient paint from the outside edges of the frame and from the hinge edge of the door itself.  Taking a look at them today, I came to the conclusion that I really do need to finish those bits before slapping on the primer.  So, I will fill in the holes in the door above the deadbolt from a previous latch, try to fill in and sculpt the mitered corners of the window trim, make one more attempt at trying to remove the screws of the handle that is in the middle of the door, and scrape the missed edges.  If I have not found a man and a hammer drill by the time these last tasks are finished, I will go ahead and fill in the long vertical crack on the left side of the door frame, prime, and paint.

If you have any old paint to scrape/remove, I very, very highly recommend that you buy a heat gun.  The paint bubbles up, and then you just scoop it away.  Lovely not to have to spend all your energy and then some chiseling and picking and flipping and twisting and hacking at the paint.

On another note, whilst I am aching to find some sort of bit of nature near by to which I could drive, haul myself in a bit, and lay down on the ground to take some pictures, I checked out the Zeikos polarizing filter that I bought for $5.95.  I have always wanted one and never got one for any of my cameras.  My favorite digital camera has the lens size written right on top, so I knew what to buy.  While I couldn't remember where I aimed and thus did not take the exact same shot, you might see why it is that I wanted the filter.

No filter:

Filter:

As I said, Amos was pretty much no help to me at all.  In fact, he fretted something awful the entire time that I was working.  When he is worried, Amos will pace back and forth across the lower step, rather than lying atop it waiting for me to finish.  When he is frantic, he will stand in the doorway—always on this side—and softly whimper/whine/moan.  As you can see, Amos needs a hair cut.  And a bath.  And a nail trim.  He is also in need of calm down techniques of his own.  Were he able to read, he could ponder my latest post on the sexual abuse blog about navigating emotions.  Of course, were he able to read, we would be rich because of his miraculous skill and would be able to hire someone to properly tend to the garage entrance door and thus he would not be fretting and would not be in need of calm down techniques.  And where he able to read, Amos would tell me that he does have calm down techniques.  They consist of the following:

• Climbing atop my shoulders (he can get there without my help at times)
• Asking me to pick him up (he leaps completely off the ground repeatedly until you grab him)
• Climbing on my lap
• Surrounding himself with as many of his Babies as possible

Of course, given that I am comforted by most of his calm down techniques, I would not mind his upsettedness so much except for the fact that I wish his life could be rich and full and peaceful.  SIGH.

I am Yours, Lord.  Save me!

Mullets and meals and monitors...

Before I bathed last night, I fetched the scissors and chopped off another two inches of my mullet hair cut.  That means I have now lopped off six total inches in the back and two on the sides, since this is the first time I was able to trim up the sides a bit.  The front side of my hair, though, has not been touched.  Neither have my bangs, which tells you just how horribly short all the top of my hair was.

My hair is admittedly crooked in the back is not all that attractive (I am not a woman who can carry short hair), but now it is barely mulletized at all.

Because I am rather adamant, I have decided to bathe for the entirety of the heart monitoring to help ensure the monitor remains attached, since it is supposed to be protected in the shower.  Of course, getting into and out of a tub is not easy for me and we will not delve into just how dangerous it could be for me to wash my hair in the sink.  [I was extra careful in changing positions when I did so.]  The down side (or up) to washing my hair in the sink in its shortened state is that I ended up with waking to hair sticking straight up.

Poor Amos.  The only time the tub is used is to bathe him, so he couldn't understand why I didn't want him in there with him.  Then, this morning, he look one look at me and leapt off the bed.  He did return, but I clearly startled him.

After trying to tame my hair, I eagerly launched into cooking the honey lime thingy.  At first, I was really disappointed by the honey lime recipe because the sauce never thickened and really didn't seem to flavor the chicken.  I kept thinking about how fantastic the marinade smelled, and then I thought of a way to capture the flavor.  I turned it into Honey Lime Chicken with Rice.  I about died from having to wait for the rice to cook to finish my breakfast/lunch.  But I found the sauced up rice rather tasty.   Really, you could just make up the marinade, heat it up, and then pour it over rice to have an Asian sort of flavored rice for any meal.  For the record, this was the first lime recipe in which I could not actually taste the lime, but then again neither could I taste the honey.

Thus far, in my inexplicable intense hunger for lime in foods, my two favorite recipes are the bloody fantastic Grilled Corn on the Cob with Cheese and Lime (thanks, Marie) and that utterly awesome Baked Mustard Lime Chicken.  I still have most of the second bag of limes, so I need more recipes.

I have been searching high and low for three days, trying to find my missing glass. I keep checking the spare room and the basement, but not a single space of my house was left unvisited. Even the attic.  [Yes, I know it is ridiculous to think that the glass would be in the attic.]  Well, while cooking, I spotted the missing glass.  Sunday, I used it to put all the roses I saved when trimming back the bushes trying to have one productive moment amidst all that sleeping.  I have been walking past the "vase" of roses on the bistro table, enjoying them, since then without ever noticing that I forgot to exchange the glass for a vase.  SIGH.  At least my glass is no longer missing.

I am thinking that the heart monitor is going to show some wonky stuff on it for the last little while.  I was trying to write what I want to write about the body and the Gospel and got no where and ended up weeping.  Amos hopped off the GREEN chair and trotted upstairs to fetch Flower Baby for me.  After shoving her beneath my chin, Amos licked the tears from my cheek and draped a paw across my neck before laying his head on my chest (heart monitor).  So, even if he didn't activate the notation button, he sure activated my heart activity.  How much God must love me to have created Amos and sent him to live with me!

I ended up writing about coping and emotions mingled together.  And ... now ... I am thinking perhaps it might be a good time to try my hand at making the Peanut Butter and Nutella Cheesecake Bars all by myself.  I'm sure Marie would cheer me on where she here.  Mary, too.


I am Yours, Lord.  Save me!

Hoping the third time is the charm...

From Sunday noonish to Monday noonish, I slept 20 hours.  I napped several times on Monday, including straight through the season opening show I wanted to see, before sleeping 12 hours with a few breaks.  Tuesday, I napped before FedEx came with the heart monitor and then I napped for nearly three hours after Sandra came and helped me attached it and start it.  I just awoke from another 10 hours of sleep, though at one point I was interrupted for over an hour dealing with pain.  I am still very, very, very exhausted.

Seriously, I have got to figure out how to have people visit (because a hermit can get rather lonely) and still rest and nap as much as I need to do when they are here.

Too, I received another medication rejection letter from the insurance company.

I really don't have it in me to fight it.  I mean, I really don't have it in me to fight my GP's office.  The surgeon's office took the notice, wrote a letter, and wham!  I got the waiver.  I have been trying to get my GP's office to write 4 letters for 4 drugs and apparently she doesn't write letters.  They have, in my opinion, spent far, far more hours trying to get some form mailed than it would have taken to write a letter with a short statement of need ... a statement outlined in my notification from the insurance company.

One of the drugs is the Erythromycin that I have been taking.  Even though I have had only one bout of writhing and one bout nausea in two whole weeks, I cannot see paying full price for the drug.  I just cannot.  Since I now react rather adversely (heart rate and blood pressure) to my asthma meds, I have to pay full price for the one cough suppressant I can take to try and keep from tipping over into an asthma attack.  I used to take it nightly, along with Singular, but I am trying to take it more sparingly because of the cause.

I thought about asking the surgeon's office to write the letter for the Erythromycin or asking the nurse to coach the GP's nurse, but the last call with the GP's nurse was so ... unpleasant ... I am more inclined to just give up.  Then, when I see the GP in December, tell her in person the difference the drug made, show her the notice, and ask if she would write a statement for me.

The thing about trying to find another GP is that few really want Medicare patients and she has been rather flexible and supportive for nearly 3 years.

In any case, right now, I am focusing on chasing down my heart issues.  It is all I could do to battle the hope and then disappointment and then hope and then disappointment and then hope again, trying to have a monitor that works.  Oh, how I am hoping that this is actually capturing my heart rhythms!

Last night was a period where I was struggling to breathe and it felt funny, though just about 20 beats faster than my normal.  Then, when I got up after lying down, there was the 60-ish beats per minute jump because I was changing position.  Sometimes, it goes the other direction.  But since July ... or there abouts ... I have been having these periods were my heart rate is between 135 and 200.  Fun times.

Something.
I just want something helpful to show up on all those hours of recording.
Anything.

To keep my mind off of this, I worked on two different lime recipes ... one of which I think might be just a disaster.  The second one, I decided that I want to truly marinade it, so I prepared the marinade and will put the chicken in it overnight in the refrigerator.  However, well ... you see, I used the dish I want to use for the marinading with the potential disaster, so I had to wait until it came out of the oven.

In a nut shell, I wondered what it would be like to cook chicken in what is essentially heavily limed and sour creamed avocado sauce.  In a bowl, I mixed up avocado, sour cream, salt, pepper, the juice of two limes, and cumin.  My friend had bought fresh chicken breast (not the flash frozen breasts I usually get) that were mammoth.  So, I took a large one and cut it up into four strips.  Then, I put all of it into my small GREEN casserole dish, since I knew the chicken would not fit into one of the French Oval dishes.

I was a tad paranoid about it since, after cooking for 35 minutes, the avocado sauce was not even browned in the least.  You see, this is my main cooking time that I worked out: 35 minutes at 350 degrees.  The chicken in all the other lime recipes came out perfectly moist and bloody fantastic.  The one time I went by the thermometer at the recommended 165 degrees, all I could think as I took each bite was that it was not cooked all the way. I mean, it was not pink in the least, but the chicken felt a tad squeaky instead of tender and falling apart.  I figured that since those long-ago-chicken-rice-soup casseroles were baked much longer, I would add at least 10 minutes since this is a very, very, very thick sauce.  I actually ended up cooking the lime-sour cream-avocado sauce thingy for 55 minutes.

I ate the chicken with just the sauce first.  The chicken was fall-apart-perfection.  So, I was right in keeping in there longer.  And then I melted a Mexican blend of shredded cheese on a flour tortilla and filled it with more chicken and lime-sour cream-avocado sauce.  I am, of course, stuffed with chicken at the moment.  Since avocado does not keep once opened, I could imagine that the chicken would keep either.  That is why I finished it off.  Seriously, two people could have fed off of this.  However, I wonder, honestly, if anyone else would like this.  I do not think I will cook it again, so I am not going to put it on my recipe remember blog.

The other lime dish is a honey lime baked chicken thingy.  Because I believe this has great potential, I decided to actually marinade the chicken in the refrigerator before cooking it, rather than let it merely sit in the dish for about 30 minutes before cooking.  The largest of those fresh chicken breasts was actually 14.8 ounces (yes, I plopped it down on the kitchen scale on which I used to weigh my cockatiels and which has come in rather useful now that I am trying to cook a bit from real recipes). Since the recipe called for two chicken breasts cut up, I simply cut up the monster chicken breast and divided it between two of the French Ovals.  I also whipped up the marinade and divided it between the baking dishes.  Then, I placed the tops on both dishes and put them in the refrigerator.  I plan to turn the chicken over tonight and then again tomorrow when I put them into the oven to ensure even marinading. The marinade smelled so good I was ready to just drink it down by itself, but I really do need to work on that whole will power thing.  I cannot wait to dive into that lime dish on the morrow.  If it is even a fraction of how good it smelled, I will definitely be cooking it again.

Already I am waiting for a chance to make the Baked Mustard Lime Chicken again.  The leftovers from that was equally as good as the day it was cooked.  And, well, the marinade turned sauce was Amos approved.

My help with the last bits of the garage door project has fallen through and I do not know of anyone else who can help me.  So, I am stuck finishing up by myself.

Today, I girded my loins and set about trimming the vertical piece on the right side of the door frame.  Because the door is crooked, all I could think to do was to trim the front of the wood so that it appears straight.  I seems to me that if I trimmed the back side, I would then have to figure out how to angle the top so that the whole thing still appeared straight.  Since my cutting ability is really poor and my measuring even worse, I went with just the one part trim.  As it is, the back side of the board is not fitted from top to bottom anyway because the door is multiple ways crooked, not just one nice slope of crookedness.  Anyway, I know I am making little sense, but here is the result of my labor.  Let me tell you, cutting a piece of 1x4 free hand with a circular saw and without any sort of sawhorse or table or clamps is rather difficult.  In my opinion, I think it would be rather difficult for anyone, much less a most thoroughly non-carpenter-middle-aged-shaky-hands-weak lady.

I also charged up the drill, turned the setting all the way up to 10, backed out all the screws, and then re-screwed them whilst pressing as hard as I possibly could.  Some of them are now flush, but not all.  I think I am going to have to live with that.  After all, this garage is from 1920 and I am definitely not a skilled carpenter.

So, the last little task needing done before I start priming and painting (a skill I definitely do have), is to miter cut the four pieces of glass bead trim for the window.  Let me tell you, I am setting my expectations rather low for this.  I figure copious amounts of wood filler is going to be necessary for each corner.  SIGH.

I do have a carpenter's square.  I do have a circular saw.  I do have a measuring tape.  It is the latter that is the problem.  Each and every measuring tape I have ever owned is simply downright faulty.  None of them have ever measured properly.  So, really, doing my own miter cuts is a doomed project.  Seriously, I would willingly give up an entire 12-pack of Dr Pepper if someone would just do those four little cuts for me.

I should grab the bull by the horns and go out and make them right now.  However, I think I shall take more naps and drink more Dr Pepper and actually taste the honey lime marinade on cooked chicken before I try to be miter-cut-courageous.

Should I admit, at this point, I decided to paint the door GREEN?  That means I need to buy a can of paint ... spend money on the project.  I do have to purchase a gallon of the red/crimson/brick color of the outside of my house in order to paint the screen door to the outside of the basement that was repaired in the winter when painting was not possible.  And I have a Lowe's coupon. So if I buy the gallon with the quart, I will not actually be paying full price for the quart.  I think the math will be something along the lines of half price.  The color I chose when I was not looking at paint colors because it makes no sense to spend money on paint when I have plenty of white for the garage walls, trim, etc. is called Grove.  Since I love the wood of the door, don't you think that name is rather fitting??

I guess I should also admit that I have not actually checked to see just how off the measuring tape was with regard to the cutting of the glass for the window. I should probably check that before I fetch paint in case I need Lowe's to trim it up a bit.  You see, I am essentially a chicken at heart.  I have yet to even pull off the masking tape from the nice brown paper the service clerk used to wrap up the glass.

When I went to start working on a second lesson about emotions, I found myself writing a First Lesson on Coping.  Oh, how hard it is to write what I want spoken ... what I want others to understand and to accept as good and right to be spoken!


I am Yours, Lord.  Save me!

Still waiting...

The second wearable heart monitor died by Saturday morning.  I was ... rather frustrated. I want this data!

Since my doctor's office was closed, I called the 24/7 number of the manufacturer.  When I spoke to the rep who answered the phone, I learned that the rapidly flashing orange light was an unrecoverable error that had been cropping up in the second generation of the heart monitor.  He asked if I could go to Dupont Hospital to get a first generation model, but it is not in my Medicare policy network.  So, he said he would ask his manager on Monday if he could send me one directly.  I am still waiting to hear if this will be possible.

Did I mention that I really, really, really want this data?

Still craving limes for some inexplicable reason, I went searching for more recipes involving limes and chicken.  I found this rather tasty Baked Mustard Lime Chicken one.  Oh, my!  It is quite flavorful and spicy, but not too hot.  This was fortunate, for me, since I do not not like hot foods at all.  I admit that when I was dumping the copious-to-me amount of chili powder that was added after the Dijon mustard.  However, in for a penny, in for a pound, right?  Plus, I am more amenable to trying recipes that are easily halved.  This one was.  The best part was that the chicken was super moist, and as I cut and dipped each piece into the sauce, the sauce thickened.   Very, very tasty.

I also made more Southern Fried Corn to go with the chicken.  This time, I had better bacon.  Honestly, the extra meaty bits made a difference.  So, tomorrow I have the other piece of chicken and the other half of the Southern Fried Corn to eat ... I hope I can make it until then!

Oh, my, good news!  The heart monitor rep just called to say that he was able to get permission to send me out an older model.  He said it did not have the clarity of capture of the new one, so that I needed to be very careful in how I put it on.  However, I am so very thankful for some long-term monitoring even if the capture is not always best.  Sandra is willing to help me ensure I get the placement right.  So, data, data everywhere here I come!

I forgot to ask my friend to strip the bed, but I went ahead and took care of the laundry today ... in between two judicious naps.  I am still very exhausted.  Somehow, I need to learn how to have company and be my sluggard self at the same time ... translate that:  I need to learn how to not mask or pretend at all.  Mostly, I need to learn how to escape KUWJ syndrome.  Those lessons I have not yet learned.

Off to another nap ... and maybe some Gospel Harmony reading....


I am Yours, Lord.  Save me!

No condemnation...

"Therefore there is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus" (Romans 8:1.)  Shudder.  I have avoided it.  I have agonized over it.  I have despaired of it.

Recently, during the dinner with Marie and Paul, this verse came up. While talking about it, about how I just do not understand it because I have often felt condemned by other Christians for one reason or another, have felt the weight of judgment on faith and on "godly living."  Both of them looked a tad bit puzzled and then, talking over each other, explained that the condemnation was not that of others but eternal condemnation, or rather eternal death.

In that moment, I was immensely relieved.

And I felt incredibly stupid.

And I was full of doubt and of hope.

What they said made far, far more sense than how I have always thought and felt about that verse.  I mean, after all Paul himself said, "Let a man regard us in this manner, as servants of Christ and stewards of the mysteries of God. In this case, moreover, it is required of stewards that one be found trustworthy. But to me it is a very small thing that I may be examined by you, or by any human court; in fact, I do not even examine myself. For I am conscious of nothing against myself, yet I am not by this acquitted; but the one who examines me is the Lord. Therefore do not go on passing judgment before the time, but wait until the Lord comes who will both bring to light the things hidden in the darkness and disclose the motives of men’s hearts; and then each man’s praise will come to him from God" (1 Corinthians 4:1-5). 

I finished the first post on emotions and sexual abuse survivors.  And I wonder just how much of reading and seeing and thinking that the condemnation Paul said that we did not have in Christ meant judgement by others is tied to the pressure of the errant theology of works righteousness and the constant self-examiniation with regard to maintaining a "right relationship" with God, with your behavior and thoughts and feelings and how much is tied to the condemnation I have felt since I was a young girl ... both before and after others knew my secret.

Today, I slept for ten hours after dropping Wynne off at the airport this morning.  I had awoken early to cook us both pumpkin pancakes and promptly became rather ill after eating them.  I believe both the illness and the fatigue of being so much more up and about during a time when I have company kept me asleep all but a few minutes of those 10 hours.  Especially, since I have not seen Wynne in years, I did not nap once and dragged myself out of been too early each day, despite staying up late talking and talking and talking each night.

I am still exhausted, but I was thinking about the conversation about Romans 8:1 that I have been holding close, a dear and precious thought I want to believe.

Last night, Marie and Paul had Wynne and I over for dinner.  Oh, my, what food Marie cooks!  We had butternut squash and goat cheese ravioli with brown butter hazelnut and sage sauce, roasted apples, and roasted broccoli.  Try not to be jealous.

Having spent many hours at the botanical gardens, I was rather tired when we got there.  I had also been away from Amos all day, so I had asked if I could bring him with us.  Once we arrived, I plunked myself down on the couch, snuck in a few cuddles with my puppy dog, and just waited to be called to the table.  I did not worry what Paul and Marie would think, because I knew it would be okay.

While we were eating, we had a rowdy and raucous conversation, with much laughter and twitting on all sides.  The meal was incredible, but I savored the company more. I savored how safe and free I felt. I savored being welcomed and wanted.  I savored being valued and respected.  I savored the opportunity to be of help and a resource for a bit of problem-solving.  Frankly, the evening was glorious and I was so incredibly thankful to be able to share it with my friend Wynne.

And Amos.

"For we know that the Law is spiritual, but I am of flesh, sold into bondage to sin. For what I am doing, I do not understand; for I am not practicing what I would like to do, but I am doing the very thing I hate. But if I do the very thing I do not want to do, I agree with the Law, confessing that the Law is good. So now, no longer am I the one doing it, but sin which dwells in me. For I know that nothing good dwells in me, that is, in my flesh; for the willing is present in me, but the doing of the good is not. For the good that I want, I do not do, but I practice the very evil that I do not want. But if I am doing the very thing I do not want, I am no longer the one doing it, but sin which dwells in me.

"I find then the principle that evil is present in me, the one who wants to do good. For I joyfully concur with the law of God in the inner man, but I see a different law in the members of my body, waging war against the law of my mind and making me a prisoner of the law of sin which is in my members. Wretched man that I am! Who will set me free from the body of this death? Thanks be to God through Jesus Christ our Lord! So then, on the one hand I myself with my mind am serving the law of God, but on the other, with my flesh the law of sin.

"Therefore there is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus. For the law of the Spirit of life in Christ Jesus has set you free from the law of sin and of death. For what the Law could not do, weak as it was through the flesh, God did: sending His own Son in the likeness of sinful flesh and as an offering for sin, He condemned sin in the flesh, so that the requirement of the Law might be fulfilled in us, who do not walk according to the flesh but according to the Spirit. For those who are according to the flesh set their minds on the things of the flesh, but those who are according to the Spirit, the things of the Spirit. For the mind set on the flesh is death, but the mind set on the Spirit is life and peace, because the mind set on the flesh is hostile toward God; for it does not subject itself to the law of God, for it is not even able to do so, and those who are in the flesh cannot please God.

"However, you are not in the flesh but in the Spirit, if indeed the Spirit of God dwells in you. But if anyone does not have the Spirit of Christ, he does not belong to Him. If Christ is in you, though the body is dead because of sin, yet the spirit is alive because of righteousness. But if the Spirit of Him who raised Jesus from the dead dwells in you, He who raised Christ Jesus from the dead will also give life to your mortal bodies through His Spirit who dwells in you." (Romans 7:14-8:11, emphasis mine).

Context.  

In context, reading Romans 8:1 as addressing spiritual, not earthly condemnation makes perfect sense and fits with Christ crucified for me.  There is forgiveness and freedom in that. And, I believe, I make sense to my friends who look at me considering the context of my life.  I am not just one thing and that one thing does not color and inform how they see everything else about me.  There is forgiveness and freedom in that.

It is amazing to me what I am learning about context.  Context of the Living Word.  Context of the whys and wherefores of me.


Lord, I believe.  Help my unbelief!

Can I tempt you...

Today, I learned that for a mere $10 more than it costs to buy a single one-day adult pass for someone to push me around in the wheelchair at my beloved botanical conservatory, I could get an annual pass to have a free adult guest each and every time I visit!

Today, Wynne indulged me in first, going there, and second, letting me take 183 (I was rushed) photographs.  I miss fooling around with my camera.  My rather shaky hands mean that I oft simply cannot take the photo I wish to do so.  However, I did manage to capture a few bits of God's creation passably well.

Can I tempt you to come push me about the place with any of these favorites?

I am Yours, Lord.  Save me!

Not quite so much data...

The 14-day monitor did not even last twelve hours.  The flashing orange light telling me there was a problem made difficult any sleeping on my part.  Thus, at 8:13 this morning, I was on the phone asking for a replacement.  It is my fear I shall have to pay in full for this monitoring, but I believe it will be of value.  However, if I am paying several thousand dollars from my ever-dwindling, immature retirement account, I would like recordation actually to be taking place.

So, it was back to the cardiologist today.  I am now all wired (adhered) up again and praying that the capture will be primarily successful over the two-week period.

The time factor infringed upon the plan to take Wynne to the botanical gardens, so we went for a tasty meal at Flattop Grill.  In coming home, stuffed and sated, we ended up primarily talking for a while before I offered to cook.

My biggest problem, by far, is Keeping Up With the Jones, when it comes to eating with guests.  I would have been fine with just two small dishes of something, having chowed down on my stir-fry.  However, everyone else in the world cannot make do on either six tiny meals or one big and a few tiny tidbits fore and aft.  We ended up having left over Raspberry Chipotle chicken (the breasts she bought at the store are the largest ones I have EVER seen in my life), one of my bloody fantastic salads (wild leaf lettuce, feta, avocado, cucumber, carrot slivers, and craisons—no, she did not want me to buy her her own tomato even though she eats them), and roasted broccoli.  So, at least I got to introduce her to the latter.

However, I really had no need of all of those things.  Or even one of them.  An apple would have done.  Yogurt later.  KUWJ Syndrome.  SIGH.

Then, more talking, but this time primarily erudite matters relating to the college class she teaches as an adjunct.  Ah, education, make my heart sing!  She actually came with a specific goal of asking me to help her start (and eventually finish) an overhaul of her syllabus assignments and final exam (as well as some instructional changes) to more fully integrate critical instruction into her teaching and outcomes.

Warmed the cockles of my heart!

You see, to her, I am still Dr. So-and-So!  My Ph.D. in literacy studies and background in education has value to her and she wanted to use it!  She wanted/wants help from me!!  Oh, man, how I wish more would let me help in the ways that I still can.

In talking, I did learn language that helped me understand how to talk with another about a subject.  I learned that there are process people and product people.  Someone I know has an employee who is a process person, but who has been begging for a promotion for nearly two years.  The problem is that she is in a product field.  She has deliverables that are integral to her job and the success of her department.  Whilst she sees herself as being a productive and valuable employee ready for promotion, she is, in fact, someone who works on the process day in and day out and rarely ever achieves a final product without direct intervention.

That distinction helped me think of ways I could help her manager work through how to talk about this little bit of reality and, perhaps, either help the employee find value where she is, possibly find ways to better utilize a process person, or ease the employee into another job where deliverables are not vital.

It also helped me to further reflect on how very important the external is.  Many times I have written about the blessing of the external nature of the Gospel, both in its nature and how it is received.  The sweet, sweet Gospel is outside of ourselves, fully and completely.  That it is so brings comfort to the anguished soul mired in the reality of the sin in her life, the consequences of sins committed against him, the inability to achieve holiness or sanctification by one's self.

Having—at least at first—a personal and character development system for small children provides a much needed external, objective, non-personal aspect to behavior evaluation and chores and such.  I very much like, for example, this approach. I like the visual aspect of the child journeying throughout the day along the path toward accomplishing tasks.  I like the visual aspect of the child's behavioral choices leading them to stages in dealing with behavior. And I especially like that the child starts each day anew, each day as someone who's behavior is noted as good and positive.

The best part is that when a child asks (translates that begs) for the reward at the end of the day's chores/personal grooming responsibilities, all a parent needs to do is let the chart do the answering!  No need for wheedling, whining, manipulating, negotiating, or anything else of the ilk.  What does the chart tell you?  Well, then, follow the chart to gain your goal!

What my friend, the oh-so-skilled-counselor, very wisely pointed out, though, that there needs to be a solid and smooth and timely transition from any sort of rewards system to the satisfaction developing self-discipline and contributing to the family (serving others) with no expectation of rewards.  I would like to see some articles/posts about that!

Her observation made me wish, anew, that I could be a fly on the wall whilst she teaches.  How utterly wonderful and fitting it is that, in addition to her professional career, she is helping to develop the careers of others.  Her speciality and, thus, college course is on play therapy for children.

Anyway, as we discussed her goals for the changes she wants to implement, both theoretically and a bit specifically, I just ... well ... my heart sang for the joy of being all academic and actually helpful to another.  We have an initial plan and some steps for her to consider.  And I have some learning to do about her topic so that I might be better equipped to help her.  A text book will be coming my way as my part of the homework.

Working with her made me think—with both guilt and discouragement—how my downloading volunteer project has completely stalled.  The problem is that what I am downloading is named differently (one-year vs. three-year lectionary stuff) from what I need to reference to properly categorize each devotional so that the next-step analysis can be accomplished.  I simply have been unable to look at a title of a devotion with one church year week title and look up the reference under another church year week title.  It grieves me that I can no longer do such a simple task.  But I cannot.  Therefore, how can I finish this project?  Sadly, I suspect this difference will come up again in another season of the church year.  Thus far, I have only managed to download and categorize eight years of Advent devotions.

I am stymied.
I cannot figure out a plan—or a pattern—for how to navigate the shift in references.
I feel the failure.

At the cardiologist, I thought that I had chosen a shell that would work well for the removal, new skip prep, and application of the second monitor, but I was wrong.  After being momentarily dismayed, discouraged, and upset, I hit upon the idea of asking if I could remove my zippered cardigan, remove my shell, and then put my cardigan back on before proceeding.  This way, my arms and shoulders and the majority of my torso were covered.  With a bra on, I felt that I could have the courage to have my chest bare, and my act of comfort would not, in any fashion, hinder the process.

Well, as it turns out, the woman working on the swap is one of the 25% of women in America who have experienced sexual abuse.  She encouraged me in my attempts to both communicate my needs and to find a way to remain calm and feel safe whilst having something done that would otherwise be difficult for me.  She told me, personally, two of the changes she found herself making to deal with her feelings, her shame, and her battles of the mind.

As I wrote before, I am not alone and crazy.
I am normal and in the company of many.
And I am a survivor.

What a blessed, timely gift from my Good Shepherd that moment of fellowship of the darkness and the battle that is facing the effects of sexual abuse in your life.  She shared with me that she just started crafting, making cards.  When she showed me a handful of them, I admired her coping mechanism immensely.  I told her about my new blog, my fears and trepidation over it, and the next entry I am trying to write on how child sexual abuse can affect emotional development and impact your level of emotional intelligence.

In part, what I did was the rehearsal component of the learning process that I discussed with Wynne tonight.  Below are images from a PowerPoint I developed to help teach on The Learning Process:

For the record, my friend Mary has been ever so generous, gentle, and patient when it comes to helping me with the learning process of the sweet, sweet Gospel.  Anyone who reads to me the Living Word—as did my best friend Becky on Thursday morning to help calm me down for the initial cardiology visit—is helping me (via the work of the Holy Spirit as the Word is read) both rehearse and internalize the message of Christ crucified for me.  And, in case you had not followed the point, when I post my Gospel Harmony Joy Nots, I am exercising all aspects of the learning process.  

I would like to tackle the next section ... if I were not so afraid of what the parables, noted as ones about healing, might say.  What twisted Law I still me see in them?  SIGH.

I would very much like to find a way to finish tackling that initial post on emotions.  Perhaps shaking and quivering and puking my way through that entry could be my goal for this weekend....

I am Yours, Lord.  Save me!

Data, Data, Everywhere...

I am on a 14-day heart monitor. If that doesn't provide enough data to figure out what is going on, I don't know what will.  I am, for the record, rather thankful for the cardiologist visit, though I shudder to think of what this expense will ultimately be.

For one, he was gentle and kind and actually kept a physical difference from me when not actually examining me.  For another, he listened. Then, there is the fact that he actually has some knowledge of Dysautonomia.  And, finally, he is taking a totally different approach.  By this I mean, he is wondering if my stress hormones ... all those things I wrote about in the second entry on the blog about trauma and the brain ... are part of the problem.  By this I mean, cortisol or norepinephrine or another hormone could be part of the problem. Or it could be that I am having an exaggerated response to small stimuli, as if the flight or flight reaction of our bodies somehow has become stuck in the on position.  To me, this is something that makes sense.  And, he is rather surprised that the line of testing he wants to do has not yet been done.

Step One is the longer heart monitoring period.  Step Two is a better endocrine work-up.  Step Three is to see what lots of data shows about my heart rate.

He is concerned about the widening pulse pressure (the difference between the systolic and diastolic pressure) I am experiencing.  Would it be weird to say that I was a tad relieved that he got to see that whilst I was in the office?

I will say that I feel like I am in an episode of Star Trek with this newfangled biosensor technology adhered to my chest.  Try not to be jealous!

I would also note another score from Google Doctor.  You see, I decided what was wrong with my foot was plantar fasciitis.  I cannot fathom how it could have just come on like that, but I spent copious amounts of time resting, massaging, and stretching my left foot.  I went from barely being able to walk on it by the end of that first day, to nary a twinge today.  I am ever so thankful that that flare-of-whatever is gone.   

Amos, as I thought, is already well on his way to adoring his new aunt.  He has already helped himself to something from her purse and has put his paws up on her legs hoping she would pick him up.  No doubt he will want to be snoozing with his head draped across her shoulder soon.

Tonight, I cooked for Wynne, making her the Raspberry Chipotle Baked Chicken, the Grilled Corn on the Cob with Lime and Cheese, and some Apple Praline Bread.  Sadly, I messed up on the latter so it is only a B- effort/result.  We actually used crema, instead of the mayonnaise substitute, which I found tasty.  I might possibly have dropped flaming husks on the back of my puppy dog, but I don't really want to revisit that bit of drama and trauma.  He is well.  We were sated.  As a sop to his battle with flaming husks, I let Amos clean two of the corn dishes.  He happens to really like lime and crema and feta.

Wynne and I also drank some wine.  Marie had suggested another wine to try, and I found it on sale.  So, I have now had a moscato.  I really liked it.  But I also enjoyed the whole normalcy of cooking and visiting and having a glass of wine with someone.  I want to make her Basil Burgers and, perhaps, another lime dish that is yet to be found.

May a weekend of tastiness abound!


I am Yours, Lord.  Save me!

Overheard...

After thinking about yesterday, I was thinking about the other two times that I overheard folk speaking about me.  All three were very ... well ... not the things you want to hear.

The first was back in high school.  I was in the gym locker room, changing clothes.  In our locker room were rows and rows of lockers and benches that were more of a stall than what I see on television today.  Far more privacy was afforded the student, save for the fact that none of the walls of the stalls went up to the ceiling.

In high school, back in the dark ages, there was a group for Christians called Young Life.  Being the dewy-eyed, new-to-the-church sort of girl, I was rather excited that there were places I could learn about faith, about the Bible.  Now, looking back, I wish I were involved with Higher Things, only I am not even sure the person who eventually created Higher Things was old enough to be thinking about creating organizations.  Maybe so.  But I had never heard of Lutherans then either.

Being that dewy-eyed person, I actually wrote a research paper comparing the spread of Young Life Campaign to the spread of the early church.  Yes, in public school.  Yes, I got an A+.  Yes, I cringe whenever I come across that research paper in my files in the basement.

Anyway, if you noticed the name change, Young Life actually started out as Young Life Campaign, before ultimately splitting up into Young Life and Campaigners.  The former was for harvesting the fields and the latter was for equipping the saints.  So, think summer camp and seminar.

I was introduced to Young Life at the end of 9th grade (which was actually at the junior high school), by outgoing seniors.  It was wild and crazy and zany and freaky and had Jesus.  I really did not like all the other parts, but I did like hearing about Jesus. After all, Jesus was still new to me, having met Him at 11, but not having started attending church (since my family did not), until I was 15.

Campaigners was the bible study that the "serious" Christians attended.  With "evangelism" all packed up and tied with a bow in Young Life, Campaigners was a chance to delve into the Bible.  I loved it.  And I cannot tell you a thing I learned.

Well, I learned that it was for the popular people, one of which I was decidedly not.  Each week, I would try to hitch rides to Campaigners between Monday and Friday.  Always I received vague answers about whether or not those with cars were going.  So, each Friday, I would walk the 2 miles or so to the Bible Study ... even when it was already dark.  Each week, I would get chastised about not being safe by one of the leaders, who would then ask for volunteers to take me home.  The very people who could not be bothered to bring me fell all over themselves to offer rides and state loudly I could have ridden with them there.  SIGH.

Still, even with the obstacles, I went.  I read the Bible. I did the homework. I reveled in the chance to study.

I went to Young Life because I was supposed to go.  I was really, really, really uncomfortable with all the social interaction and the zaniness.  I wish I had known then what an introvert was.

At our school, Young Life went on a skiing trip each year.  We had a fundraiser that was seeing how many laps you could run around the track in an hour, getting sponsors for each lap.  [Have I ever mentioned that I hate running?]  I ran six miles in an hour and raised enough money for the skiing trip.

When I was changing my clothes, I over heard a Did-you-hear? conversation.  It was about me. About me going on the Young Life ski trip.  The girls were talking about how I was going to ruin the trip with all my Bible questions and with them having to make nice to me 24/7 in front of the leaders.  They were discussing backing out.  I knew that I was not popular.  I didn't realize just how much so.

I skipped gym class.
I forged a note about a dentist appointment.
I left school.

Yes, for all the ways in which I was highly ethical and well-behaved, I spent much of high school forging notes to escape.  I had enough credits from transferring from my former city, having taken advanced courses in junior high, to graduate a year early, but I was not allowed to do so.  My senior year was primarily fluff classes to fill a schedule.  But that is another story.

I sinned even further by lying to my grandmother, in the times before I got a license and a car, to get her to pick me up.  She never suspected that my school allowed study hall students to do their work at home if their hour was at the end of the day.  When she dropped me off at the dentist's office, for when I left school too early for the study hall excuse, I would just wait until she drove off and then walk home.  Need I mention that I have only had one cavity in my life and that was in my twenties?

I was the good child.
I was the perfect student.
No one suspected.

Having never skied before, I went despite what I overheard.  It was a disaster.  Another long and painful story.  Parts of it funny ... I guess ... since I never learned to stop so when I started going too fast on my skis and got scared, I would just sit down and eventually tumble to a stop.  After which, I would collect my poles and skis, put them on again, and ski until I was scared once more.

The other two years of high school, I raised the money for someone else to go on the ski trip, handing it over to the Young Life leaders, not caring no one knew, not caring who went.  I honestly cannot tell you why I did, especially since I hate running, i.e., utterly loath it.

The second time I overheard what folk actually thought of me was when I was working on my doctorate.  I was in the bathroom at church, taking care of business, when some other singles walked in to freshen up their make-up before Sunday School.  A newcomer asked who I was.  The answer:  The Jesus freak/ Bible freak, spoken at the same time.  Then she got chapter and verse on how all I wanted to do was talk about the Bible and ask questions.  They were okay with that in Sunday School, because it meant they could just sit back and let me keep the teacher engaged.  But at Bible Study it was another story.  I kept everyone from fellowship time since I actually read ahead and filled in the answers in our booklets.  Apparently, when I was absent, since no one else had answers at the ready, they would just sit around and about their lives, they would fellowship with each other.

When I was a teenager, I was engrossed in learning all that I was supposed to do in order to grow my faith, to be a better Christian, to be right with God.  A decade later, I was well aware that all my efforts had failed to get me right with God so that I wouldn't struggle with my sins.  I was desperate.  So, I continued to go to that church, hoping to discover how I could be a better Christian.  But I made sure that I never answered more than two questions in Sunday School, no matter how much the leader stared at me, and I stopped coming prepared to Bible Study and then stopped going altogether.

Psalm 18—which I have written before, much to my surprise, is a psalm I've heard people do not care for—is one that has the promises I long to hear, to dare to believe are really for me:

God rescues me.
He rescues me because He delights in me.

He fights great battles to rescue me.

He rewards me because of my righteousness.

He rewards me because of my cleanness.

He lights my lamp.

He illumines my darkness.

He arms me.

He shields me.

He sets me on high places.

He makes my footing sure.

He delivers me from my enemies.

He is my salvation.

He rescues me from the violent man.

God rescues me.

The things I have overheard about who I am make believing these promises given to me in Christ by the Holy Spirit are really for me, for Myrtle.  Each time I make strides in setting aside the voices either in my head or in my ears, I am deafened to the sweet, sweet Gospel by them once more.  A life time of being a disappointment, of not fitting in,  of being labeled by/bound by both my sins and the sins of those committed against me, of being a bother, of not being good enough, of being too much.  That life belies the promises I read.

How?  
How could they possibly be?  
How could God ever delight in me?


"I love Thee, O LORD, my strength."
The LORD is my rock and my fortress and my deliverer,
My God, my rock, in whom I take refuge;
My shield and the horn of my salvation, my stronghold.
I call upon the LORD, who is worthy to be praised,
And I am saved from my enemies.

The cords of death encompassed me,
And the torrents of ungodliness terrified me.
The cords of Sheol surrounded me;
The snares of death confronted me.

In my distress I called upon the LORD,
And cried to my God for help;
He heard my voice out of His temple,
And my cry for help before Him came into His ears.
Then the earth shook and quaked;
And the foundations of the mountains were trembling
And were shaken, because He was angry.
Smoke went up out of His nostrils,
And fire from His mouth devoured;
Coals were kindled by it.
He bowed the heavens also, and came down
With thick darkness under His feet.
He rode upon a cherub and flew;
And He sped upon the wings of the wind.
He made darkness His hiding place, His canopy around Him,
Darkness of waters, thick clouds of the skies.
From the brightness before Him passed His thick clouds,
Hailstones and coals of fire.

The LORD also thundered in the heavens,
And the Most High uttered His voice,
Hailstones and coals of fire.
He sent out His arrows, and scattered them,
And lightning flashes in abundance, and routed them.
Then the channels of water appeared,
And the foundations of the world were laid bare
At Thy rebuke, O LORD,
At the blast of the breath of Thy nostrils.

He sent from on high, He took me;
He drew me out of many waters.
He delivered me from my strong enemy,
And from those who hated me, for they were too mighty for me.
They confronted me in the day of my calamity,
But the LORD was my stay.
He brought me forth also into a broad place;
He rescued me, because He delighted in me.

The LORD has rewarded me according to my righteousness;
According to the cleanness of my hands He has recompensed me.
For I have kept the ways of the LORD,
And have not wickedly departed from my God.
For all His ordinances were before me,
And I did not put away His statutes from me.
I was also blameless with Him,
And I kept myself from my iniquity.
Therefore the LORD has recompensed me according to my righteousness,
According to the cleanness of my hands in His eyes.

With the kind Thou dost show Thyself kind;
With the blameless Thou dost show Thyself blameless;
With the pure Thou dost show Thyself pure,
And with the crooked Thou dost show Thyself astute.
For Thou dost save an afflicted people,
But haughty eyes Thou dost abase.
For Thou dost light my lamp;
The LORD my God illumines my darkness.
For by Thee I can run upon a troop;
And by my God I can leap over a wall.
As for God, His way is blameless;
The word of the LORD is tried;
He is a shield to all who take refuge in Him.

For who is God, but the LORD?
And who is a rock, except our God,
The God who girds me with strength
And makes my way blameless?
He makes my feet like hinds' feet,
And sets me upon my high places.
He trains my hands for battle,
So that my arms can bend a bow of bronze.
Thou hast also given me the shield of Thy salvation,
And Thy right hand upholds me;
And Thy gentleness makes me great.
Thou dost enlarge my steps under me,
And my feet have not slipped.
I pursued my enemies and overtook them,
And I did not turn back until they were consumed.
I shattered them, so that they were not able to rise;
They fell under my feet.
For Thou hast girded me with strength for battle;
Thou hast subdued under me those who rose up against me.
Thou hast also made my enemies turn their backs to me,
And I destroyed those who hated me.
They cried for help, but there was none to save,
Even to the LORD, but He did not answer them.
Then I beat them fine as the dust before the wind;
I emptied them out as the mire of the streets.

Thou hast delivered me from the contentions of the people;
Thou hast placed me as head of the nations;
A people whom I have not known serve me.
As soon as they hear, they obey me;
Foreigners submit to me.
Foreigners fade away,
And come trembling out of their fortresses.

The LORD lives, and blessed be my rock;
And exalted be the God of my salvation,
The God who executes vengeance for me,
And subdues peoples under me.
He delivers me from my enemies;
Surely Thou dost lift me above those who rise up against me;
Thou dost rescue me from the violent man.

Therefore I will give thanks to Thee among the nations, O LORD,
And I will sing praises to Thy name.
He gives great deliverance to His king,
And shows lovingkindness to His anointed,
To David and his descendants forever. ~Psalm 18 (NASB 1977)


SIGH.  How could anyone not just LOVE Psalm 18?

Lord, I believe.  Help my unbelief!

Words hurt...

This was one of those days ... and it is not yet over.

It was one of those days that I find challenging, that I find scream at me that life is not worth the bother.  I am better at ignoring those taunts, but both the strain and the hurt remains.

Medicare.  SIGH. Five of my medications are not covered.  One was not even run through.  I am hitting brick walls on getting the money back from the one that was not run through, and, after the first smooth sailing authorization, I have not made any progress on the other four since August 30th.  This despite having a written policy that decisions would be made within 24-hours of receipt of the doctor's explanation.

Because calling the pharmacy and calling the doctor's office has not seemed all that productive, I drove myself over there to bring the doctor the written instructions I received from the insurance company.  I tried, so very hard, not to cry as I explained what I needed.  I want to be clear and concise. I want to present the problem and the solution.  That is who I used to be.  But not anymore.  Instead, I wept.  And I spoke aloud what I was thinking:  What if I just stop fighting, what if I just stop taking all of this medication and let nature take its course much, much more quickly?  

The nurse said the woman who started the process would be back on Thursday, so I would hear from the doctor's office by Friday.  But, really, it is not just the doctor's office.  Coordination has to happen between the doctor, the insurance company, and the pharmacy.  Coordination seems to be near impossible and inordinately time consuming.

I went from there to the post office.

Over the past two years, as I have been seriously downsizing, amidst the organizing, I have kept aside things that are important to me, waiting to find someone who might savor those things as I have, rather than just donate them for tax deductions or try to sell them.  One such beloved item that found a home this week was my GREEN Dooney & Burke cross shoulder purse bought back in the hey-day of my first real job.  It is too small for all the medical things I need in my purse, so I have had it hanging on a hook in my closet for years.  Now, it is hanging on the shoulder of someone who LOVES the color GREEN as much as I do.

Recently, I finally thought of who might enjoy the good (i.e., good-to-me) bits of my teaching supplies that I have hung onto all these years.  In all the time since I left the classroom, I never found someone to pass them on to or a school really interested in them.  Some are dweeby homemade things, such as keys with a story starter on a tag, and some are cool things, such as a system for using Legos in instructions.  Not counting the dweeby things and the time-filler things, the rest is worth rather more than it would cost to ship them, so I waited to find a home for them.

Last week, I went to UPS, thinking that would be the most economical way to ship them, but UPS wanted over $80 PLUS a $20 packing charge.  I gulped, struggled to hold back tears, and lugged everything that had taken me three trips to get inside back out to the car.  A few days later, I went to the post office and brought home several of the medium flat rate boxes (which, to me, seem larger than the large flat rate boxes). I brought them home because I knew I could not stand long enough at the post office to stuff them.  But I also suspected I would need copious amounts of time to figure out how to best stuff them so that I used no more than three of them.  Spacial problem solved, I put my friend's name on the labels and then hand-wrapped the two pocket charts that went with the one box filled with sentence strip paper.  I wrapped them in bubble paper and then plain brown paper (stuffing from packaged I have received) and put another label on them.

At the post office, I was struggling to get the packages all into my arms and still hold my cane to use once I at least got inside.  I did not want to make four trips inside, which is what it would take, to use my cane.  However, I couldn't figure out how to bring the cane, too.  Just as my frustration was about to spill over to waterworks, this very old man walked up to me and asked me to hand him the boxes.  I mean very, very old.  I was justifiably worried the weight of them might cause him harm.  But he insisted and I gingerly lowered them into his surprisingly strong, wiry arms.  He walked me inside and then stayed to scoot them along until he could put them on the counter for me.  As he turned to leave, and I thanked him with free flowing tears, the rest of the people in the post office gave him a hearty round of applause.

The post office is sending my cherished teaching tools (okay ... my cherished teaching memories) to my friend for less than half what UPS wanted and in less than half the time.  I suppose it is probably insensible for me to be spending money to give things away, but there are bits of my life I want to know will not go ... unforgotten ... at least for a while.

With that bit of kindness on my mind, as I headed to Walgreen's for the giddy-inducing-sale-priced milk, I thought to call someone who has been kind to me and might want to hear about the post office angel.

I dialed the number.  The phone rang.  I heard a voice.  I started to spill the good news.  And ... then ... I realized that I was hearing the other person talking about me, not to me.  The person was saying that the call was "Myrtle, someone with issues" and that the person didn't want to face talking with me then.  An explanation for not taking a call that was actually taken.

Someone with issues.

Not someone who loves the Psalter like a loon.
Not someone who reads the Christian Book of Concord like others read novels or magazines or newspapers.
Not someone who prays a lot.
Not someone who tells me how kind I am all the time.
Not someone who sends old-fashioned, hand-written thank you cards.
Not someone who is more besotted with a puppy dog than ever a human was.
Not someone who likes to write.
Not someone who was odd enough to create a rock river in her yard.
Not someone who finds moss wondrous.
Not someone works way to hard on projects in her 1920 home.
Not someone who is a mad organizer/reducer/recycler/donator.
Not someone who's using learning to cook new things as a brain exerciser and a coping mechanism.
Not someone who is chronically ill with several diseases/conditions, one of which is rather devastating.

Someone with issues.

That's how I heard myself described to a stranger.
That's who I am.
That's why I really do want to be a hermit ... a real, bonafide hermit.

I mean, what kind of person would want to inflict herself on others?  To be a bother?  A burden?  A drain?

In a heart beat, I went from excited to share good news with someone to trying to stay in my lane as I stuck my head out the window and vomited down the side of the car.

I wept for a while in the parking lot of Walgreen's, before using quite a bit of the baby wipes that I keep in the car to clean myself up.  I bought my three gallons of $2.49 milk and then drove home.

In the mail were a letter from the radiology center with the wait and see approach being my course of action and three medical bills that were completely unpaid since the insurance information did not go through with the claims.  Two of them had numbers to call, so I spent 45 minutes on hold contacting both with the insurance information.  I wrote it on the third bill and put it out for the mail.

Then, I tried to cook the Grilled Corn on the Cob with Cheese and Lime since Marie was the chef for this bit of tastiness last Saturday.  She made much less of a mess than I did making the ear she left for me in my refrigerator.  But I think it is just as tasty.

I took a photo, because someone asked me about how to eat/serve the Grilled Eggplant with Balsamic Vinegar, Basil, Feta, and Grilled Baguette, so I added a photo to the blog entry ... for reference, not for art.  I thought that maybe I should include photos ... if nothing else than to remind myself that I actually accomplished something.  I want to make the Apple Praline Bread when my teenage-hood friend comes this weekend, so I plan to take a photograph then ... perhaps of a slice on a plate.

I also added a photo to the recipe I posted for how I made up a Sautéd Summer Squash with Ginger, Garlic and White Wine last night.  Since I rarely measuring when I am trying things out in the new-way-to-sauté-a-vegetable-in-a-pan venue, the recipe is really more to help me remember that for anyone else to follow—unless it is a person who has a passing acquaintance with measuring utensils as do I.

Yes, I wondered if I could have used lime with squash somehow.

[In case you are wondering, Amos is thoroughly enjoying "cleaning" all of these lime-juiced dishes.  He is, at the moment, micro-howling-hushed-whimpering over the ear of corn sitting on my napkin since he already licked the corn plate clean.]

Cooking completed, I have been looking for a way to stop hearing those words in my head.  I have yet to find it.

At least I learned one thing ... hopeful ... about myself today.  Apparently, I am not the only one besotted with a puppy dog.  I am not the only one who takes photo after photo after photo.

Actually, I am now thinking that I simply do not take enough Amos photos.  Here he is, eyes never leaving his heart's desire (not me at the moment), mid-micro-howling-hushed-whimper.

As soon as I drag myself off the couch to properly dispose of the cob, clean the dishes (and the porch where the burned husk fell), and crawl into the GREEN chair with an ice pack or two, I know I will become his first love again.  And he will probably wrap his paws around my neck and snore into my ear.

Amos doesn't find me a bother ... except when I wish for him to conduct his major business out of doors.  SIGH.



I am Yours, Lord.  Save me!