Spewings of a discouraged, uptight visionary

There was an old eighties song with this refrain: "What are words for when no one listens anymore?" (Remember that song, that band, the singer with her trademark breathy, squeaky style? You do? Then you, too, are old.) But the song stuck with me, and I keep singing it to myself lately. More true, it is, every day. (Now I'm being Yoda.)

When I was young, I loved words. I loved to read, to write, to journal, to gab for hours and hours on the telephone. Words were magical, a sanctuary for me, a means of achieving change and growth, of acquiring new relationships and knowledge. Back then, I put a lot of stock in words.

Years passed, and I began teaching school. I honestly became aggravated by my own voice; perhaps every teacher does at times. And then there was grad school, where words themselves started to become tiresome. Often, nothing new was being said, it was only being expressed in a different way. I wasn't quite as enamored of words; I stopped short before finishing the Master's. I just didn't want more words in my world.

I switched careers, and technical writing and editing fit better, because it encouraged a more terse, to-the-point style of writing. Fewer words seemed like a good idea; being taciturn was downright appealing to me.

Words took center stage once again when I had my baby. Watching a child learn to understand language, then try to speak for himself, is fascinating. I grew tired of the sound of my endless voice, explaining, conversing, reading aloud, but it paid off. Thankfully, my son speaks and reads well.

But now? It seems I release my words into the wind, where they soar away, unheard, resented, ignored. My words have become traps, because what I say can and will be used against me. The words I employ are almost always displeasing to others, because they involve responsibility, work, jobs, schedules and timetables, commitments no one wants to keep. I am the lone Type A, and therefore I am the regular bearer of bad news.

I was recently accused by my partner; he informed me that I love telling people what to do. Truly, I do not. I am a reluctant leader. On personality tests, I always score high in leadership yet low in soft edges and relational skills, and I know that about myself: I'm effective but often insensitive when in charge. I don't enjoy leading, just like I didn't enjoy teaching; since I know I can be a cruel leader, I am guilt-stricken the entire time I'm doing it. Am I being too black-and-white? Do those I'm leading find me callous? Will I achieve anything other than hurt feelings? Usually, I end up leading only because there is a lack of leadership and an abundance of indecision, which I can't stand. Sometimes others are willing but not able—or the others who want to lead would clearly wreak havoc for various reasons.

I tried to defend myself, to explain to the accuser that I don't enjoy telling people what to do. I don't. But someone has to do it. To make matters worse, I told him, I am skilled not only at seeing inefficiencies, but also in foreseeing danger and mishaps and the like. I imagine the near future, and all sorts of avoidable but probable events leap out with crisp clarity. I want to help people get work done faster, reach their destination sooner, avoid any silly foibles. I want to help them steer clear of painful consequences, of injuries and unfortunate occurrences. And a lot of times, I am right; the things I foresee with concern pan out just as I'd feared. I hate it. There's no joy in being right about that stuff, just as there's no joy in leading when you know you're likely leaving a wake of bitterness.

I ponder the rest of my life, and I feel laden with the burden of silence. In all human situations where I'm involved at more than a surface level, I will be required to either bite my tongue or annoy people. Always. And how can I bite my tongue every time? Work still needs to be done, projects still need to be completed, meals need making, shopping must happen, laundry and tasks and cards and gifts and homework checks and appointments... how to accomplish it all without speech? Must I be the responsible, nagging wife and mom for all my days? And there's anxiety in being that one who supposedly "loves telling people what to do": I fear for my son and husband if I die. I ask my friends, Please, check in on them. Make sure they don't become hoarders, make sure the kid still goes to school, eats something other than pizza.

Would a big chalkboard work? A daily agenda that is written and need not be spoken? Doubtful. I fear it would go unseen, as do the jobs, assignments, timely meals, household messes, grass un-mown... It would likely be one more thing to go unnoticed by them, and yet one more item on my to-do list ("#47-update daily agenda"). I am weary, so weary.

I wish I would remember that no one is listening, and that more importantly, people learn best by doing... even if that do-ing involves falling flat on one's face. I wish I could remember to pray more and talk less,. And I really wish I were a mature enough Christian to say that I find as much satisfaction in God's working things out instead of me warning, reminding, carping, and then saying, "I told you so." No one likes hearing that.

Alas, I am not that big a person—yet.

I'm a small man in some ways, Bart. A small, petty man.
-Principal Skinner from The Simpsons

I urge you to check this out

In keeping with yesterday's post:

The stories you'll find on this link (below) encompass the very spirit that has made this country great. They are the voices of true Americans. Read these stories, be inspired, and if you agree, then consider adding your own life anecdote.


http://the53.tumblr.com/

When an American says that he loves his country, he means not only that he loves the New England hills, the prairies glistening in the sun, the wide and rising plains, the great mountains, and the sea. He means that he loves an inner air, an inner light in which freedom lives and in which a man can draw the breath of self-respect.
~Adlai Stevenson

How I became more stupid

Forrest Gump always believed that stupid is as stupid does... or at least his mama felt that way. I think Mama was right, but I'd take it a step further: Stupid is as stupid says. I spent a good many years of my life showing, through my words, that I wasn't very wise.

Growing up in a rather small pond, in a family of people like me, it was relatively easy to pass those early years believing that I was pretty smart. Kids can be obnoxiously confident anyway, can't they? And finding moderate to noticeable success in a school or home setting can lull a young person into feeling pretty darned special. I tried to be humble, but in my heart I didn't buy it.

I chose a less-than-large state school as my undergrad alma mater, and this experience continued to feed the fantasy that I was all that. I had to work a little harder, granted, and I had a little too much fun that first year-and-a-half and watched my grades suffer (much to my parents' chagrin and annoyance). But truthfully, even when I slouched and lazed along, I still didn't do that badly. It was more challenging, but still manageable.

Even my first professional job fell into the same camp of making me believe I was on top. I moved to a little, inbred town near Erie, and taught a variety of kids there. A few of my students were rather brilliant, but many were average; more than a handful were counting down days until their 16th birthday, when they'd proudly file their "outta here" papers and flee to the family farm. So, in comparison to the norm there? I considered myself to be somewhat intellectual. No one told me otherwise. (They were too kind, I see now.)

I had to move to a larger city, and rub elbows with some truly smart people, before I began to figure out I had quite a lot to learn... and that there was plenty I'd simply never learn. I remember this dawning of realization at one of the firms where I worked, while I watched one of my bosses work through an extremely complex piece of information. He sketched it, he explained it, he fleshed out the physics behind it. And I took it all in, gleaning simultaneously that I could never have made it so clear and easy to grasp. I simply did not have that sort of brain power.

There were others at that company, and many since, who have left me with my figurative mouth agape. Great artists and performers populate the group, of course, but more often it's made up of that rare breed of person who oozes grey cell greatness—the people who really understand the stock market and can simply explain why the housing market collapsed, the folks who truly comprehend world economics and the shortcomings of every proposed solution, the people who can describe with perfect verbiage how one splits a cell or creates a new combustion system or safely constructs a tall tower. I have learned, by shutting up and listening, just how much I really lack.

The longer I live, the more I get it: I am not so smart. Actually, I am quite dull. And the more I look for the strengths of others, the more I find them. Even when a strength isn't uniquely intellectual, it usually still has great merit. I know one guy, an everyday guy who isn't the brightest bulb in the bunch, but you know what? He is absolutely fantastic at getting people to feel close to each other and open up; he is great at sensing when a person needs a community around him. And there's one lady who seems so fluffy and flighty, but who can deliver a word of truth in such a way that the recipient actually listens and considers the point instead of taking offense.

The list goes on and on: A neighbor's daughter who is mentally challenged but knows instantly when she confronts a lie; a fellow who is jovial and somewhat goofy, yet can tear apart any machine and put it back together better than before. One of the smartest guys I knew was my dad's mechanic, who repaired engines by ear, and also worked beautifully with wood; I believe he even made his own knives. When I cleaned houses for that awful two weeks last fall, the guy who was training me was a fantastic cleaner. He knew how best to do it, how to work quickly and efficiently, how to keep track of every tool and spray bottle... it was awesome. My husband is great at planting and cultivating things, and not because he studied it exclusively but just because he loves it and learns a tip or two from every gardener he meets. Some people are just born problem solvers, and we all should learn whom they are and admit their prowess and our own shortcomings.

The last time I had this overwhelming feeling, I was attending a luncheon with Todd for new employees at his current university workplace. We listened to a speaker talk about his superior, and how she'd created a new type of missile; we learned that a fellow employee had been the creator of the strange little code word system that I use every time I leave a comment on someone's blog. The other fellow at our table mentioned how he traveled a lot to train others worldwide to use the school's software. I sat unobtrusively, hoping no one noticed my sad state of brainlessness.

It's amazing how stupid I became once I stopped telling everyone how smart I was. It's also pretty embarrassing. To anyone I've ever bored with my own praise, I am sorry. Please forgive me.

Happily, one of the many perks of being a Christian is that my lack of impressive cells is not just tolerated, but sometimes actually welcomed. We are encouraged to do things like be still and be more like a child. I struggle with the stillness, but the childlike acceptance and questioning less? That I can handle.

Good discombobulation

I'm not sure that discombobulation is a word, but I'm using it and believe me, it fits.

Late last week, we happily learned that my husband will be picking up part-time contract hours for a few months at a nice office where some friends of ours already work. We'd both been hoping, and waiting, and the offer was official this weekend. Part-time, contract work in his field, with professionals, in a great place—ahhhhhhhhh. He's excited. I'm excited for him.

However. While we were waiting to hear about that opportunity, and days were passing, and more days, I was feeling guilty. Here was my hub, trying to get a second job after I had walked away from my one. I decided to try to "look busy" and put out some feelers in the biz world. I picked out a few local companies, very close to our home, and dropped off resumes with general cover letters. I went to a temp firm and filled out some paperwork. I sent some more resumes to online work opportunities.

Then, we got the news about his gig coming through. I breathed a sigh of relief, stopped putting out feelers for a couple of days, and looked further into that Etsy shop I mentioned a few posts ago.

SO, yesterday I get a call from the temp agency. They have a job for me, part-time, a couple of months' worth, at a firm downtown who needs an editor. Go figure. I called them back, explained the need for flexibility (in-service days this week and next, looming sicknesses, the need to meet my son's bus) and my desire for not too many hours, etc. The temp liaison worked it all out and the company wanted to try me. I said okay. The plan was laid.

That meant errands today, because the company wants me to start tomorrow. I went to the grocery store, I stopped at FedEx and got scans of several paintings, I hit the bank and the gas station, I carried all my stuff home and—lo and behold, there was a message. From one of the local companies where I dropped a resume. They wanted to talk to me. I called them back, explained the same stuff I'd gone over just one day before, and they still wanted to meet. So we did, just a couple of hours after speaking. It's honestly not looking good (I think they'll need a bigger commitment in the summer than I can give... and what a shame that is, because it took me ONE minute to drive there. And they would give me less money but also benefits. HELLO?! Benefits!!!???) Sadly, I'm sort of assuming that this one is a lost cause. Still, my head was spinning when I got back home. I called a friend to get her input, and while we were talking, I checked email.

Wait for it.

There was a little message from one of the companies to which I'd sent my resume recently, in that flurry of "looking busy." Guess what? They want to talk to me. So, we're having a phone interview later this week.

Don't you wonder how things work out this way? Maybe none of these sudden developments will become real opportunities. Perhaps they've simply been thrown in my path to give me a little pep in my step, to revive my hope in the economy, our country, myself. I might go to this temp assignment and fail miserably. But it might be great.

Either way, the past few days have been rather exhilarating and also slightly disconcerting. There I was, poised for painting and bonbon consumption. Alas, I fear it is not meant to be, at least not right now. What a crazy ride.

I'll certainly share news if anything becomes more stable. Until then, I'll practice standing on some Jello, since that's sort of what it feels like we're doing these days.

P.S. All this activity, albeit slightly frenetic, confirms for me that I wasn't supposed to be cleaning houses. That's my interpretation, anyway.

Throwing in the dust cloth

I quit the cleaning job.

I feel awful. I feel like a quitter. I guess I am a quitter.

I feel relieved, in a way, because I did not enjoy it and I felt my brain beginning to atrophy. And yet. Did I do the right thing? Time will tell.

I didn't think through the initial decision; I see that now. I didn't even make it through the first week of school before I slipped into panic mode and began making arrangements to jump into this job. When will I actually live the "trust God" theory that I regularly recommend to others? Why do I even believe for a moment that I am in charge and can change things? Why can I never wait?

I didn't think through the sheer labor involved in deep-cleaning for hours at a time. I did not think through my blood sugar issues in the morning. I did not imagine that I would be required to carry heavy supplies up and down stairs, nor did it occur to me that people who pay for cleaning services sometimes have giant mansions. I never considered how the immensity and extravagance of those homes would gall me. I did not entertain the thought that I might not be good at cleaning. I forgot that instead of having my sweet boy interrupting my thoughts and making me long at times for privacy, my dearest little guy would now be gone all day, every day, and that my loner tendencies might be exacerbated by even more time spent alone or around people who are trying to ignore me.

I just did not think hard or long enough about this decision.

The part-owner who's been trying to train me was not amused when I shared the news. I don't blame him. I'm sure this happens a lot, and I caught him at a bad time, and while I was trying to end the situation before it became even more complicated and clients started to know me well, there really is no good time to bow out and leave people in the lurch.

So, he can be cranky with me and I will bow my head and bite my tongue because, frankly, he probably has the right.

What am I supposed to be doing? I just don't know. I do feel pretty certain, though, that cleaning is not what I'm supposed to be doing. The deciding factor was Gramma Sally's apartment.

One of the places I tidied last week was absolutely charming. When I stepped in the door, it felt as if I'd stepped into an embrace. Walls were filled with artwork, beautiful stuff, warm colors and nature everywhere. Rich-colored pottery sat on shelves, cozy and comfortable furniture beckoned, simply pretty curtains adorned every window, and beyond the sliding doors was the most inviting little porch I've seen outside of a magazine. Photos filled every flat surface, and a knitting basket adorned a chest at the bottom of her bed. (I knew it was a woman's home as soon as I entered. It just reeked of woman.) It was not a fancy place, it was not luxurious in any way—it was wonderful and homey to the extreme.

As I went about my work, I did some light dusting in the office. Sally (not her real name) had left some letters and envelopes out; I glanced at one of the papers, then was curious enough to examine some of the paintings on the walls. Sure enough, the name was a match; Gramma Sally was the artist of nearly all the framed pieces.

And I stood for a moment and pondered: here is this woman, talented and crafty, and she has made all these beautiful things and surrounded herself with them. Why am I here, cleaning her home, admiring her craftiness, instead of trying to create my own? Is this really what I am to do? Is this really the area in which I excel?

The answer was a resounding no. Couple that with the mantra that had been swimming 'round my head all morning ("Clean your own damned house") and you can probably see why I was having a hard time with this career move. Everything about it felt wrong. It's not using my strengths; it's keeping me from performing tasks that I do relatively well. Ultimately, I may not be engaged in even remotely artistic or creative work; still, I had to admit as I stood there that I possess many other strengths that lay cast aside while I struggled to do this job instead.

So, there it is. I'm unemployed again, but hopefully a tad wiser. I really need to stop worrying and rushing. I'm not supposed to worry; doing so implies that I don't think God has it under control. Rushing isn't very smart, either, because it gets you into positions that compromise your integrity and makes you do things that you know are not cool. For example, quitting a job after a couple of weeks. That's not cool. It's been a learning experience, and I'm a better cleaner because of it (in theory, at least) but I've thrown a wrench into the works for those hard-working people who own that business. That was not my intention. When I rush in like a fool (hence the phrase), there will be consequences.

I really hope I get some direction from God soon. I feel rather adrift. Sailing is okay, but it's more comfortable for me when I can glimpse the next island on the horizon. Right now? No islands in sight. Floating. Floating. I know He will hold me up, but I'm still going to scan for that island.

On switching gears yet again

So, I was a little bit stir crazy that first week of school. I'd been watching our savings account slowly dwindle over the summer. And I had been looking at jobs online for weeks; I'd been noticing a disturbing trend among the so-called "writing" jobs.

Writing does not require any real training or skill these days—did you know? Any opinionated fool with an internet connection can share his or her lunacy, however poorly worded or ineffectively expressed, for the entire world to consume like soda pop and salty chips.

I knew it was coming to this, I did. I foresaw it with texting, and responses on YouTube, and comments on every online article (even the news), and even in the rapidly growing number of blogs. I could easily predict that the value of the word would plummet as words became more and more common and available. And indeed, that has happened.

The turning point was a writing job advertised on craigslist, which specified that no writing experience was necessary. I followed that one by clicking on a cleaning job that paid better anyway. You can probably guess what happened: I called about the cleaning job. And got it.

I don't know how long I'll last. I've only been at it for a week, and part-time at that. I've been in some unbelievably swank, sumptuous homes—the kind of homes I did not believe existed except among celebs and sports heroes. In fact, I've been in a celebrity home of sorts, a name you'd recognize (no, not a sports hero, so get your skivvies untangled). It's been eye-opening to say the least. If this is the world of home-cleaning during a recession, then HOLY COW, people, I don't think I'd be able to take it when the economy's good. I might end up at Gatsby's house, and then who knows what could happen...

I've learned that I'm actually not such a good cleaner. All this time, I've been known as a neatnik. Some people (including me) actually thought I had OCD tendencies; not so. Actually, I am only bothered by clutter. For all these years, I've been absentmindedly avoiding the real scum in my home. Well, I can't do that any more—my blissful, if smudgy, ignorance has been wiped unforgivingly clear. Happily, I've also begun to learn some of the tricks of the trade.

I've suddenly become mindful of how a single hair left on porcelain can undo an hour's worth of scrubbing in the eyes of a client.

I've learned that even rich people's kids make messes with toothpaste, and sometimes miss the toilet.

I've learned, too, that I never want to own stainless steel appliances.

I've learned how one industry is taking advantage of the two income, work-or-run-constantly lifestyle, and making it profitable. More power to them; these people earn every penny. I never dreamed this was such grueling work. I thought I was in pretty good physical shape, and knew how to get a house in order. Wrong. I will never again take for granted a shiny hotel shower, a perfectly vacuumed carpet or spotless tiles. Those cleaning people, carrying a giant bucket of supplies, toting a mop or broom? Never again will those people go unnoticed by me. They are slaving, doing an honest day's work. They deserve my recognition.

I've learned there are far worse jobs than this one. While I'm scrubbing, or dusting, or whatever, my mind is focused on the job at hand. When I'm done, I'm weary, sometimes sore...but not in a bad way. I don't have to feel guilt about what I've done. I haven't talked an older person into an unnecessary home improvement. I haven't sold a gadget that doesn't work. I haven't contributed to someone's poor health by creating an unhealthy food item, or selling cigarettes or trans-fatty donuts. I haven't even been forced to make yet another round of pointless, expensive changes to a client's advertisement, newsletter, or catalog.

Still. This is hard. And humbling. And I don't know how long I'll last. It's money, it gets me out of the house, and it's probably good for me. Is it ultimately what I'm supposed to be doing? I don't know. Is it using my best God-given talents? Doubtful. And might I be fired because I stink at it? Perhaps. I've left every job by my choice, in my time, except for one: the first I'd ever had, where I was let go...by the local supermarket. It seems I do not excel at the menial stuff. Hmmmm. Go figure.

I'll keep you posted. Until then, say hello to the next cleaning person you see. And if it's me? Try not to snicker.

Trust leads to spontaneity, release—and travel

So, here we sit, over a year since my husband was initially laid off from his full-time position as a tech graphics guy.

It's been a crazy ride. The past 15 months have sent us into a tailspin more than once. Yet through it all, we've been okay.

I finished my job this week. Finished it. Yup, resigned. Much as I liked many aspects of it, the sheer number of hours and the odd dayparts those hours consumed were taking a toll on my family. So, I am stepping away, thus freeing my husband to fully take the reins whilst I consume bon-bons on the couch. (And try to stretch each dollar so I can continue to pay bills as I enjoy those bon-bons. I might just end up eating some less-than-gourmet bon-bons; donations will be accepted should this unfortunate event occur.)

How are we reacting to this precarious situation, you ask? Why, with a last-minute, spur-of-the-moment family vacation!

Yup, we will return this week to that lovely NJ beach town that treated us so well last year, when we kept the pre-layoff reservation so as not to panic our little cherub. What's the point? we thought back then. Who knows when the next trip might be? we thought. Keep the plans, don't pay the cancellation fees, and then move on into official poverty.

But we're still here, still afloat. In fact, I just checked our records and, oddly enough, we have more money in savings now than we did 15 months ago. More, even, than after we'd plunked the generous severance package into our account. Huh? How did that happen?

Well, dear reader, I am happy to report to you that God is faithful and He takes cares of His people just like He says He will. We've been making our way day by day for this past year, and it hasn't always been pretty...but it has forced us, over and over, to trust God and pray and move forward without knowing exactly what will happen. Each time we have stepped on what appeared to be less-than-sturdy soil, it has held us and propelled us to the next safe spot.

I'm not such a freak about money anymore. I can't be. There hasn't been time for me to obsess over such things. I have a general idea of where we stand, which I am thankful to report is quite enough information. The finances, just like the house, needn't be trifled with every 15 minutes. Life goes on when I don't know the exact amount of today's expenses, just as life goes on when I don't pick up every stray Lego or Matchbox car.

If I have learned nothing else in the last year, I have learned this: I was never in control of diddly squat in the first place.

The sooner you learn this, and admit it, the better off you'll be emotionally.

Do we still have financial plans and retirement accounts? Yes (although they are diminished thanks to the stupid economy). Do I still obsess over dollars? Yes, sometimes. But now I see, repeatedly, how the less I cling to money, the more it comes back to me. The less I try to squirrel it away, the more I can spread it around among people I know to be truly needy. I'll be okay. I know from where my help comes, and it doesn't come from the bank, although that may be the channel. It comes from my Provider. And all my needs are met.

What will happen tomorrow? I have no idea. Something will likely break down; it always does. Taxes will go up. More jobs will disappear. Is it easier for me to say all this about trust and getting by because I have only one child? Because we all enjoy generally good health? Because we live on the cheap to begin with? Yes, I'm sure all those factors play a part.

But I stand firm: even in uncertainty, especially in uncertainty, all my needs are met, and then some. I may not know what's going to happen, but honestly? I never did. I do believe that we'll be okay. That I can lean on my Savior, take up His yoke, and get through whatever I'm facing. I believe that even as I shoulder that yoke, I can be the "channel" of help for some other person. I urge you to try it for yourself.

My help comes from the LORD, the Maker of heaven and earth.
Psalm 121:2

Value, and values, clarified

In a time of limited supply, of uncertain future, one must consider the true, lasting values of things.

We’re pinching pennies here. And that’s forcing us to consider some things from a new point of view. We’re prioritizing like never before. We’ve done that in the past, certainly, but probably not to this degree—at least not since college or those first poor years after graduating. And not since we had a child and dropped to a single income.

Is a new cell phone necessary? No. Come to think of it, is a cell phone necessary? Nope. We already ditched cable several years ago. It’s like sugar; I miss it less and less as time goes by. Once you’re distanced from the unnecessary item, you can begin to recognize it for what it is: a sweet but shallow substitute for something really satisfying…like carbs. Sigh. (I’ll never stop missing those…)

We’re even re-thinking home projects. Which ones will provide the most bang for our buck? The continued yard re-design? Or painting the front trim on the house? Or the ugliest of all: the remodeling of and wood stove addition to the basement? We’re leaning toward the basement work, which is of course the most expensive project. But we know a long, lonely winter is coming, and we’d rather be ready for that than gazing out upon a lovely, refinished, snow-covered yard. Warmth will likely matter more than beauty. In the end it always does, just like brute strength is always the inevitable decider.

The people of this country are being forced to consider true values of things; that much has been evident in the last few weeks. Yes, my doctor is hard to reach, and sometimes I think he gives me too much medicine… But boy, I like being able to pick which doc I see. I like knowing that I have options when it comes to all that expensive medicine. And maybe, just maybe, there’s a reason people leave Canada to have surgery elsewhere. Yes, sometimes folks leave the States to have surgery elsewhere, but I believe the bulk of those cases involves elective, mostly cosmetic surgery, and I just can’t put that in the same category as surgery surgery.

As humans, it’s our nature to weigh the value of something only when we’re in danger of losing it… or have already lost it. I’ve been down that path with jobs and money recently. I’ve traveled that road with relationships of all kinds, with personal freedoms that are threatened, with both potential and realized losses of everything from friends to “me” time. In jeopardy, we are often forced to wax deeply and philosophically about how important something really is. Thankfully, desperate times give us clearer lenses. Perhaps that’s why it’s taken so long for the American people to wake the #*&! up and rebel a little bit. Times haven’t been desperate enough to stir us to serious thought and action.

It feels like we’re there now, doesn’t it? Uncertainties and untruths abound. Jobs disappear. Control is sought and wrestled for. It’s feeling sort of desperate to me. And as a result, honest and genuine worth is becoming easier to spot.

We sat out on the porch yesterday, watching a storm. Rain misted over us, the boy pointed at lightning, we all jumped when thunder shook, my husband pulled a blanket up over his son’s legs to keep them dry. It was a valuable and worthwhile moment, not to be missed but to be held dear. If we’d been rolling in the money, comfortably ensconced in a job and busy-ness, we probably wouldn’t have been there, perhaps wouldn’t have even been home. We might have missed it, groveling for that extra dime.

I’m not sure what I’m trying to say; I guess I’m just urging us all to savor this moment of clarity and seek truth and wisdom instead of pursuing further distraction. Myself included. Because clarity can be frightening, and may even require some painful prioritization and uncomfortably expressed passion for that which we hold dear. I’m not getting a new cell phone, and I’m not being unpatriotic when I speak up against something that I think is a bad idea. I’m putting my money where I think it belongs, not where the culture tells me. I’m putting my foot down when I see cockroaches under it. I’m standing by what’s really meaningful, what lasts.

We’ll ride this out, all of us, by clinging to the important stuff. Hold tightly to it.

Bright hope for tomorrow

Well, hello! We're still here. Still unemployed, no miracles yet, but perhaps around the next corner? Because miracles happen every day, don't they. I need to hold tight to that truth.

It's been a busy week. A family member, neighbor, and friend's daughter were all in the hospital (one is home now, thank goodness--and another expected to return home tomorrow) so that added some distraction, as did the holiday, plus the fact that suddenly my husband is home and we're tripping over each other much of the day. And fighting over the computer. Did I mention we have only one computer? Yup. We have another, which was brand new about 15 years ago; it has remained in its giant black zipper case even though I long for a second machine. I suspect that archaic machine will not fulfill my longing.

Other than that, and the ridiculously cold weather, everything is fine. Really. I love Christmas in July. I adore wearing sweatshirts on Independence Day. Isn't that normal? I'll bet our ancestors wore heavy overcoats and shawls as they shivered their way to the first American celebrations, right? Sure they did.

Honestly, we're pretty good, all things considered. In spite of it all, we are richly blessed. I hate the waiting, the not-knowing, but I suppose my very hatred of it should tell me that's an area where I need work. And I've actually gotten back on the horse and sent some resumes into the abyss of a dismal workforce. Again, miracles happen every day. They do.

So, that's why I haven't been around. Just a few short weeks ago, I was mentally composing a blog entry that would explain how I needed to take a break so I could dig in and actually write the great American novel I've been toting in my head for a couple of decades now... and suddenly, I'm barely able to filch a minute or two between the massive two-person job search to even drop a "hello, I'm still alive" post. Sad, isn't it?

Yet, we have enough for today. That's all we need. I saw on the side of a church van these words: "Jesus--strength for today and bright hope for tomorrow." A line from one of my favorite all-time hymns, "Great Is Thy Faithfulness." I've been singing that one frequently of late. And happily, He has been faithful, just as the song says.

You can sing it with me, if you'd like. It's practically guaranteed to give you a warm feeling in your heart. At least it does me.

Great is Thy faithfulness, O God my Father;
There is no shadow of turning with Thee;
Thou changest not, Thy compassions, they fail not;
As Thou hast been, Thou forever will be.

Refrain
Great is Thy faithfulness!
Great is Thy faithfulness!
Morning by morning new mercies I see.
All I have needed Thy hand hath provided;
Great is Thy faithfulness, Lord, unto me!

Summer and winter and springtime and harvest,
Sun, moon and stars in their courses above
Join with all nature in manifold witness
To Thy great faithfulness, mercy and love.

Refrain

Pardon for sin and a peace that endureth
Thine own dear presence to cheer and to guide;
Strength for today and bright hope for tomorrow,
Blessings all mine, with ten thousand beside!

Refrain

Uneasy thoughts

So, did you catch any of the opening ceremonies at the Olympics? Yes, it was grand, and impressive, and amazing. And holy cow, did it give me the creeps.

Has anyone else read the children’s novel A Wrinkle in Time? And if so, do you remember the part about the planet where all the kids bounced the ball in perfect unison, except for the one boy who couldn’t keep the rhythm and was hidden inside his house? Does that seem a tad familiar? Honestly, how many people running around in light-up green suits are really necessary to impress? How many Tai Chi masters do we need to see performing in unison? How many beautiful, swaying, charming women in identical skirts? How many cute children singing together? Can you imagine the rehearsals for such a show? The mere thought of that choreography's preparations makes my head spin.

And speaking of cute children, the story about the pretty little girl who lip-synced a song in place of a less beautiful child is heating up the online world (http://www.foxnews.com/story/0,2933,402093,00.html), as it should. I’m irritated that such a thing would happen, outraged for the sake of the girls involved in the cover-up. (I’m also a tad uneasy because I’m not certain the same thing wouldn’t happen if the games were hosted here…)

Some weird “sports” are surfacing, too: we tuned in a couple of nights ago hoping to see some diving (Marcus is fascinated by diving in general, even at the local public pool), and boy did we get diving—synchronized diving. Huh?! What the—? Is this real? Apparently, yes. Two divers perform the same dive in perfect unison. I wouldn’t have believed it if someone told me. As if the amazing and difficult dives are no longer impressive enough, now they must be completed simultaneously with another diver. It was absolutely absurd. And need I say that the Chinese divers were impeccable? I joked to Todd that they had to be the best or they’d be quietly murdered in the showers and replaced with more master divers—and a part of me wondered, honestly, what some of those athletes have been put through to achieve these physical milestones. I know they're often culled from small childhood to be intensively trained. Makes you wonder.

When a leadership is so bent on perfection, just what is it capable of doing to achieve it? They can whitewash Tiananmen Square as many times as they like, they can cover up the protests going on outside the stadium, they can try to bury the inhumanities that occur to their own citizens, but this is a country with some serious competitive and control issues—and enough physical bodies to do some serious damage, to their own people (since everyone is replaceable) and to others beyond their borders (because there are so darned many of them inside those borders).

The good thing about all this nonsense is that it takes the focus off of stories about how the makeup of our country is changing dramatically, and much faster than expected (http://www.foxnews.com/story/0,2933,403441,00.htmlhttp://www.foxnews.com/story/0,2933,403441,00.html). That kind of worries me, not because the face of America is changing (as the majority, I’ve been kind of spoiled, I suspect), but because most stories attribute the changing face to immigration and births among immigrants…and most of those immigrants are willing to work for a lot less money than the typical American. That’s not good news for our job market.

Unless, of course, you’re really pretty; then maybe you can get paid to look like you’re working—while some less attractive mug shoulders the actual responsibility and breaks a sweat.