Cookin' with Marie...

Marie and I cooked again today.  Surely Friday is now my favorite day of the week!

Because she had to leave for work earlier, as I mentioned before, we set aside the attempt at making naan to a later day.  I really honed in on trying Chicken in Basil Cream Sauce, to which Marie gracefully acquiesced.  While I have no photo for proof of success, the fact that we both inhaled our portions speaks to its tastiness.  Marie took home the two left over portions for their dinner, but I made sure there was enough of the basil cream for me to use on the morrow.  I will only need to cook more chicken.

And then ... well ... we about died and went to heaven.

This.  This!  This is Butternut Squash Brunch Braid.  It is so very tasty that my electrician, who had stopped by for a visit since he had a job in the neighborhood, said his mouth had never been so happy.  Marie and I concurred.  There is one slab left over, and I believe I should get some sort of reward for having successfully resisted inhaling it thus far.  My goal is to wait until the morrow.

Marie and I also made Peanut Butter Nutella Cheesecake bars, again making a half-and-half crust so that we could split the pan. I get the wonderfully tasty graham cracker crust bars and she gets the completely icky Oreo cookie crust bars.  However, since we had a shortened cooking time, the bars had not finished setting by the time Marie had to leave for work.  She made do with having one of my  English Toffee Bits Blondies, as did Ben.  Both agreed that they really do taste more like a giant cookie than a blondie.  So, I shall continue on with my quest to make a dessert with English toffee bits that matches what I envision it should be.

Today, we used every single surface of counter and the bistro table top, in order to get everything chopped and mixed and put together.  We also used up an entire dishwasher's worth of plates and cups and pots and pans and spatulas and spoons and forks.  Basically, we made a colossal mess.

After Marie, and then Ben, left, I took a bit of a nap.  Once I was rested, I typed up the recipes and texted the photo of the Butternut Squash Brunch Braid to make a few folk jealous (I am a sinner after all). Then I went to tackle the mess.  It was in cleaning up that I stopped and gave thanks for the good gifts of the counters, the cookware, and the dishwasher.

I should have taken before and after photos, for it took me less than 15 minutes to rinse the dishes and fill the dishwasher, hand wash the cookware and stoneware, clean the stove, clean the counters, and even clean the microwave.  The cookware alone practically cleans itself, but with the dishwasher I simply have less work.  And, well, I am ever so thankful that my mother upgraded my counters to granite.  I am thankful, too, for the mirror glass 15-year sealant that makes clean-up a breeze.

So, to sum, I get to savor the joy of cooking with Marie and the joy of eating tasty food and then have no real burden to clean up even when we basically set a hurricane of culinary mess loose in the kitchen.

Basically, the only one who was unhappy today was my puppy dog.  Amos felt he should pre-clean all the dishes, rather than the four plates that I gave to him.  He sat before the open dishwasher and whimpered as each dish, pot, measuring cut, etc. went in without his ministrations.  Oh, the suffering he endures!


I am Yours, Lord.  Save me!

Still buried in there somewhere...

Today was a strange day, topped off with a psalm for me.

I was pleased to have several of the Craig's List items sell, but having folk come by ... strangers ... is hard for me.  The shop vac found a new home.  Yes, I was a bit verklumpt to see it walk out the door. That thing sopped up all the basement floods in Alexandria and got me through two basement renovations.  We were best buddies.  However, I now have significantly more space in my basement utility closet!

I was quite nervous about the way the man texted me, so I called Sandra to hang out on the phone with me while he came.   I have done that in the past with people, thinking they could call 911 for me if needed. But then he pulled up with his wife in the car and got out, and I realized his crude texting was a language barrier issue.

The lights and cords and Christmas tree are also all gone.  Someone wants the pet bed, and another is picking up the drop cloth tomorrow.  I thought the computer monitor would have gone really quickly, but I am okay with donating it along with what is left. I've sold more than half the items in just a day.

While I was awaiting different folk to come fetch items, I decided to tackle the filing cabinets for the third time.

How?  How in the world did I still have all this paper work that was not needful for me to keep?  I watched another movie whilst I will worked.  Amos curled up next to me to keep me company.

While I still need to go through my literacy files (which are in a single drawer), for the most part my personal, medical, and financial files are lean and mean now.  I will admit that I kept every single letter of commendation I had ... even the ones from my very first job that are three decades old.  I found some thank you notes from my very first students.  Those stayed, too.  The files I wavered on—and might could still go—were the contracts from all of my jobs and all of the writing that I had published.   I also kept the collateral from all of my presentations/speaking engagements during the time that I was a professor.  It is okay to have a few non-essential papers, right?

I have been thinking that something I could reduce would be the work and writing samples binders that take up half a shelf over by the GREEN table in the basement. After all, I will never work again and it is not like my visitors are hankering to see samples of the collateral I designed (NOT being a designer) or the marketing writing that I did.  I suppose I have them all—and all organized—because they represent the value I thought my life had.  And I really, really struggle with just being a person who mostly rests, sleeps, moans, groans, and wishes she felt better.  That and reads a whole lot of Scripture and a whole lot of the Christian Book of Concord in between watching a whole lot of television series.  But all of that is just being.  I greatly miss the me who was doing.

[Yes, I really was teary-eyed to see that shop-vac go.]

One of the buyers today surprised me.  By this I mean, one of them showed me that the pure doctrine is alive and thriving even in the mainline evangelical world.  She asked me about getting rid of the Christmas tree and lights, wondering if I did not like Christmas.  When I told her that I was too weak to use the decorations, she asked me if I was a believer.  Then, we started talking.

Oh, my!  Did I ever have the most wonderful of conversations about the work of the Holy Spirit and the Living Word!  Was I ever surprised!!  And, to be honest, I was a bit chastened.  There this woman (and her large family) were living in the heart of mainline evangelicalism, but they do not hunger after ways and steps, but after Christ crucified and the work of the Holy Spirit in teaching the Living Word.  The Bible, to her, was not something to be read and made personal application by experience and impression, but made truth by the teaching of the Holy Spirit.  God wills and works the Word, not man.  SIGH.  Good times.

It made me think about how, way back when I was drafting the booklet on how to get started reading the Christian Book of Concord, a pastor made sure that I was careful to remember and realize that the pure doctrine was known first as a Christian Book of Concord, not just the Lutheran doctrine or the Lutheran's Book of Concord.

When I first started reading the pure doctrine, it was like coming home.  All the things I had failed at and then railed against ... all the works righteousness stuff ... were not included.  Instead, I read of my sin and of Christ crucified for me.  I knew with my entire being I could not make myself a good enough Christian, I could not prove my salvation.  I knew—or rather most fervently hoped—that faith was not a feeling, nor was it a relationship with God dependent upon me.  As I have said, honestly I could not even begin to tell you how many times I prayed the Jesus prayer hoping that I prayed it rightly enough to cover the doubts and fears and struggles I still had.  Then,  I did not know the comfort of the Gospel.  I only knew the devastation of the Gospel-made-law, of Jesus-the-new-Moses.

We quoted Bible verses to one another, joy spilling over them as we recognized that both cherished and understood them in the light of Christ crucified.  To me, it really was a miraculous time, for so many of the Bible passages lost to me, poured forth from my mouth.  A Twilight Zone of Living Word.  And, thus, I will now not be so despairing when I cannot remember what I used to know of the Living Word, for God showed me that it is still buried in my mind.  I may have left it, but it has not left me.

That really is the mercy my Good Shepherd showed me today through this woman.  And, because the love of God is overflowing, I will add that when she wanted to hug/touch good-bye and I spoke of my need for space, she immediately stepped back and said that it was "okay."  The gift of that moment is that I knew she meant it.

She gave me her contact information and said she would like to have me over to meet her family.  I am wondering if this introverted, wall flower hermit might just actually be able to do such a thing. I am wondering because I am thinking that were I to manage to gird my loins and visit, I would hear more Living Word.

That unending fountain of the goodness of the Lord?  Well, it continued to flow in the mercy of Marie, who has heard my longing to have psalms poured into my ears and so now offers to read to me before hanging up.  Tonight, the psalm she had for me was Psalm 71:

In Thee, O LORD, I have taken refuge;
Let me never be ashamed.
In Thy righteousness deliver me, and rescue me;
Incline Thine ear to me, and save me.
Be Thou to me a rock of habitation, to which I may continually come;
Thou hast given commandment to save me,
For Thou art my rock and my fortress.
Rescue me, O my God, out of the hand of the wicked,
Out of the grasp of the wrongdoer and ruthless man,
For Thou art my hope;
O LORD God, Thou art my confidence from my youth.
By Thee I have been sustained from my birth;
Thou art He who took me from my mother’s womb;
My praise is continually of Thee.

I have become a marvel to many;
For Thou art my strong refuge.
My mouth is filled with Thy praise,
And with Thy glory all day long.
Do not cast me off in the time of old age;
Do not forsake me when my strength fails,
For my enemies have spoken against me;
And those who watch for my life have consulted together,
Saying, “God has forsaken him;
Pursue and seize him, for there is no one to deliver.”

O God, do not be far from me;
O my God, hasten to my help!
Let those who are adversaries of my soul be ashamed and consumed;
Let them be covered with reproach and dishonor, who seek to injure me.
But as for me, I will hope continually,
And will praise Thee yet more and more.
My mouth shall tell of Thy righteousness,
And of Thy salvation all day long;
For I do not know the sum of them.
I will come with the mighty deeds of the LORD God;
I will make mention of Thy righteousness, Thine alone.

O God, Thou hast taught me from my youth;
And I still declare Thy wondrous deeds.
And even when I am old and gray, O God, do not forsake me,
Until I declare Thy strength to this generation,
Thy power to all who are to come.
For Thy righteousness, O God, reaches to the heavens,
Thou who hast done great things;
O God, who is like Thee?
Thou, who hast shown me many troubles and distresses,
Wilt revive me again,
And wilt bring me up again from the depths of the earth.
Mayest Thou increase my greatness,
And turn to comfort me.

I will also praise Thee with a harp,
Even Thy truth, O my God;
O Thou Holy One of Israel.
My lips will shout for joy when I sing praises to Thee;
And my soul, which Thou hast redeemed.
My tongue also will utter Thy righteousness all day long;
For they are ashamed, for they are humiliated who seek my hurt.
After thinking about what Marie had shared with me, I chose Psalm 27 for her.  It turns out that that is her favorite Psalm!

The LORD is my light and my salvation;
Whom shall I fear?
The LORD is the defense of my life;
Whom shall I dread?
When evildoers came upon me to devour my flesh,
My adversaries and my enemies, they stumbled and fell.
Though a host encamp against me,
My heart will not fear;
Though war arise against me,
In spite of this I shall be confident.

One thing I have asked from the LORD, that I shall seek:
That I may dwell in the house of the LORD all the days of my life,
To behold the beauty of the LORD
And to meditate in His temple.
For in the day of trouble He will conceal me in His tabernacle;
In the secret place of His tent He will hide me;
He will lift me up on a rock.
And now my head will be lifted up above my enemies around me,
And I will offer in His tent sacrifices with shouts of joy;
I will sing, yes, I will sing praises to the LORD.

Hear, O LORD, when I cry with my voice,
And be gracious to me and answer me.
When Thou didst say, "Seek My face," my heart said to Thee,
"Your face, O LORD, I shall seek."
Do not hide Thy face from me,
Do not turn Thy servant away in anger;
Thou hast been my help;
Do not abandon me nor forsake me,
O God of my salvation!
For my father and my mother have forsaken me,
But the LORD will take me up.

Teach me Your way, O LORD,
And lead me in a level path
Because of my foes.
Do not deliver me over to the desire of my adversaries,
For false witnesses have risen against me,
And such as breathe out violence.
I would have despaired unless I had believed that I would see the goodness of the LORD
In the land of the living.
Wait for the LORD;
Be strong and let your heart take courage;
Yes, wait for the LORD.

Marie understands the beauty of narrowing in on just one thing.  Too, she let me tell her that one of the reasons I savor this psalm is the part about being concealed in the tabernacle and hidden in the tent since where John 1:14 speaks of the Word becoming flesh and dwelling among us the translation is actually "tabernacled" among us.  We are concealed and hidden in Christ, safe from our foe's ultimate end game for us: eternal death.

Lord, I believe.  Help my unbelief!

Another clear out...

I started another clear out today, having been galvanized by someone asking me for help editing his Craig's List postings.  So, I went up to the attic, set Galaxy Quest to playing on the computer, and unpacked, set up, and photographed everything that I would like to try and sell on Craig's List.  Anything that is not gone by December 1st—since half of the items are Christmas related—will be donated.  That way, folk can use the holiday items this year.  Thus far, I have sold some sets of Christmas lights.

I thought about trying to sell the clothing that I got from Liberia, when I was a missionary, but I plan on donating it.  The dresses are simply beautiful, and it will be hard to let them go.  However, I have not given a talk on being a missionary in eons and the clothing is all in very good shape.

Other than Christmas items, I posted a flatscreen computer monitor, an adjustable clothing rack, two desktop vertical file holders, a stool, and a large dog bed with a rather beautiful, high quality upholstery fabric zippered cover that has a corded edge.  There is only one small worn area on it.  I made it for my first dog, but Amos never liked it. There is no sense in hanging on to it.

I wondered if my old, old, old Powerbook was worth anything, since it still runs, but the 12-pound 4 meg RAM behemoth is not one of the sought after ancient MAC models.  Even though it is just sitting in the bottom of the filing cabinet, I plan to wipe the information from it and go ahead and recycle it.  Again, there is no sense in hanging on to it.

I started the clear out because I got YET ANOTHER call from the doctor's office about the Theophylline prescription.  I am so bloody frustrated I can hardly stand it.  I say this because the nurse was asking me about the dosage level.  The dosage level that the on-call doctor yelled at me for correcting.  The pharmacy only got a temporary supply from him, so they needed to get my doctor to write a prescription with refills.  The nurse didn't understand.  So, uhm, she has in front of her access to medical records showing more than TWO YEARS of the proper dosage and she doesn't know what level I am supposed to be at.  While I did not weep, I hung up the phone and sank into deep despair.  Her final comment was that she would do 30 days.  Yep, that means I have to go through this all over again once more before my December 30th doctor appointment.

Sometimes, I think I should just stop taking the theophylline, faint more, fall down the stairs more, maybe break something, and hopefully go be with Jesus.  Prescriptions shouldn't be this hard.  They weren't.  They weren't until the doctor's office switched to digital records to comply with the Affordable Healthcare Act.  SIGH.

I have wondered about going ahead and trying to sell or donate (perhaps to Habitat for Humanity) my large wet/dry shop vac that has a pump.  After all, my basement here has channels and a gravity drain.  If, for some reason, I had water in the basement, I wouldn't be able to sop it all up anymore.  While it might be worth it to have the tool on hand, what are the odds?  The water heater is new.  It's not going to be breaking.  A pipe could fail, but any water from it could still just be squeegeed to the channels.  Keep the desk brush and squeegee, but let go the mammoth shop vac.

I also have a really large, heavy-weight canvas drop cloth that I bought for when I ripped down the first floor ceiling in my duplex in Alexandria.  I have a smaller painter's drop cloth someone left at the house years ago, so the mammoth one basically does not get used.  I did haul it out for when the closet in the basement was created by adding a wall to the steps from the outside entrance.  But that is the only time it was used—I believe—since I finished the ceiling some 13 or 14 years ago.  Or was it 15?  Anyway, getting rid of the drop cloth and the shop vac would create much open space in the utility closet.  And, perhaps, doing so would encourage me to not step back into the world of self-home repair.

See, I just talked myself into posting those two items!  They are now (after a short break from here) photographed and posted.  So, if they, too, are also not sold by December 1st, I will donate them as well.

My filing cabinet still has some of those ideas I would like to capture.  Perhaps once I get this latest round of sell-or-donate items out of the house, I will work on finally typing up all those documents and getting rid of the paper files.  I have two filing draws of thoughts ... or dreams ... that I only have on paper, not electronically.  For example, I have a suggestion sheet of tips that parents can use to encourage their children to read.

So, the filing cabinet really would be the last great frontier in my house where clear outs are involved.  The attic will have just a small area of things, such as the ceiling fan that would have gone into the living room (no ceiling fixture), luggage, and a few other storage items.  The basement utility closet (after the items above are removed) will be rather lean and mean.  And the only real stray items remaining in the basement are the office supplies I am slowly whittling away at and the 3-ring binders for which I have yet to find a home.  Those are all, though, tucked away nicely in bankers boxes on one of the sets of shelves.

I am rather tired from all the photographing and posting 15 listings.  Plus, all those cold symptoms are still lingering, but I am feeling immensely better.  I still believe it will be the weekend or so before I have no traces of those wretched germs left.  In any case, Amos feels rather strongly that he is in need of make-up snuggling time, since he had to take several naps all by his lonesome today.  Oh, the sacrifices that fluffy white canine lavender aromatherapy makes for me!


I am Yours, Lord.  Save me!

Thinkin'...

I have been thinking about ideas a lot ... mostly because I feel as if my time for sharing and exploring them has passed.  I have long had ideas and long owned a few domains for them.  Over the past year, I took a hard look at what I might could do and the cost of the domains I had and let go of most of them, keeping just three that matter to me. I learned that I lost one of those because I did not notice that I failed to update the credit card information on the account.  While it is still in some sort of limbo, I would have to pay a hefty (and, in my opinion, outrageous) reclamation fee to get it back.  I would never pay such a fee, because basically some holding company pounces on all recently expired domains and holds them hostage.  But ... also ... I can only think so much.  Thus, some of those dreams of sharing ideas will never come true.  Perhaps that I still have two of the domains is enough.

You know how some folk have their best ideas in the shower?  Apparently, they don't have to worry about losing them!  Here is a waterproof notepad!  An idea about ideas.

Marie and I were talking about cooking again this Friday, but we have a shorter time window.  That means the naan attempt will have to wait.  I wanted to still try something with yeast, but then wondered about just doing something with the Pillsbury crescent rolls I have in the refrigerator.  I wondered if I could find any recipes using them.  Boy, was I surprised.  Here are just a few.  Now, I think it would be easy to just make the Loaded Potato Wheels (substituting fresh potatoes).  Of course this Butternut Squash Brunch Braid looks pretty tasty.  But if I had a mini-muffin pan, I believe I would definitely try the Gorgonzola Prosciutto Crescent Tartlets.  If you follow the main links and then scroll to the bottom, the scrolling goes on and on and on with recipe after recipe after recipe of creative and interesting and mostly tasty ideas for using the crescent dough.  So many people had so many ideas of how to use that product other than to merely bake some rolls.

Sandra has a lot of grace, which she doles out in great measure when I call/text her and practically vomit ideas.  For example, I was reading this brief article about the escalation of violence in Fort Wayne and found myself actually agreeing with Judge Hatchet:

"Judge Hatchett believes the solution to violence is for the older generation to help mentor and support young people through volunteerism, coaching, and other resources."

When I was in youth and college programs, we did a lot of volunteering.  Lots and lots and lots.  The thing is, the leaders didn't have to beg, bribe, or chivvy us into doing so.  Young folk always showed up for the projects announced.  Afterwards, we would go to Mickey D's (our slang for McDonald's) if mid-day or Chili's if night.

There was this one project story I have shared many times.  We were asked to help a young couple chasing their dreams of becoming dairy farmers.  The wife was pregnant and the herd they bought was actually ill.  Their home and land and barn were a mess.  So a gazillion of us descended upon their farm and threw ourselves in to making repairs on the house and porch, sickling and then mowing the grass, mucking out the barns and milking the cows that couldn't be on the machines, and work most of us had never done.  Hot dogs and the bonding of being slimed with manure kept us going.  When we left, the house was repaired and freshly painted, new curtains hanging in the windows, the yard was cleared and the fences repaired, and the barn was clean and organized.  I do not know if they made it, but a gaggle of young geese gave them the do-over inexperience and a snake-oil cattle salesman necessary for their dream to remain alive.

Our youth programs were not about entertainment or bonding.  Instead, they were about serving and about learning.  Granted, in the mainline evangelical church, the doctrine was thin, but we had many lessons about discipline and service and responsibility and character development.  We had young couples and older couples working with us, along with singles ... mentoring.

In recent years, I have noted a distinct lack of youth programs that were really and truly focused on learning, character development, discipline, service, and leadership.  What I see is an overwhelming use of the word "fun" when describing them, a whole lot of entertainment lightly iced with a bit of faith "talk."  Entertainment and sharing faith experiences.  It is why I very much like Higher Things, but also why I wonder the strong emphasis on catechesis is lacking when it comes to both younger and older youth programs in church.  Why only in the annual summer conference older youth might attend a few times?

Were I in charge of the world (quick, name that author), I would have youth programs where mentoring went both ways, older youth teaching and mentoring younger youth and adults and seniors teaching and mentoring older youth.  I would have copious amounts of service or volunteerism. I would have parents and singles rotate through the program, so that youth were exposed to faith lived in all walks of life and all circumstances.  In weakness and in frailty.  In success and triumph.  In want and in plenty.

I would also have the Christian Book of Concord be their most thumbed "text" of all their schooling by the time those youth head off to college.  And be well-versed in the Psalter.  In short, my youth programs would be about education, not entertainment ... learning, not sharing faith experiences.

More than any other topic, I have long wanted to write down some of my thoughts about literacy (and learning) and to save some of the resources I have kept over the years, even as my life of teaching has moved further and further in the past.  So, of the all idea domains I have left, I suppose I am grateful I did not lose the one for literacy.

This afternoon, I vomited thoughts about youth programs and about this college survival guide I've been hankering to at least help write for a long, long time until Sandra literally had to hang up on me.  I wasn't offended.  Just because I still long to think and to share ideas doesn't mean she should neglect child, career, or higher education.  I wasn't offended in the least, because, for a short while, I savored the chance to think and share ideas.  That's the mercy Sandra shows me.

Too bad I forgot to mention the shower notepad.  She would have liked that.  Maybe I'll remember next time I ambush her to do something thinking.


I am Yours, Lord.  Save me!

Corners, pruning, and Mr. Toad...

I have definitely turned the corner, though I wish fervently I did not run out of decongestant.  I got in the car to fetch some more, backed out of the garage, woozily drove down the alley, and ended up circling the block to park back in the garage.  I am not quite ready to be solely responsible for steering tons of metal.  But the blessed corner has been turned!

After a rather frustrating two weeks of trying to get the agent who signed me up for Medicare to call me back, I realized there must be a one-time benefit for signing someone up, rather than actually continuing to help.  So, I called the company I am with and asked about continuing coverage.  Even with the co-pay increases and new prescription coverage premium, the plan is still my best option.  I will not rest easy until I have my coverage letter in hand (those go out late December), I have re-enrolled and requested the premium come out of my disability, so I will not be responsible for remembering to pay another monthly bill.

After failing to explain my need to the prescription coverage rep for 37 minutes, I finally got her to understand that I wanted the 2014 authorization forms for the prescriptions I currently have that need authorization so that I can get them taken care of the first week of January.  Sadly, I am not allowed to have the forms mailed to me.  They must be faxed or mailed to the doctor's office.  [Part of the two-month authorization battle is that faxes to the doctor's office went untended.]  So, I set up two reminders to call for those faxes to be sent 3 business days before my December 30th appointment to my doctor.  Two arduous months of getting those authorizations left unhappy folk at both the pharmacy and my doctor's office.  It is my goal to get them done for 2014 with less tears and less folk angry with me.

When I was finished with all that phone calling, I burst into tears.  Sometimes, it is so very difficult for me to swallow how little I can do and how small my life has become.  I started volunteering when I was a pre-teen and spend so much of my life doing things.  I find it nearly impossible to just be.

My friend Celia sent me this really ... encouraging-to-Myrtle ... article, which I have read several times.  It is helpful to read of such similar struggles, even if I genuinely would not wish debilitating, unfamiliar-to-many-medical-folk chronic illness.  It's hard to face.  It's hard to live.  It's hard to explain.  It's hard to have to ... defend.

I really was worried, on Saturday, because it was yet another day in which I felt worse than the day before.  Add a cold to the usual challenge of living and you add that proverbial straw to the camel's back.  I couldn't imagine another day of knives stabbing my throat.  [I've said before and will say again, I cannot fathom how anyone faces chemo.]  I know it wasn't just the the cold; I know it was the cold on top of everything else.  But that did not really penetrate the fog of cold misery piled upon my other bodily miseries.  And the deepening of fatigue that is already overwhelming.

I have coached myself to think long-term on the corner turning, to be patient with getting completely better.  Lots of reminding about this would be helpful.  To think about where I no longer am rather that where I am not yet.

Sometime during the aching, sneezing, coughing, and fevered days, my burning bushes started to burn.  Seeing them made me realize that my river is going to be covered in leaves soon.  That was not something I foresaw when planning it.  However, I still really, really like hanging out with the turtles, frogs, and toads ... even though Amos is still afeared of them.  Amos has, however, been doing his best the get the river flowing, one visit at a time.

Tonight, Amos took off at a run toward the back gate, a sure sign that some INTERLOPER was in his territory.  I chased after him, afraid the GINORMOUS dog was in the yard.  I should have known better.  The only INTERLOPER that has not frightened Amos is that blasted cat who destroyed the fern I grew atop my beloved water fountain.  Since I put the pump away, the cat has been drinking out of the water basin in the curve of the rock river.  Gasping for breath, I fell to the grass and waited for Amos to water a few bushes.  When I stood up and turned back to the house, I saw the burning bushes in all their glory.  I wish I had my camera or phone with me, for surely they have peaked.  What gave me the strength to haul myself back inside once Amos was finished his business was seeing the properly and proportionally pruned bushes.

Three summers of working on them have them right-sized and a true asset to the yard, rather than the overgrown eyesores they were when I moved in here.  Amos agreed with me and showed his appreciation for the proper pruning by trotting over to water both of them one last time.  My, how he loves being able to walk beneath them now.  I love no longer seeing that pernicious ground cover that basically junked up the space and took away from the bushes' beauty.  I actually think the birds liked my work, too, because there are three nests in the two bushes.

Thinking about the bushes, I am grateful that I was stronger when I first moved here.  Else wise, taking the bushes down by 2/3rds over nearly three years, trimming up the bottoms, ripping out the ground cover, and putting in the rock river could not have been done.

I already asked.  Firewood Man said he would clear off the leaves once the bushes, weeping cherry, Rose of Sharons, and the ornamental magnolia tree are naked.  I cannot rake or bag leaves anymore.  I doubt I could even hold the blower long enough to even clear off the rock river once it's covered.  [Who knew two amps could be so very powerful??]

Anyway, I concentrated on being thankful for what I could do then as opposed to what I cannot now.  For, now, I can sit on the back steps, awaiting Amos' productivity, and savor my rock river, its rock inhabitants, and a long-term pruning/shaping job well done.

Mr. Toad, with whom I often chat whilst sitting on the back steps, asked if I were going to be applying the pruning shears to the pink bush, seeing as it has overgrown his perch.

I replied that pruning would mean less blooms, so I though he should enjoy his respite from the summer sun.  Of course, the bush will get naked soon, too, so maybe Mr. Toad will be seeking cover elsewhere as it is.

If you look closely at the middle photo, you will see that the bush (whatever it is) is still proving me blooms to admire.  So, you understand, then, why I've not applied the shears?


I am Yours, Lord.  Save me!

The light at the end of the tunnel...

I was mighty low yesterday, miserable with that wretched cold and starting to worry that I was not going to get well for a long while.  From Friday to Saturday, I was not able to sleep all night and spent those long miserable hours in the GREEN chair.  Today, as time has passed, I have felt significantly better than when I awoke.  Christ be praised, the stabbing pain in my throat has finally been reduced to a more acceptable level of irritation and surely I shall be able to sleep tonight.  I believe I should be better—although probably still exhausted—by Wednesday or Thursday ... or perhaps Friday.  In any case, I have seen the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel and, thus, my despair has lessened.

It was very hard not to go to the symphony last night.  I told my chauffeur early on in the day that I wouldn't be going, but looked rather longingly at the clock at 7:37 PM, wondering if I throw on a sweater and skirt and dash over there.  However, I do believe staying in the GREEN chair was a better choice.  Sadly, then, I have no report on what I thought of the music.

Amos has been rather discombobulated with my wretched state.  Coughing and sneezing are new to him and, as I noted, are triggers for his startle response.  Plus, he remains puzzled over the lack of plates to clean and my unwillingness to let him have my used tissues.  He, too, is exhausted, having been up with me round the clock for several days now—oft leaping away from me in terror at the sudden noises coming from my person—as this wretched cold worked its way deep within my ears, nose, throat, and chest.  Here he is taking a short nap on the laptop last night.

It cracks me up to watch him perch atop one arm of the GREEN chair and either nap on the TV tray on my left side or the antique table on my right.  His most favorite chin-resting-surface is the corner of the laptop.

I did learned something with this wretched cold.  Perhaps you've already stumbled upon a rather ingenious idea for how to contain your used tissues??  Well, I hadn't.  I finished off a box of tissues Thursday day and fetched a new one, but I left the empty one by the GREEN chair. [We will not discuss just how much stuff has accumulated by the GREEN chair.]  Trying to keep the tissues away from my puppy dog—a firm believer that all bits of papers of all types are his to shred/consume—was rather exhausting to me until I hit upon the idea of putting them into the empty tissue box.  Voilà!  The plastic covering the opening on the top of the box kept the used ones safely out of the mouth of my puppy dog and having the box beside me meant that I did not have to keep getting up every half hour or so to throw piles of tissues away.  As I have written, I rarely get colds, but I plan to keep my next empty tissue box and tuck it away in the bathroom cabinet just in case.  

Thinking that a bit of cooking might be restorative, I decided to try something with the English toffee bits in my cabinet.  Since I did not care for the thin, crispy cookies of my last attempt to use English toffee bits, I decided to try them in a blondie recipe.  After much Googling, I chose one particular recipe and set to baking.  One reason I know I am not a cook is that I cannot figure out why it is that I often end up with wildly different cooking times than a recipe I am trying.  I simply do not believe adding English toffee should extend cooking time twenty minutes.

As you can see, the edges were really crispy, or chewy, but the center was very soft.  As I noted on my English Toffee Bits Blondies post in my recipe archive, next time I want to try and hold out for a bit longer cooking ... perhaps 40 full minutes.  Perhaps, though, the 36 minutes would have been a bit better if I had not checked them at 20 minutes, 25 minutes, 30 minutes, 35 minutes, and then chickened out and pulled them out of the oven at 36 minutes.

There are eight more English toffee bits blondies, should anyone want to risk the germs that might be lingering in my home:  three chewy corners, four crispy edges, and one mushy center piece.  For the record, I did wash my hands before cutting them up and placing them into the sweets storage container I keep in the freezer.  I do think the blondie route is what I would prefer over the cookie, when it comes to English toffee bits, but I would like more cake-like results than what turned out to be one rather large square cookie.

 

I really do need me a personal chef ... or at least a personal baker.

I am Yours, Lord.  Save me!

The crud...

Monday I wondered.  Tuesday I knew.  Wednesday, well, the crud in all its misery descended upon my person.  In case you are wondering, repeated sneezing does not actually go well with a PTSD puppy.  Nor does coughing.  The indoors has become as frightening as the outdoors to Amos.

When I startle him with a sneeze or a cough or a throat clearing, Amos leaps off my person in fear.  He runs away and hides.  Then, he comes crawling back and tries to make up for deserting me.  His way of making up is to give me kisses and park himself atop my chest and tuck his head on my shoulder.  Having a 22 pound fluff ball sitting atop your chest when you have a wretched cold is not the best comfort a girl can have.  Amos, however, doesn't understand this.

Sandra, most merciful of women, offered to fetch me something from Walmart since she was on her way there.  Being disabled and chronically ill, you would think I would barely blink at this little bitty cold.  But I am not really a cold person. Or a flu person, even though my dirty little secret is that because I have reacted to so many vaccines over the years, I do not take the flu vaccine.  I have colds so infrequently I forget how wretched they are.

Man ... the throat!

I've been complaining to one and all about the knives stabbing my throat.  Searing pain that makes me want to scream whenever I sneeze.  Without the Internet—this flickering FIOS is really starting to bother me—I texted Sandra to ask if she knew any home remedies for sore throats.  She told me to drink warm liquids.  So, out came the tea pot.  This afternoon, once the Internet was finally restored, I Googled and read that Ibuprofen actually helps, because the throat can become inflamed and so an NSAID painkiller would help.  Mine was expired, so I asked Sandra if she would fetch me some and some generic NyQuil so I could get some sleep, hopefully.  Sandra, being kind, threw in some numbing throat lozenges and some Blue Bell.

BLUE BELL!

Blue Bell almost makes up for nearly a day without Internet, a day without streaming and articles to distract me from the misery and the changes and the fear.  Blue Bell is most miraculous.  Blue Bell is most magical.  Blue Bell is most merciful.


I am yours, Lord.  Save me!

It's in there...

The Psalter is like Prego.

Back in the dark ages, Prego ran a series of commercials with the tag line of "It's in there."  The idea was that Prego had all the fresh and tasty ingredients that a chef would put into homemade spaghetti sauce.  Name an ingredient and it is in Prego.

The Psalter is like Prego.  No matter what you need or want or think or feel or fear, it is in the collection of prayers our Triune God has given us to pray.

I am no skilled at asking for things.  I mean, when I think I am being blunt and bold and straightforward, few hear my cry.  When I know I have asked directly, I mostly receive silence.  Asking for things is not really in my wheelhouse.

Here, there, and everywhere, I have made no secret of how much I crave hearing the Living Word and how much it helps me.  I have also made no secret how much the Psalter means to me and how much hearing it helps me.  I hide there.  I live there.  I am safe there.

Yesterday was hard.  Lots has been hard of late.  But yesterday was especially especially hard.  There I was, weeping and despairing, and Marie called.  She asked me how I was and I blurted out all this anguish.  Sniffing to a close, I managed to ask her how she was doing with her wretched cold and if she was calling because I offered to help if she needed anything, after watching her descend into the depths of a miserable cold before my eyes on Saturday.  Funny thing is ... Marie was calling to help me!

She offered to read and pray Psalms with me.
Bliss.
Mercy.

Marie started with a psalm she thought might be a good one for me, Psalm 38:

O LORD, rebuke me not in Thy wrath,
And chasten me not in Thy burning anger.
For Thine arrows have sunk deep into me,
And Thy hand has pressed down on me.
There is no soundness in my flesh because of Thine indignation;
There is no health in my bones because of my sin.
For my iniquities are gone over my head;

As a heavy burden they weigh too much for me.
My wounds grow foul and fester
Because of my folly.
I am bent over and greatly bowed down;
I go mourning all day long.
For my loins are filled with burning,
And there is no soundness in my flesh.
I am benumbed and badly crushed;
I groan because of the agitation of my heart.

LORD, all my desire is before Thee;
And my sighing is not hidden from Thee.
My heart throbs, my strength fails me;
And the light of my eyes, even that has gone from me.
My loved ones and my friends stand aloof from my plague;
And my kinsmen stand afar off.
Those who seek my life lay snares for me;
And those who seek to injure me have threatened destruction,
And they devise treachery all day long.
But I, like a deaf man, do not hear;
And I am like a mute man who does not open his mouth.
Yes, I am like a man who does not hear,
And in whose mouth are no arguments.
For I hope in Thee, O LORD;
Thou wilt answer, O LORD my God.
For I said, "May they not rejoice over me,
Who, when my foot slips, would magnify themselves against me."

For I am ready to fall,
And my sorrow is continually before me.
For I confess my iniquity;
I am full of anxiety because of my sin.
But my enemies are vigorous and strong,
And many are those who hate me wrongfully.
And those who repay evil for good,
They oppose me, because I follow what is good.
Do not forsake me, O LORD;
O my God, do not be far from me!
Make haste to help me,
O LORD, my salvation!

One of the reasons the Psalter is like Prego is that for all the time I have spent reading and listening to those 150 prayers they are new, are fresh, are timely, and are perfect ... for me.  Did you catch the word that is perfect for Myrtle?

The totally wonderful, totally awe-filling part was that the perfect word in the Word was not in the version that Marie was reading to me, but it was in mine.  The perfect word in the Word leapt off the page and wrapped itself around my anguished soul and held it.

I am benumbed and badly crushed;
I groan because of the agitation of my heart. 

Benumbed.
God understands numbness.
He understands me.


I am Yours, Lord.  Save me!

A lifetime of exile...

My best friend has been attending a bible study on the Psalter. [Yes, I am a tad jealous about that.] On Wednesday the 23rd, she posted about Psalm 137, which I am including here in my beloved NASB 1977, although that is not the translation she uses and quotes on her blog:

By the rivers of Babylon,
There we sat down and wept,
When we remembered Zion.
Upon the willows in the midst of it
We hung our harps.
For there our captors demanded of us songs,
And our tormenters mirth, saying,
"Sing us one of the songs of Zion."

How can we sing the Lord's song
In a foreign land?
If I forget you, O Jerusalem,
May my right hand forget her skill,
May my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth,
If I do not remember you,
If I do not exalt Jerusalem above my chief joy.

Remember, O Lord, against the sons of Edom
The day of Jerusalem,
Who said, "Raze it, raze it,
To its very foundation,"
O daughter of Babylon, you devastated one,
How blessed will be the one who repays you with the recompense with which you have repaid us.
How blessed will be the one who seizes and dashes your little ones
Against the rock.

Before I reflect upon what my friend noted, I would like to say that I have heard, on several occasions, a pastor say that this is not an appropriate psalm to pray in church. Frankly, that very thought boggles my mind. This is Scripture. This is the prayerbook of the Bible. Jesus prays these for us. God gave these prayers for us to pray. And Scripture teaches that all of the Living Word is profitable for teaching, for training and that the Living Word will not return void and will accomplish its purpose.

Mostly, I think that folk only see the last line, or perhaps the last thought, and get no further. Dashing children against rocks. Uhm, what???

What I liked about Becky's post, for one, was a bit of the historical setting for when this psalm was penned. As she noted, really you ought to just go spend some time in Jeremiah, at least chapters 25-29. I broadened that "at least" part from her post, because her post made me go exploring a bit and I read of the contrasting prophesies—false and true—that are presented in chapter 28. The whole story, about how Judah was not much wanting to hear of the impending judgment for their lack of faith and so sought more ... positive ... prophets than Jeremiah.

In any case, during Becky's bible study, one of the most popular bible quotes from my evangelical days arose:

"For I know the plans that I have for you," declares the Lord, "plans for welfare and not for calamity to give you a future and a hope. Then you will call upon Me and come and pray to Me, and I will listen to you. You will seek Me and find Me when you search for Me with all your heart." ~Jeremiah 29: 11-13

Since becoming a Lutheran, I have heard several times that few get this passage right. I rarely had any clarity on the matter, such as how it was wrongly presented and what would be more accurate. I just heard that it is not what most people think. I believe, now, I might know what was meant by such a comment.

For one, read it in the context of having just one more verse added to it:

For thus says the Lord, "When seventy years have been completed for Babylon, I will visit you and fulfill My good word to you, to bring you back to this place. For I know the plans that I have for you," declares the Lord, "plans for welfare and not for calamity to give you a future and a hope. Then you will call upon Me and come and pray to Me, and I will listen to you. You will seek Me and find Me when you search for Me with all your heart." (10-13)

And now read the final part to this paragraph:

For thus says the Lord, "When seventy years have been completed for Babylon, I will visit you and fulfill My good word to you, to bring you back to this place. For I know the plans that I have for you," declares the Lord, "plans for welfare and not for calamity to give you a future and a hope. Then you will call upon Me and come and pray to Me, and I will listen to you. You will seek Me and find Me when you search for Me with all your heart. I will be found by you" declares the Lord, "and I will restore your fortunes and will gather you from all the nations and from all the places where I have driven you," declares the Lord, "and I will bring you back to the place from where I sent you into exile." (10-14)

At this point, I shall make state a caveat that I do not know from where—from what doctrine—comes the Googling bit I found that gave me the most pause. So, perhaps, all my thoughts on the passage and the Psalm are in error. However, I think that the onion of Psalm 137 could have been peeled a tad more than what Becky learned in her bible study.

In this study reference, a few thoughts came to mind about Jeremiah, and then about Psalm 137, as I read and re-read Becky's post:

First, I found the difference in translation in Jeremiah 29:1 between Becky's and mind a bit interesting. Her's reads "...to the surviving elders...," whereas mine reads "...to the rest of the elders..." To me, that difference, in reading through Becky's post, gave me the impression that the exile was over...that this was written to those who survived it. So, when I first read through her post, I was reading with a wrong assumption.

Second, I found the emphasis on seventy years in the reference above an important note not to miss when thinking about the isolated verses of Jeremiah 29:11-13. As the authors of the study reference point out, seventy years represents the lifespan of a person. The judgment these folk faced was exile for their entire lives. Thus, to me, when you read about plans for a future and a hope, what ought to come to mind is the future and hope of what comes after our span of life ... eternal life, where there will be no captivity, no hardship, no grief, no loss, no pain, no suffering.

In a way, this thought alone shifted my perspective on my own life. I am, in a sense, living my entire life in exile, as Judah, because I live in a fallen world, a world suffering beneath the judgment of sin. And so the plans for prosperity, for a future and for a hope, are plans that will come true even for me, no matter what further trails of body, mind, and spirit I might face.

Third, both Becky and the authors pointed out that in Jeremiah 29, the Lord instructed Judah to build lives in captivity, to marry, have children, etc. Or, more specifically, the Lord charges the exiles:

Thus says the Lord of hosts, the God of Israel, to all the exiles whom I have sent into exile from Jerusalem to Babylon, "Build houses and live in them; and plant gardens and eat their produce. Take wives and become the fathers of sons and daughters, and take wives for your sons and give your daughters to husbands, that they may bear sons and daughters; and multiply there and do not decrease." (4-6)

To me, however, I found what came after that more thought-provoking:

"Seek the welfare of the city where I have sent you into exile, and pray to the Lord on its behalf; for in its welfare you will have welfare." (7)

Wow! What passed through my mind, as I thought about Psalm 137, that that prayer really was a cry of anguish, a cry of pain and of frustration. I mean, really, dashing children upon the rocks is not actually seeking the welfare of your captives and the community in which you have been placed.

And I also thought, again, how very much I appreciate how what I have learned of the Scriptures from Lutheran doctrine is so connected. For example, you could use verse 7 to accompany Luther's teaching on the Seventh Commandment from the Large Catechism, in which he shows that the is not merely about refraining from stealing, but also to prevent others from stealing from your neighbors and to help your neighbor's increase their wealth. You could then circle from the Large Catechism to Matthew 5, in which Jesus gives several examples of spinning out the spirit of the Law (or its fullness), rather than its letter. Again, the letter of the Law in the Seventh Commandment is to not steal, but the fullness of keeping that commandment is also about protecting the possessions of our neighbors and helping them to prosper. In particular, you could read what Jesus teaches in verses 43-48:

"You have heard that it was said, 'YOU SHALL LOVE YOUR NEIGHBOR, and hate your enemy.' But I say to you, love your enemies, and pray for those who persecute you in order that you may be sons of your Father who is in heaven, for He causes His sun to rise on the evil and the good, and sends rain on the righteous and the unrighteous. For if you love those who love you, what reward have you? Do not even the tax-gatherers do the same? And if you greet your brothers only, what do you do more than others? Do not even the Gentiles do the same? Therefore you are to be perfect, as your heavenly Father is perfect."

Love your enemies.
Pray for them.
Seek the welfare of your place of exile.
Pray for its welfare.

Of course, the confused and conflicted Myrtle could get hung up and become felled by that last bit about being perfect. However, I have come to the decision that unless someone who knows Greek tells me otherwise, I am going to take those instances where we are charged to be something as not a command, but rather a reminder of who we are in Christ. I do not have to make myself perfect. In Christ, I already am.

Am. Is. Are. Was. Were. Be. Being. Been. All those "be" verbs I learned in grammar are now all chunked in Christ.

Fourth, I thought it was also important, within context, to note (back in Jeremiah), the Lord moves from charging Judah to seek the welfare of its place of exile to charging them to remain vigilant to the truth.

For thus says the Lord of hosts, the God of Israel, "Do not let your prophets who are in your midst and your diviners deceive you, and do not listen to the dreams which they dream. For they prophesy falsely to you in My name; I have not sent them," declares the Lord. (8)

After the charge to build lives, to pray for prosperity, comes the reminder that even in life in exile—or perhaps most especially life in exile—one will encounter our foe, who ceaselessly works to draw us away from truth into the specious lies that play to our reason and our flesh.

So, having Jeremiah 29:11-13 isolated from context could lead one to think that this bit of Scripture is a promise of prosperity and well-being and futures and hopes and all sorts of what man would consider good things in this life.

"For I know the plans that I have for you," declares the Lord, "plans for welfare and not for calamity to give you a future and a hope. Then you will call upon Me and come and pray to Me, and I will listen to you. You will seek Me and find Me when you search for Me with all your heart."

But, if you read this bit of Scripture in context, you read of a "promise" of an entire life lived in exile and for rescue to come after the period exile is completed.

Now these are the words of the letter which Jeremiah the prophet sent from Jerusalem to the rest of the elders of the exile, the priests, the prophets and all the people whom Nebuchadnezzar had taken into exile from Jerusalem to Babylon. (This was after King Jeconiah and the queen mother, the court officials, the princes of Judah and Jerusalem, the craftsmen and the smiths had departed from Jerusalem.) The letter was sent by the hand of Elasah the son of Shaphan, and Gemariah the son of Hilkiah, whom Zedekiah king of Judah sent to Babylon to Nebuchadnezzar king of Babylon, saying, “Thus says the Lord of hosts, the God of Israel, to all the exiles whom I have sent into exile from Jerusalem to Babylon, "Build houses and live in them; and plant gardens and eat their produce. Take wives and become the fathers of sons and daughters, and take wives for your sons and give your daughters to husbands, that they may bear sons and daughters; and multiply there and do not decrease. Seek the welfare of the city where I have sent you into exile, and pray to theLord on its behalf; for in its welfare you will have welfare." For thus says the Lord of hosts, the God of Israel, "Do not let your prophets who are in your midst and your diviners deceive you, and do not listen to the dreams which they dream. For they prophesy falsely to you in My name; I have not sent them," declares the Lord.

For thus says the Lord, "When seventy years have been completed for Babylon, I will visit you and fulfill My good word to you, to bring you back to this place. For I know the plans that I have for you," declares the Lord, "plans for welfare and not for calamity to give you a future and a hope. Then you will call upon Me and come and pray to Me, and I will listen to you. You will seek Me and find Me when you search for Me with all your heart. I will be found by you," declares the Lord, "and I will restore your fortunes and will gather you from all the nations and from all the places where I have driven you," declares the Lord, "and I will bring you back to the place from where I sent you into exile." (1-14)

Think about it. How often do we mourn a life cut short, bemoaning all that lost promise of the life the child would have had, not realizing that the promise of that life is really what comes after? After death. The afterlife.

Fifth, what I did not find in Becky's reporting of what she learned (which very well may have been in the study) is an emphasis on the Lord. By this I mean, Babylon did not capture Judah so much as the Lord willed for the exile to happen and utilized Nebuchadnezzar to accomplish His purposes, His perfect plan for Judah for those seventy years.

Thus says the Lord.
I have. I have sent. I have not sent. I have plans.
I will. I will listen. I will be found. I will restore. I will bring.
Me. Call upon Me. Come and pray to Me. Seek Me. Find Me. Search for Me.

Judah's exile was not about the military genius of Nebuchadnezzar nor was it about the military might of the Babylonians. Judah's exile was about faith and repentance, about promise and restoration. And it was the work, plan, and promise of God.

Now return to the prayer of Psalm 137:

By the rivers of Babylon,
There we sat down and wept,
When we remembered Zion.
Upon the willows in the midst of it
We hung our harps.
For there our captors demanded of us songs,
And our tormenters mirth, saying,
"Sing us one of the songs of Zion."

How can we sing the Lord's song
In a foreign land?
If I forget you, O Jerusalem,
May my right hand forget her skill,
May my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth,
If I do not remember you,
If I do not exalt Jerusalem above my chief joy.

Remember, O Lord, against the sons of Edom
The day of Jerusalem,
Who said, "Raze it, raze it,
To its very foundation,"
O daughter of Babylon, you devastated one,
How blessed will be the one who repays you with the recompense with which you have repaid us.
How blessed will be the one who seizes and dashes your little ones
Against the rock.

Lots of pain and agony. Mourning by the river, struggling to even fathom raising a voice in praise. Feeling the burden of captivity, seeing only the present, bleak circumstance. Thinking more of vengeance and recompense rather than of repentance for what lead to the exile.

Oh, how our Creator knows His created!

To me, this psalm tells us that it is okay to struggle, to wrestle with our circumstances. This psalm acknowledges human despair and how perspective can color and skew our whole being.

What I did not find in this psalm—as in so many of the despairing psalms—was a step away from darkness to remind one's self of the truth and the majesty/work/promises of God. And, to me, that is a precious, precious gift from God. That lack in our prayers, the times of being unable to muster up the courage and the clarity to proclaim promises in the midst of confusing and even crippling circumstances, is okay.

Not being a theologian, but merely a child who oft raises anguished cries for help, I read the dashing of children against the rocks prayed by Jesus as being the deserved wrath of God upon those who deny Him, deny the Rock that is Christ Crucified. And I read the dashing of children against the rock prayed by man who is broken by his captivity and longs, ultimately, for the conquering of his enemies. He, in is limits of human reason and human flesh, is not perfect and so is not praying for and loving his enemies, but praying his frustrations and fears, his weaknesses, to the One who will take those prayers to the Father as perfect a prayer to pray as, say, Psalm 104, that utterly beautiful celebration of our majestic Creator.

Thank you, Becky, for sharing what you learned that I might, too, delve into both Jeremiah and Psalm 137. Thank you, Marie, for letting me go on and on and on about Jeremiah, Psalm 137, and the ineffable depths and riches of the Psalter, whilst you cooked yesterday.


Lord, I believe. Help my unbelief!

Courageous or weak...

A part of today turned out to be round three with getting my prescription refills.  Five phone calls and much tears.  One of my refills had the wrong dosage, plus it did not come in as ordered.  The frustrating part of the latter was that I was standing in the pharmacy two weeks ago and specifically asked if this new version (cheaper) of theophylline that the insurance wanted me to take was something they had in stock or if it needed to be special ordered like the capsules.  Another frustrating factor was that this re-write of the prescription happened a month ago, when the appeal for the medication came through only if I switched from capsule to tablet.  No one noticed the wrong dosage when both the doctor's office and the pharmacy called to tell me that the prescription was ready for the next refill.

The pharmacist called to tell me that the order had not come in and I started to lose my fragile balance.  I told her that this had already been straightened out and that I was told on Thursday that the prescriptions would be ready tomorrow when I fetched the erythromycin.  Friday and Saturday's pharmacist was not the one from Thursday or all the other calls regarding the authorizations and such.  Although she knew of my Medicare issues.  The pharmacist called a second time to say that she called the on-call physician to see if she could get him to re-write the prescription, but he would not because she told him, in error, that I still had pills.  When I explained that I did not, she said she would have to call me back.  I asked her what she was going to do even if she got the re-write when she told me that she could not get the tablets until Tuesday.  She said she could give me the capsules, because they still had some on hand, but the difference in the two types of theophylline is $1,000 and the insurance would not cover the capsules.

Seeing little hope, while waiting for her to call me back, I called the on-call physician to explain to him the reason the pharmacist thought I still had pills left was that she was seeing the final date when the prescription was re-run through insurance so I could get back the cash I paid for it.  The on-call physician was terse and rude.  He lectured me about poor planning and waiting until the last minute and interrupting the weekend plans of others with my selfishness.  When I tried to explain that the error was not caught by either the office staff or the pharmacist and that today was the first time I learned of it, he told me to stop talking or he would hang up.  Several times he threatened to hang up. He did not want to look at my records nor did he take the pharmacist's word that I had been on the increased dosage for over two years.  He told me just to take the lower dosage.  A 25% reduction in the medication that helps me to faint less.

I was frenetic.
I was appalled.
I was the bad little girl again.

In the end, after a second phone call between the on-call physician, who finally agreed to look at my medical record (electronic ... easy access) to a certain that there was, indeed, not a notation about decreasing the medication and the pharmacist asking him to re-write it for four pills a day instead of two so that she could use the lower dose she had on hand so that I could have the medication, the pharmacist called me again to tell me that the prescription was now ready.  At least when she saw it ring up at $8, she finally understood why I needed to switch to the tablets.

Marie ... well ... she saw my many-calls meltdown.  Feeling utterly defeated and rather despairing, I started weeping.  Amos, my beloved caretaker, then jumped in my lap even though I was seated in a dining chair.  Marie let me weep.  And wail.  And melt-down into a pool of insensible anxiety and grief.

I did not like that she witnessed my anxiety and anguish.
I did not like finding myself back into that role of obedient, obsequious mouse with the doctor.
I did not like my own weakness of body, mind, and spirit.

Funny, when I saw Marie struggle with her anxiety last summer, my first thought was of compassion. And, as I have written before, I found her courageous and brave.  Yet, today, with my struggle, all I felt was failure and shame.

I become so defeated fighting battles such as this. I shouldn't have to fight for my prescriptions.  It shouldn't take me several months to get them right.  It shouldn't have to take me several calls just get the annual refills sent into the pharmacy after my office visit during which I was told they would be sent.  It shouldn't have to take me several calls just to get my prescriptions filled.  It shouldn't be so hard.  But it is.

I had a plan.  I had a plan for the erythromycin.  I have two alarms to remind me to call every other Thursday in case it has to be ordered, so there is an extra day in case something happens.  I then have two alarms on every other Sunday reminding me to go in and get it.  This time, the erythromycin plan failed because when I called on Thursday, I learned there was no refills of the daily medication.  The plan to tie all the monthly refills to one of the erythromycin pharmacy runs failed because the refills that I was told were taken care of August 30th, still had not been sent over.  The "much easier" electronic system means you no longer walk out the door with slips of paper, but a promise of some buttons being pushed later.    The refill plan also failed because the new prescription written a month ago had an error that no one caught.

All of these are daily medications.  All of these, save for the erythromycin, are things I have been taking for a long time.

With the erythromycin authorization, I called the doctor's office, the pharmacy called the doctor's office, the pharmacy faxed the paper work to the doctor's office, the insurance company faxed the paper work to the doctor's office, and I brought over a copy myself.  I personally handed it to the nurse myself, only to learn a week later that the other nurse working on the authorization had none of those instances of paperwork and was actually spending her time trying to use the government Part D authorization online form instead of noting that I have private Medicare insurance (which is, to me, rather ironically cheaper than the government option).  The surgeon's staff took my paperwork and got the authorization in three days.  My doctor's office spend two months, many phone calls, and several lectures to me over the fact that the staff didn't have the time to take care of my insurance authorizations ... ignoring the fact that most of that time was due to mistakes by the office staff.

My prescription life should be easier until the end of the year.  Since the plan year is changing, the five authorizations I have all have to be re-written.  I may even need all the prescriptions all called in again.  Yes, I have been already fretting about and trying to figure out the best way to get this accomplished between my prescription refill at the end of December and the first erythromycin refill mid January.

The doctor was wrong.  I do plan ahead because so much of my life has to be planned or I cannot cope.  I check, double check, and alarm myself out the wazoo trying to ensure that I at least have the medication in the house, even if I cannot always remember to take it.

I told the nurse in September, when I handed her the paperwork, that I was to the point of thinking I should just stop taking everything and let nature take its course.  I'd either fall down the stairs and break my neck or else I'd go into a coma from low blood sugar.  Or maybe I'd be so immobilized the arthritis pain that I would simply languish away trapped in the bed.  I am not sure death by missing thyroid medication is even possible, but I do know that my life would cease to be anything but an insensible sea of misery.  And that ... that ... is more preferable to me than to have to keep battling for my prescriptions ... especially the anxiety medication.

I told Marie the same thing today.  I just don't have it in me to keep fighting for the things that should be easy, much less the harder things.  Hard things like the shame that flooded me knowing Marie witnessed my utter inability to not weep and despair and melt down when facing obstacle after obstacle.

I felt like the devil heaped coals of fire upon my head once I got home and realized that despite all my careful list-making, planning, and packing for a day-long-support-Marie-in-her-marathon-cooking-event, I managed to leave the erythromycin in her refrigerator. I remember the syringe to measure it out, but not the actual bottle.  Marie's beloved drove it over to me because I was so exhausted that I was willing to pay the price for missing the two doses that would come between leaving her apartment and getting to the pharmacy for the next refill.  Missing a single dose upsets the fragile balance I have achieved in the innards writhing department.  Missing two would be days recovering. I know this because I missed a day and a half the week before.  Funny how quickly I have lost the fortitude to face immense innards writhing, how quickly I have become accustomed to a mere argument in my digestive system, instead of a full-scale war.

Paul was very sweet when he brought it to the door.  I still felt ashamed and a failure a thousand times more than I had thinking about the meltdown that Marie saw when I was supposed to be there cheering her on in her culinary marathon.

At least Amos was willing to help Marie out in her endeavors...

Why do I see her battles with anxiety courageous and something to be honored and my own shameful and a confirmation of my own weakness and failure?


I am Yours, Lord.  Save me!

Cookin' with Marie...

My do I like this kind of Friday!

Marie came over to cook again.  I asked her to tackle the recipe my best friend uses for home made flour tortillas, Texas Flour Tortillas.  Yum.  Just ... yum.  And ... oh, my ... how very culinarily brave is Marie!

Marie had found some more ears of corn, so we had Grilled Corn on the Cob with Lime and Cheese one last time!!  And then we used the tortillas to make tacos.  The tacos were cold, basically, having not kept everything warm and my house being cold.  However, many tacos were consumed, so being cold was, apparently, not so much a problem.  I used some of the last of my Archer Farms Mexican Rub (why ... why did Target discontinue that heavenly stuff?) and grilled up chicken breasts.  I also cooked (and crumbled) bacon and then "enhanced" La Costena's refried black beans with cumin, sea salt, cracked pepper, lime, and a bit of crema.  I shredded cheddar cheese and put out sour cream.  However, I made Marie, who did all the work of the tortillas except for getting out the ingredients (and not sniping at me for my back-seat kneading and cooking directions), cut up her own tomato, which I also made her buy and then take home the left overs so as not to contaminate my refrigerator with tomato ickiness.  I sent tortillas home with Marie and gave some to Sandra to try, since we made the recipe yields 16 tortillas. I am a glutton, but not so much of one that I wanted all of the left overs myself.  However, don't think I am all that altruistic or generous, because homemade tortillas will not last that long. 

Amos happily pre-cleaned both the corn dishes and the taco plates.  He is still miffed, however, because I absolutely refuse to give him bacon, to share even a crumb of bacon with him.  I rather strongly feel that once I go down that road of taste with him, I will never again be able to consume my bacon in relative peace.

Speaking of Amos, here he is curled up in my lap with Froggy Long Legs Baby last night.  The majority of the time, Amos likes to have one or more of his babies when we are lounging together.

The day did start out a bit rough for me and for Amos.  I set the alarm for 4 minutes before Marie was to arrive, thinking I could throw on some clothes and take Amos outside in that time, since she doesn't mind if my hair is sticking up or I have crusties still in the corner of my eyes.  After opening the back door to let Amos out, I went back inside for my phone so I could call the pharmacy about one of the prescriptions I forgot yesterday afternoon, but remembered in the wee hours of the morning.  When I stepped back outside, I was stunned to see the LARGE, AGGRESSIVE puppy from two doors down barking at Amos just on the other side of the fence.  MONSTER puppy had jumped the low fence.  He put his paws up on my fence and I screamed with my entire being and raced across the yard to scoop up Amos.  The puppy growled and barked at me whilst he was in that yard.

Yes, I called Animal Control.

It is a puppy.  A puppy I think is just about 6-8 months old at best, but is nowhere near finished growing, if his paws are any indication of his eventual size.  He is left outside most of the time.  And he sits at the fence and barks and growls at Amos when we go outdoors.  Often, I have to take Amos back inside and try another time, when it comes to cajoling him into conducting his major business.  Of course, I am sure I would struggle with addressing bodily needs if I had this GIANT CANINE BEAST barking and growling at me with just two fences between us.  [I am very proud to note that Amos took care of his business on the leash in my front yard.]

All I could think was not that the dog was in the wrong yard, but how long until he is in my yard.  Once a dog hops a fence, what is to stop him from doing it again?  So, I called Animal Control essentially to start a record.

It is good that Marie was running a tad late, because I was shaking and weeping and extremely agitated from the encounter.  Twice, back in Alexandria, whilst taking my other dog out for a walk, I was bitten.  Both times, the owner, who had let his/her dog off its leash assured me as I stood still but yelled for the dog to be controlled, that his/her dog was fine. Both times, I picked up my smaller dog, because I simply did not want my smaller, leashed dog, approached/jumped on/attacked by a larger unleashed dog.  Again, both times I was bit.

Then there was the pit bull attack here.

I love Amos.  And I loved Kashi. I want others to have the freedom of owning a dog.  But I very much want leash laws to be enforced and I want owners to consider whether or not they have the capacity to contain a GIGANTIC dog before bringing one home.  I understand that this was a first time. And I understand that I am very sensitive to dogs invading my space.  However, I do not believe that I should have to suffer for an owner not controlling its dog.  Just as I would never want Amos to hurt another or roam the streets or yards of others.  Any dog in the world can bite or attack.  There is no 100% guarantee of safety.

I really am worried that containing this neighbor dog is going to be a long-term issue, especially as it grows larger.

When Amos was a puppy, a wee little thing, the dog next door dug under the fence and came into my yard.  I had stepped inside to take a whistling tea kettle off the stove and came back to find Amos dangling from the other dog's mouth.  Pepper, my neighbor dog, is very maternal.  She is, in fact, the only dog Amos has ever been willing to approach.  The two of them wag tails at each other and stick noses between the fence.  So, I know, now, that Pepper was probably just mothering Amos, not trying to eat him. I did not know that then.

I will admit that I was extraordinarily upset when I went over to the neighbors' house, knocked on the front door, and in no uncertain terms made it clear that their dog was never, ever supposed to be in my yard again.  That day, the then husband went out and bought some sort of garden border that was about a foot high, and buried it all along my fence.  Pepper has gotten out of their yard many times because of their back gate, but she has never dug her way into my yard again.

I do not believe that this HUMUNGOUS puppy has any positive feelings toward Amos.  He/She growls and barks even when I am in the back yard.  And I, myself, am fearful of the dog because of its size.

Marie, merciful woman, let me natter and ramble and vent and freak out for quite a while after her arrival.  By the grace of God, I am thankful to note that I am not as frightened now as I was this morning. I am trying to be reasonable and at least open to the possibility that this first escape will be an eye-opener to my neighbors about whether or not it is a good idea to leave a dog who is already nearing the height of the fence seated and can put his front paws and head and shoulder on top of the fence when standing on his back legs along in the back yard for hours and hours on end.

I do think that I need to put a sign on my porch door reminding me to check the back yard before letting Amos out.  I simply could not take him being attacked again.  Nor, for that matter, could I take another fright any time soon.

Actually, I believe that the reason I am better tonight is because I had understanding company and distractingly tasty food following the fright so that I was able to move past that moment into another. Because of that, too, writing about it now is upsetting, but not felling.

Think Clifford, the big red puppy.  SIGH.

Amos and I will now go comfort each other in the GREEN chair for the rest of the evening, whilst I try to resist having another tortilla until tomorrow.


I am Yours, Lord.  Save me!

At least...

My best friend makes the most incredible peanut peanut butter cookies on the planet.  I don't even care much for peanut butter cookies, but her peanut peanut butter cookies are amazing.  She does makes them kind of small, though, in my opinion, so when I was with her and she made them I felt even more of a glutton than usual because my idea of a single cookie size is about three to four times the size of her magical peanut peanut butter cookies.  And, well, her husband finds them at least as magical as do I, so I would basically steal them from his belly because I wanted them in mine.  Like five or six at a time.  Not just one.  Or perhaps two.

When I lived in Alexandria and was relatively close to Bettina, she could make me double batches when she came for a visit and I could eat them all, without having to share.  Anyway, the other day I broke down and asked her to send me the recipe.  Even after swearing off of ever trying to make cookies again, I asked for the recipe.  What was I thinking?

After.  Last night, after everything was mixed and was cooking and I was starting to clean up, I took another look at the stuff clinging to all the measuring cups.  Delayed response.  A puzzle working its way forward.  Until.  Yep, I messed up.  None of the measuring cups had the right stuff inside of them.  I used the wrong cups for the flour, the white sugar, the brown sugar, and the peanut butter.  I got the butter (one stick) and the egg (one shell) correct.  SIGH.  It is not that I burned the cookies but that they would not actually bake.  Apparently, having at least close proportions matters in cookies.  Matter a lot.

At least I have the comfort of a fluffy white lavender cloud even if I do not have the comfort of peanut peanut butter cookies.

I spent most of the "work" day weeping with the pharmacist and weeping with the doctor's office answering machine and weeping with my doctor's nurse.  The annual refills from August turned out not to be annual refills.  I was following my plan.  I have an alarm every two weeks on Thursday to remind me to call the pharmacy to order the innards medication and an alarm every two weeks on Sunday to remind me to go pick up the innards medication that go along with the alarm that goes off four times a day every day to actually take the innards medication.  Only when I called so the pharmacy could order the innards medication, I got a call back to hear that I actually had no refills of the innards medication.  So, I called and left a message about the missing refills.  Then the pharmacy called back to ask about all my other medications because I had forgotten that it is the end of the month.  Yes, I wanted them.  We hung up.  Another call.  Most of the annual refills are not actually annual refills.  So I called the doctor's office about all the other medications.  Then the pharmacy called again to say ... rather gently ... that the refill on my anxiety medication was limited.  The anxiety medication I have been on daily for 18 months.

For 18 months, I have gotten limited refills and I have to call and call and call because somehow my records never seem to show that I cam actually on the medication.  So, I called the doctor's office again and finally received a return call from the nurse, who said that she would have to talk to the doctor again about the anxiety medication refill ... the addictive medication that helps me but would make me very, very, very ill if I miss a dose, even the small dose I take because I react so strongly to many medications and only need a little bit to have the fragile balance it gives me without side effects that would make everything worse.  The doctor and I had two appointments just to weigh the pros and cons of this decision and yet somehow its not in my records, so I am just ... a drug seeker.  SIGH.  I wept to the nurse that I need to have the anxiety medication not be a problem I have to solve every 15 or 20 or 40 days, whatever limited number is chosen.  I wept to the nurse that I have talked about this my last three appointments and that I needed to not have to beg for a medication that even the doctor does not believe she could wean me off of but told me it would still be good for me.  This ... this ... is most definitely not good for me.

But at least I can do this:

Yep, I built a fire and dragged the GREEN chair over to the fireplace and am currently roasting myself and my puppy dog as my tears dry.

Amos doesn't really mind if I get him a bit wet.


I am Yours, Lord!  Save me!