I am opting out . . . or not

I just deactivated my Twitter account.  Daily tweets coming in and going out won't be missed because I don't actively receive or give.  The 19 people who follow me?  What the heck??  I don't have anything important to say.  But thanks, anyway.

Several people, bless your hearts, have encouraged me to write a blog.  What the heck??  I am not funny, or witty, or great at anything I could share.  I am just me, and not very good at that either most of the time.

I could write about politics, but I gave up politics several years ago.  Too much stress, too much hate, too much pontificating.

You know what I want to write about?  Mayberry.  Yes, THAT Mayberry.  Where people sat on their front porches and shelled peas, and talked life.  Where good-hearted people looked after good-hearted people, and the drama was in how to avoid hurting someone's feelings.  That is where I want to live, and what I want to write about.  To prove that it exists.  That it wasn't just a TV show.   Simple times and good-hearted people sitting on their porches, shelling peas.

I wonder if this isn't what we all yearn for.    A simpler time and a happier place.

Uh oh.  Weather alert on my smart phone.  Hail storm on the way.

Simpler times will have to wait.

All eyes on me, please

I have been tempted--is this even the right word to use?--for 2 days to post my status on Facebook.  It isn't that I have seen something provocative that must be shared or had a thought that might benefit someone else.  It is in order to get attention.

I have pneumonia.  And there is something within me that wants everyone to know how miserable I am.

What on earth for?  Is it because David isn't giving me enough attention?  For goodness sake, he is cooking gourmet meals to keep me eating.  He takes my temperature often.  He brings me fresh ice water constantly.  And he holds me when I start to cry.  (Start to cry--I catch myself from this absorption in my own plight.)

This has made me ask questions.  Why do people post what they are cooking for dinner?  Or how good their workout was this morning?  Or has fast they ran a mile?  Or that she had to stop in the middle of her run to eliminate her bowels?  (My words, I just couldn't type the word she used to describe what she was doing.)

Katie and I had this discussion last week when I was visiting her.  We never did settle the question.

Is it narcissim that makes us want everyone to know what we are doing?  Or a need for empathy, or praise?  Or are we just undisciplined in our thinking and, therefore, our posting? 

I will keep thinking about this.  Maybe later when I feel better.  Did I mention that I have pneumonia?

The Grand Life

I am in Wichita this week living the grand life.  Grand, as in Grandmother.  Coralie has taken to calling me "Grandmother" when she is in a certain mood.  It is always with a twinkle in her eye.  She told me yesterday that I would never be her mother.  OK.  I'm fine with that, Granddaughter.

Because Grand means getting to share makeup with one who is SERIOUS about its application.  I would insert a picture here of a 3-year old with a unibrow and brightly colored cheeks if I had taken one.

Grand means smoothies are for sharing.

Grand means making hand motions for the song "Wheels on the Bus" whenever one sees me enter the room.

Grand means reading books about things I don't usually ponder on a normal day--butterflies, fairies, and snails.

Grand means I get to do it all over again--play, sing, read, and share--with little ones.  The same, but different.  And I'm fine with that, Granddaughter.

Blind

I have a friend who was blind.  She did not have a conventional surgery to repair her blindness, nor did she experience a miracle.  She was punched in the gut.  Every day she sees just a little better than the day before.

She did not see the character traits absent from the one with whom she shared the most intimacy.  After her divorce, she now sees clearly what she could not see before.

Can 20/20 hindsight sharpen foresight? 

For theologians, the answer is yes.  John Piper wrote a fabulous book entitled "The Purifying Power of Faith in Future Grace" that brilliantly answers the question.

For the rest of us, the answer is sometimes, or maybe, or no. 

The often used quote to illustrate this is "The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result."

Putting the insanity defense aside (whether we should put it aside or not is questionable), what keeps us from seeing reality clearly in the moment?  It is clutter.

In the espionage world, they call it chatter.  Messages sent all around the world pointed to the 9/11 terrorist attack.  But the arrow pointed backwards, not forwards.  The sight came after the gut punch.

In the TV drama/criminal prosecutorial world, they call it punditry.  Everyone knew the verdict of a now all too familiar trial in Florida.  Until the jury came back in to the courtroom.  Now the commentators point backwards to rule of law and proof versus circumstance that was not seen before.  Gut punch.

I don't know about you, but I don't prefer to learn from the gut punch.  But there must be something about the adrenalin shock that gets my brain in gear to see reality.

If it is all the same to you, I had rather be gut punched than be blind.

Signs and rake-wrestling

 I know that if your palm itches, it means that money is coming your way.

I know that if your ear itches, it means someone is talking about you.

I know that if your nose itches, company will soon arrive at your house.

But what does it mean if your head itches?  I hope it means that a thought is sure to form.  With that promise, maybe it is safe to write something.

Well . . . nothing.  I guess that means there isn't any money coming, either.  I suppose that's the way it goes with signs. 

But wouldn't it be great if we saw signs that clearly told us the direction God wanted us to go?  I mean clearly.  Without the need for a pros and con sheet.  Without having to lie awake at night. 

I don't think God intended for it to be that easy.  He wants us to discern moral issues and wrestle with life.  Wrestle, like David did on Saturday.  With a snake.  David rake-wrestled him out of our garage, then gently took him back to the woods.  Appropriate.  Not easy, though.  If David had chosen not to wrestle, then we could have waited until the snake died to get into our cars. 

I am glad David wrestled the snake.  And I am glad that God allows me the freedom to wrestle through life without a magic wand leading me into the future.  And when I fail to wrestle well?  I think we can call that grace.

Why ask "Was it kids?"

Once I received a phone call that I was to be a guest on a talk show. I looked over at David to determine his culpability. He shook his head,took the phone and started asking questions.  Before long the pranksters hung up.  Not to be thwarted with his investigation, David pressed *9.  A woman (that I am sure looks a lot like Madea) answered the phone.  When David told her about our phone call, she asked, "Was it kee-ads?"  then turned away from the phone and yelled "I'm onna whoop yo a**!"

So shouldn't every investigation pose the question "Was it kids?" 

Nothing to fear, but fear itself? Or maybe enlightenment?

I love a good discussion about ideas, theories, motivations, well . . . just about anything. 

Discussion is what defines politics.  Compromise and diplomacy after the discussion is how we make laws and decisions.  After the discussion is when the progress is made.

Our forefathers made decisions AFTER the heated discussions that they put into words that we use today.  Words in our Articles of Confederation.  Words in our Declaration of Independence.  Words in our Bill of Rights.  Words in our Constitution.

Must I stress the word "forefather?"  There were no women in the discussions (except by proxy.  Thank you Abigail Adams).  Does this mean that women today cannot enter into the discussions?

No.  It does not.  The public forum has changed.  Women now enter politics.  Are they on the same playing field?  I am not sure.  But I do know that in some ways women are smarter than men.  Women bring ideas to the table that men do not.  It would be a tragedy to ignore the women.

This would be the perfect spot to mention Sarah Palin and Michele Bachman.  But I won't.  :)

My husband introduced me to the word "misogynist" last year.  I had no idea that there was such a person.  Of course I have encountered people who fit the description.  It is usually when I voice my opinion about something.  It seems crazy, I know, but this happens in POLITICS! 

Methinks the word that should be applied is "misologist:"  a hatred of argument, reasoning, and enlightenment.   Now THAT is a problem for us all.

The home of John and Abigail Adams in Quincy, Massachusetts.