Why Write?

I have been asked not to write. Told I muddied the water of understanding.

Why then would one continue to do so to the consternation of people that matter?

Why indeed? It was in the Henri Nouwen Daily Meditation for today that says it precisely. When I was asked, could I say it? No...but this is why:

Writing to Save the Day

Writing can be a true spiritual discipline. Writing can help us to concentrate, to get in touch with the deeper stirrings of our hearts, to clarify our minds, to process confusing emotions, to reflect on our experiences, to give artistic expression to what we are living, and to store significant events in our memories. Writing can also be good for others who might read what we write.

Quite often a difficult, painful, or frustrating day can be "redeemed" by writing about it. By writing we can claim what we have lived and thus integrate it more fully into our journeys. Then writing can become lifesaving for us and sometimes for others too.

The Savages

My own history/geography books in school had references to the SAVAGES. They scared the bejeebers out of me and I hoped I would never meet one. Like Pogo says, "We have met the enemy and he is us." Now I meet them every day and they are indeed us.

He Who Must Be Obeyed was home Sunday in time for lunch. Monday he packed again and was gone this morning early. I am certain that I am experiencing a prodigious amount of neurosis. I had one whopping headache the whole while he was home. How crazy is that, anyway? Maybe I got a little too comfortable being in charge. I think I have some control issues. I am not a headachy person. While talking to him on the phone, he mentioned that perhaps he gives me a headache. I told him we better hang up before I gave him one.

Where did he go? To the Black Hills to make life easier for our daughter; he bought her a dishwasher and will do her bidding. "Bless his heart. He is a good soul," my friend says. He is that.

Intricate Lace

There is more to life than "Book TV" on CSPAN II. It is, however, a nice distraction from the news, while being news of a sort. Old news though is sometimes like yesterday's newspapers. Early Saturday morning a former governor of Oklahoma, Frank Keating, was reading his book, "Theodore" (Roosevelt) to a group of children in Politics and Prose Bookstore in Washington D.C. I was captivated. I had an interesting conversation last night about that book store with a good friend. Her brother took an active part in the book review group that met there. There it is again; life looping around, weaving an intricate lace through experiences.

I see that Megatrends 2010 is going to be discussed this morning. I am probably wrong about yesterday's newspapers.

He Who Must Be Obeyed is dropping in for a vist on his way to the Black Hills. He reminds me of "The Accidental Tourist." He is something of an accidental visitor, perhaps. Unfortunately, I am no leading lady...or does it just seem that way? That leading lady went on to be president. I am not all that confident about the facts in Wikipedia, if she does have an IQ of 140 she has nothing over on HWMBO.

Tenth Day

He Who Must Be Obeyed is still on a mission. "Doing God's Work" he calls it. Apparently he is good at it and can scrub, paint, plumb, and shop for whatever is needed. Cars are being repaired, rooms are painted, carpets cleaned, beds and bedding have been purchased and made up. Kitchen walls and cabinets have been scrubbed and furnished with needed cooking equipment. Vehicles have been repaired. Meetings with Social Services and mental evaluators have been attended. There is more to be accomplished.

HWMBO is a doer. Not much of a talker, though. The phone calls have been short and terse with his exhaustion. His recipient's have been cheerful, helpful and appreciative.

Cultural Hatred

Do you ever really think about hatred? I had an 84 minute phone call from a son Friday night saying he read a lot of 'hate between the lines of my email' to the family. I was floored and very, very disturbed about the accusation. Apparently that is how I come across in my email.

As I think about hatred in our society I think that word is flung about as loosely as is the word "love." I looked up "hatred in our culture" on Google and got 12,800,000 hits. There is a lot of hate talk, hate blogs, and obviously hate.

The first 20 hits are very interesting. Don Closson in Culture Wars states that "Americans are highly polarized when it comes to issues of morality and social norms." He states "Unfortunately, in the eyes of the secular world Christians are often seen as angry, intolerant people. At school board meetings, outside abortion clinics, even at the funeral of a homosexual who was murdered because of his lifestyle, Christians are there to angrily condemn sin and it perpetrators...Although understandable, I don't believe that we are called as Christians to respond to the culture war in anger, especially anger directed at people.

In the New Testament, Paul condemns "hatred" and "fits of rage" immediately before listing the spiritual fruits of love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control."

Closson has some good advice concerning 'righteous indignation.' I didn't react very well when I followed up the disturbing phone call three days later to ask about it again. When I learned my indignant son had been drinking when I was jammed up about my hatred, the feelings of my own righteous indignation welled up in my throat.

If I am not careful, with one foot in hell, I am going to completely slide over the edge.

The Death of a Pastor

The death of Pastor Jack Hill makes me more lonesome than ever. He was such a part of my parent's lives that he seemed more like a family member. My dad climbed the buttes and rimrocks of the Cave Hills with him and another friend, Ted Seppala. They carried sticks, binoculars and cameras.

I wonder what their conversations were about. Surely they commented about the Indian Dance Ring to the SE of McKinsey Butte, and how the Indians caught eagles in their rock traps baited with a live rabbit; actually it was catch and release for them as all they wanted were a few good feathers; did they remark about the ancient and more modern petroglyphs on the sandstone walls? I wonder if there was any 'God' talk? They were men of deep faith, all three of them. They loved the out of doors and the high plains.

He was my mother's confidant and spiritual advisor. He helped her bear the sad realities of life. He wrote me wonderful letters regarding the book on my dad and just this past month about the 'Sisu' book. He complimented me on some of my poetry. His life was cut too short.

He was a wonderful preacher, writer, pastor, encourager, friend. I was blessed just to have known Pastor Jack Hill, and my parents were blessed to be able to call him their pastor, their friend.

Maundy Thursday at Holy Cross

Holy Thursday at Holy Cross was a first person observation of the Last Supper. "Remember When..." P. Jim was eloquent, he sang, his wife sat beside us, his teen aged boys were friendly. M. picked me up and was weepy on the way home. Because the soloist moved us to tears, because it took us so long to make the change. Because we are so thankful to have a shepherding pastor again. She has made the move and we will after Easter.

How strange it is to go to both churches. I went to the noon service at St. Tim's and helped clear communion and "made the house" for tonight. Making the house isn't what you might think. It is setting up the chalace with the corporal, the burse and all of that on the altar. It isn't as easy as you might think.

K. is experimenting makeing bread for communion. She thought it was too crumby this noon. She is going to have her confirmatin guide group of girls learn to do it next year as thier service project. That is a lot of bread baking on a weekly basis. Because of the loaves the Priest Host is no longer used.

I love church talk. Full and complete Liturgy is a relief after leaning toward being neither fish nor fowl. Maybe going to two churches is neither fish nor fowl. Going twice today can't be as sinful as wanting to tell Pastor F. that Henri Nouwen is dead. How can you quote someone like they were still alive when they are not? I get an Henri Nouwen daily devotion. I keep him alive by reading him, not by pretending he is still alive.

It is the devil in the darned details again. I always have one foot in hell.

The Givers and the Takers

My sons make comments regarding how Jesus-like their dad is. He certainly isn't afraid to take on the problems of the underclass in our family. People that suffer mental illness and brain damage cannot or will not work; that leads to desperate situations in families in of lower economic situations.

Desperate situations are gut wrenching. Without resources people's children are removed, they live in poverty, filth, and hopelessness. Can life be made better for a dear niece that has suffered so much in her 50 years? Her parents were killed in a New Year's Eve car wreck. Three young drunks hit them head on and lay in the morgue with them that night all waiting for someone to come identify them. A baby under two years old in a coma in the hospital for three months with no parents, no siblings, only uncles, aunts, and cousins; all of them busy with their own cares and concerns. It is so easy to turn aside and forget; it is so easy to forget.

He Who Must Be Obeyed has a challenge this week. He will wade through the piles of dirty clothes and take them to the laundry. He will scrub toilets and wash dishes; he will lay out plans for a better future and make demands that will fall on angry and unhearing ears. He will spend time with social service people and try to help sort out the demands of Family Court judgements. It is indeed a Holy Week, one of great 'com' passion and one of difficult choices. And he will make a difference.

It's the Ladder Thing Again

He Who Must Be Obeyed is working on the pool. A few minutes ago the ladder slipped on the deep end and a bucket of wet cement, the ladder and you know who all landed on the bottom. That is nine and a half foot in the deepest spot. When I got out the door and looked over the edge of the precipice there he was akimbo on the bottom surrounded by spilled cement, the ladder, and himself a bit dazed.

No complaining, no comments, just dogged determination to finish the bottom of the pool before we get the tornado tomorrow morning. Omaha is an exciting place weather-wise in the spring.

I am mowing with my little reel push-mower. Not all at once of course, just a few rounds at a time and time to breathe in between. If I can get ahead of the grass and stay that way, I might be able to do this again. I love my quiet little old fashioned mower. A prerequisite is a clean lawn, every little twig gets caught in the spinning blades and stops me in my tracks. Bending to pick up things and pushing this great invention back and forth takes me back to my teen years in the early 50's when I mowed my parents yard in Buffalo, SD.

April Fool

April 1st was always great fun in this house. My four sons were always dependable tricksters. Today the joke is on us again. But it isn't funny.

He Who Must BE Obeyed and his family have been trying to solve a gritty problem for a niece, now 50, who was orphaned at 18 months when her parents were killed in a grizly auto accident.

She is in a desperate situation and needs some help. Money, time, distance, and the court system are all at issue and everyone is either too old, too poor, or too busy to do anything. Yesterday it was all figured out and today someone might just as well have shouted "April Fool!"