AN AGED MIND OVER MATTER

“Age is a question of mind over matter. If you don't mind, it doesn't matter.” ~Leroy "Satchel" Paige

And I never used to mind. When I turned 40 I received a birthday card referring to somebody by the name of “old bag.” Didn’t bother me a bit. At 50 someone commented that I didn’t look it. Made my day. At 60 I subscribed to Satchel Page’s theory that age didn’t matter if I didn’t mind. I didn’t. Uh-huh.

But on May 16 the child I prayed for, the fruit of my youth, my first-born baby... turns forty years old. What?  Angie, 40? I have already been a mom for 14,600 days, plus a couple extra days thrown in for Leap Year? Now, that, my friends makes me feel my age just a wee little bit. Nixon’s resignation, People magazine, the Happy Days and Little House on the Prairie TV shows, Hank Aaron’s record breaking homerun – I get that those things are now 40 years old, but my little girl?

Why, if I close my eyes I can see the 21 year old me lying on the ob/gyn able at the US Army Hospital in West Berlin, Germany, listening with joy as Dr. Ali Arban pronounces in his thick Turkish accent, “You arrrre o-fic-ially prrregnant.” I remember the first time the 22 year old me saw my beauty’s newborn face on May 16, 1974. I watch again in my mind as my mom, fresh off a trans-Atlantic flight to get to her granddaughter, rushes straight past me to grab that little 3 month old and hug her to her chest with all her might. Seems, as the “old folks” say, just yesterday. I can’t believe it.

That may well be, but it’s a fact that I am now two years into my 7^th decade of life. My creaky knees believe it and my popping hips agree; I can’t do the “sit down on the floor without using your arms, cross your legs and get back up again the same way” test or “you’re likely to die in 5 years” thing. If this test is true I should have been long expired already since this ability hasn’t been even a prayer of mine since...since...when exactly? I fight the never-ending battle of turning grey hairs back to the blond ones that never really were. Label directions on a bottle of headache remedy are an indecipherable blur without a magnifying glass or pair of reading glasses; and speaking of those specs, I buy them in bulk nowadays. Get the picture? I was going to add that it was not a pretty picture, but as I sit and think about it, I think I have changed my mind. (No, not lost it. I said, changed it!)

Ralph Waldo Emerson once wrote that “the years teach much which the days never knew.” I wouldn’t, if I could, go back to myself at 22. All my years have taught me many valuable lessons, and are still working at teaching me. But, if I could, I would tell that girl to slow down, worry less, enjoy more and savor the day. I would remind her to read and ponder Isaiah 46:4: “Even to your old age and gray hairs I am he, I am he who will sustain you. I have made you and I will carry you; I will sustain you and I will rescue you.” Oh, my, I’m grateful for the truth of that!

There’s a huge difference between feeling old, thinking old, and being old. Victor Hugo said that “40 is the old age of youth and 50 is the youth of old age.” Caryn Leschen quipped that “35 is when you finally get your head together and your body starts falling apart.” Whatever old age is, I am determined that this grateful granny will be a Psalm 92 fresh, green, old age fruit bearer. (Go find your reading glasses and look it up!)

KISS ME…I’M IRISH (or at least a little bit, anyway)

So that’s why no one ever pinched me, at least not on St. Patrick’s Day. I just found out that if a person isn’t wearing green on March 17, you are allowed to pinch him or her! I’ve long been participating in the “wearin’ o’ the green,” so none of my bruises have ever been from any smart-aleck big bruisers, I guess.

I am, after all, one quarter Irish. My father’s father was supposedly 100% Irish, married to a 100% Norwegian girl. He apparently called his children “half-breeds.” I don’t know if that was a joke about the Irish or a slur against the Norwegians, but my aunt claimed it was so. On St. Patrick’s Day, I like to claim a little affinity with the other 34 million Americans who claim a little Irish ancestry.

St. Patrick’s Day was almost my birthday, too. If Mom just would have pushed a little harder, a little quicker, I’d have been more of an Irish lass; I missed it by about 90 minutes. But, anyway, March 17 is the traditional day of St. Patrick’s death, not his birth, so I guess that’s OK.

However, other than my love of potatoes (which I adore baked, fried, frenched, hashed, scalloped, au gratined and any other which-a-way) I probably haven't made much of an Irish woman, at least in the traditional sense. Just as I made for a poor Hawaiian the year we spent on Molokai (I don’t like seafood in any form, except for Goldfish crackers and I don’t think they count; coconut has an off-putting taste and a weird texture and rice makes me get a bit gaggy), there’s no green beer for me (other colors, if there are any, needn’t be drawn, either); in fact I’ve never had a stinky sip in my life. Corned beef and cabbage? Nah, you take it – and far away, please. Soda bread? Thank you, no.

In my family we have always tried to just make the day fun (goodness knows we all need to frolic about a bit in March after the winter woes we have had during the last few months!). Tonight, along with our chicken and green mashed potatoes (see--there’s a bit-o-the-Irish!) we’ll feast on homemade green yeast rolls, lime Jell-O (just because I was asked to make it for a green Jell-O lover; yes, there are some!) broccoli, just because…because…why are we having it again? O, yeah, it’s green and they say it’s good for you. (I eat it but tend to sympathize with Seinfeld’s Newman who snarled it into the “vile weed” category) And there will also be that Irish specialty, key lime pie. Not in its natural state, though. ‘Cause I tinted it, you know, green.

The person we associate the most with Ireland wasn’t even. Irish, I mean. St. Patrick was from England, or Scotland, or Wales…the scholars that be cannot agree. But it wasn’t Ireland. Some Irish raiders captured him and carried him away as a slave to serve in the Emerald Isle. Years later he escaped, went home, studied a lot, and returned to Ireland to preach the Gospel to a people who needed to know about God. I like that. And I like that the special color most associated with him was blue, not green, since I’m a blue-color person. In several artworks he’s depicted wearing blue vestments and blue is commonly used on flags and shields and banners that represent Ireland.

So, even though I don’t pass any of the “You Know You’re Irish If…” tests that are floating about on the Internet today (I don’t drink “tae” or tea or anything else similarly spelled, didn’t call my mother “mammy,” don’t have a gift for swearing (if that’s a gift it should be returned), or a fondness for strong drink, I do appreciate my one-quarter-Irishness (and since I meant this to be just one page, I also can appreciate that I seem to have the Irish inability to make short a long story!). 

Sure and however it tis you celebrate on this fine day, remember this blessing from the Irish:

“May the road rise up to meet you.
May the wind always be at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face,
and rains fall soft upon your fields.
And until we meet again,
May God hold you in the palm of His hand.”

From the end of 1986 through the fall of 1997 I was the church secretary at East Troy Bible Church in East Troy, Wisconsin. I put out a simple church newsletter using an electric typewriter and a copy machine. After our move from Mukwonago, WI to the Milwaukee, WI area I scanned all my early typed articles and saved them on an external hard drive, along with articles from my stint doing the newsletter at Spring Creek Church in Pewaukee, WI. Sadly for me, that hard drive suffered an early, (tragic!) death last year. Fortunately, I have hard copies of a good deal of my work and have been spending time transcribing them back into an electronic form. Thus, I found this account of God's grace to me that is as true and real today in 2014 as it was back in 1991. (The directional disability isn't any different, either!)

ISAIAH 41:10 AT WORK

Humanly speaking, there was good reason to fear. I had agreed to be one of the drivers for the recent ladies’ getaway to Indiana Amish country. To get there, you have to navigate through the clogged maze that is Chicago – and I have absolutely no sense of direction. I can get to the Grand Avenue Mall in Milwaukee but can’t get home without written instructions (unless I have someone else in the car whose brain has fully functioning directional circuits). I go into a store in the mall and when I come out I can’t remember if I’ve come from the right or from the left. When we moved to this area I was able to find my way quite nicely to either Brookfield Square or Southridge shopping center – but needed to go all the way home first if I wanted to go from one to the other.

The cause of this defect may be a faulty gene in my hereditary makeup. While riding in our car, my grandmother would often swear (meaning “stated emphatically,” – no actual swear words uttered...ever!) we were headed east while being blinded by the setting sun.

I also never drive in anything that could remotely be considered traffic. Mukwonago “traffic” is an oxymoron, and when it’s busy in Milwaukee I don’t go there. But, as Psalm 23:4 says, “I will fear no evil for Thou art with me.” As evil as I knew the Windy City’s snarled roads to be, God would have to be with me if I were to attempt anything as “foolhardy” (for me!) as this.

The Lord must have a delicious sense of humor, for He answered my plea for help getting through possible and highly probable Chicago traffic by putting me square in the middle of the very thing I feared: traffic, and loads of it! We left East Troy early on Friday to avoid the rush, but the rush outsmarted us. A trip that was scheduled to take four hours turned into eight (yes, we stopped twice, but still…).

Refusing to allow that to happen again, on Sunday our carload decided to depart for home earlier than the other two cars. There would be no familiar vehicle ahead of me to follow, but with three navigators, a road atlas and the Lord as our guide I figured we just might make it back to East Troy before the next week (though our goal was for that evening’s 6:30 service).

In my wildest imaginings I could not have conjured up the auto convention that occurred on the Interstate. Bumper to bumper and then a smash into my bumper (nothing serious but it definitely got our attention!). We decided to exit that monumental jam-up and turned off onto another highway. Through the city the speed limit was just 35mph, but at least the tires were rotating. However, after hitting potholes the size of our other car and wandering around in questionable neighborhoods, we decided that four small-town women belonged back on the I-system, no matter the congestion.

Well, there I was, white-knuckled once again, when one of my favorite Scriptures flashed through my vexed and befuddled mind: “Fear thou not, for I am with thee; be not dismayed, for I am thy God: I will strengthen thee, yea I will help thee…” (Isaiah 41:10). He did do, as He always does, what He promised. “And it shall come to pass in the day that the Lord shall give thee rest…from thy fear” (Isaiah 14:3). Though still in the midst of more cars in one place than Henry Ford ever fantasized about, my fear was at rest. I relaxed. We returned. And we rejoiced!

BEING THERE

Be there. For members of Beloit Memorial High School’s marching band back in the day, those two small words loomed mighty large. They were painted in 3-foot high letters on the back of the rehearsal room and they were indelibly imprinted in the depths of our brains. This was Don Cuthbert’s band, and you were going to act like it.

Be there meant you were on your mark and you were on time. You wore your black shoes when you marched and you kept your hair up off your collar. Your lines were straight and you knew your part (or you’d wish you did!). If you wanted to be a part of Mr. Cuthbert’s band you did what you were supposed to do when you were supposed to do it. If not, you’d better have a good reason (and there were, as was well known, no such things as “good” excuses!).

We might have balked at some of the rules and demands, but we all knew that we wouldn’t get desired results if we didn’t all fulfill our commitment to our director and to the band as a whole. The “C” in Mr. “C” might as well have stood for commitment as well as Cuthbert, for he taught that as much as he did music.

As a former footballer himself, I’m pretty certain Mr. C. agreed with another “be there” sort of guy, the Green Bay Packer legend Vince Lombardi. Lombardi opined that “Individual commitment to a group effort - that is what makes a team work, a company work, a society work, a civilization work.”

My parents would have been in good company with the bandmaster and the football man, for they were interested in preparing their children to work well in the family, on a team and in society. If you started a project, well then – you’d best finish it! If you promised to do something, then it should be done – and in the time allotted as well. No finking out, no fooling or fudging. Mom and Dad wanted their kids to be people of honor and integrity, people on whom others could count.

The Bible teaches commitment, for sure – first and foremost to God Himself, the original author of being there. “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind” (Matthew 22:37-38). God was and is there for us and one way we demonstrate this kind of love for Him is by being there for those He created.

Considering the state commitment seems to be in today, what with divorces, defaults and the general decline of doing what was promised, perhaps we would do well to perform a regular check on the state of our “being there:”

●Keep a running inventory of the status of our promises. Norman Vincent Peale once quipped that “promises are like crying babies in a theater, they should be carried out at once.” 

●Pray before we promise. Think about it first. Can we/will we follow through? Since we know we don’t like to be disappointed, we can safely assume others feel the same if we disappoint.  Abraham Lincoln had some pretty good advice on this matter: “We must not promise what we ought not, lest we be called on to perform what we cannot.”

●How often are we there at church? How about our Bible reading, time spent communing with the One we should love with all heart and soul and mind? Graham County United Methodist Parish in Hill City, KS once asked its flock, “Just suppose people were as enthusiastic about church events as they are about sporting events. Would there not be a marked difference in the life of the church? Just suppose that every member of the church attended as often as you. Would (it) need more seating or would the building be closed and put up for sale?” We cannot function properly alone. The Lone Ranger is a fictional character. We need the One Who made us, we need His Word and we need His people.

●And when we're ‘there,” no matter where there is and with whom it is, are we there? Do we listen? Are we attentive, in tune, fully present?

Ach! So much to this “being there” business! I guess there was a reason those letters in the band room were so big!

“Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid or terrified because of them, for the LORD your God goes with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you.” Deuteronomy 31:5, 6

A RIOT OF MANNERS

It was a small, handwritten plea, written on a piece of cardboard and taped on  the Walgreen’s checkout counter. “Please do not throw money at the cashier. Kindly hand your money to the cashier. Thank you.” What? What was this all about? I read the request a couple times and then just had to ask about it when I got to the front of the line. “I just wrote it out this morning,” the young clerk explained.  “Were the customers angry?” I asked, as if being upset would justify such behavior. “No,” she replied. “They were just talking to other people and just kind of threw the money at me. I thought it was rather rude and decided to make the sign.”

Well, I guess! We shook our heads together; I told her I was sorry those folks had treated her like that and we commiserated with one another as to the sorry state of manners these days.

And I’ve been ruminating on this ever since. Is it too much to expect a customer to hand their money to the employee? Or at the very least, put it down on the counter? In my mind, the act of throwing cash at a cashier is saying the other person doesn’t matter, that he or she is a mere thing, not a fellow living, breathing human being. It comes down to respect, or the lack of it.

Laurence Sterne said that “respect for ourselves guides our morals; respect for others guides our manners.” Robert A. Heinlein expounded further: “A dying culture invariably exhibits personal rudeness. Bad manners. Lack of consideration for others in minor matters. A loss of politeness, of gentle manners, is more significant than is a riot...”

I suppose, in the whole scheme of things, the Walgreen’s money-throwing incidents were “minor matters.” They certainly signified “bad manners.” And they surely signaled a “lack of consideration” for the young lady behind the counter. But a “dying culture?”

Marilyn Cabral of Rhode Island told the Today Show that “no one has time to be civil anymore. People are so stressed out and always in such a hurry that politeness is losing its place in our lives.” That would be a shame. When I was young, we were frequently reminded to be kind to others. We were reminded to be polite. “Now what are the magic words?” “Please” and “thank you” were the correct answers, respectful niceties used to navigate in that polite society. Such verbiage used to be required during business transactions, though it seems to have unfortunately often gone by the wayside in favor of non-sensical rejoinders such as “no problem” or “you got it.”

While the Bible might not call it “politeness” or “having manners,” it certainly has plenty to say on how we should be treating one another. “..but in humility count others more significant than yourselves. Let each of you look not only to his own interests, but also to the interests of others.” (Philippians 2:4); “Let brotherly love continue.” (Hebrews 13:1); and perhaps the “granddaddy” of them all, “...As you wish that others would do to you, do so to them.” Luke 6:31.

As my mother often told me, I can’t help what other people do but I can help what I do. I don’t want polite culture to die, and that starts with me. So, I’m asking the Lord to remind me when I’m acting like I’m more significant than others, to help me treat others with “sisterly” love and to never, ever throw money at anyone standing beside a cash register. I’d like to be part of a riot – a riot of good manners, that is!

VALENTINE'S DAY

Valentine's Day. Some love it, some hate it, and for others - they can take it or leave it. I take it, but as with most things, just my way.

Me, I am not a hearts and flowers type of girl. Roses, tulips, lilies - all are pretty, but they don't float my boat. I'd rather look at them waving their pretty blooms at me from outside on a glorious sunny day rather than overpriced and wilting in a container.

Chocolates in a lace-trimmed heart box? Ehh, not that either. I would just eat them, I don't really need to eat them and there's not a doubt that I'd finish off all the good ones: the milk chocolates with the creamy white stuff inside, or the peanuts or the caramel or the butter brickle. Those, yes, those I'd scarf. No dark chocolate, though - nyet, nein,non and no. Oh, and absolutely NO coconut of any kind. Shudder.

OK, then. How about a fancy dinner out at some high end, trendy spot? On Valentine's Day? So many folks, so much money, and so often not such good food. Besides, you know what? I'm not a fan of what is known in our family-speak as "shi-shi, la-la" menu items that have to be explained, are all sauced-up, pretentious and cause my very simple palate to cringe. Nope, not eating that green stringy stuff or any of those creatures who were formerly good swimmers. All my entrees used to moo, oink or cluck and not a one of them needs to ever cost more than $10-$15. Besides, as good intentioned as the restaurant waitstaff may be, I don't relish being asked 4-5 times during my meal if everything is OK. I will let you know if it isn't.

That leaves jewelry. Ah, yes. If jewelry is "hearts and flowers," then I take it back. I guess I AM a hearts and flowers type of girl. I like the costume stuff and I like the good stuff. I like the sparkly stuff, the silver stuff and the gold stuff, the red ones, the blue ones and especially the ones that are known as a girl's best friend. The only kind I don't care for are those baubles grown in the sea (remember that issue I have with eating aquatic things? don't like pearly things, either). My husband knows this and has gifted me over the years with a beautiful bauble collection. As I write, I'm wearing the diamond heart pendant he proudly proffered one long ago Valentine's Day; I showed it off to the Kindergarteners I read to today - the little girls were suitably impressed! I treasure every piece he's ever given and look forward to passing all of it on to my kids some day.

But when I stop to ponder - and pondering is good for the soul, I believe - I realize that some of the best Valentine-y things I've been given aren't really things at all.

Happy Faces: I loved how much fun we used to have each February 14 when our girls were little, drinking our pink-tinged milk or jazzed up red Kool-Aid at Valentine's Day supper, eating our rosey-colored yeast rolls with our heart-shaped meatloaf (it's even fun to hear them gag today as they reminisce about those long ago ketchup-slathered things!);

Glue-y Art Projects: Those first "I Love You, Mom's" crayon-scrawled on pink construction paper, lop-sided hearts attached with way too much sticky stuff. I still have some. I wouldn't sell them, but I'll tell you, if you asked to buy them they'd cost more money than you've got.

Acts of Love: I didn't get a hearts and flowers marriage proposal (hmmm, did I even get an official proposal??) but I sure got a marriage. A long one - 42 years at last count. I got faithful. I got hard working. I got honorable. I got generous. I got God-honoring. I got 3 beautiful daughters. I got a great son-in-law and 3 adorable grandchildren. I got a man who, because he didn't want me to have to spend 12 days out here in Montana without a car at my disposal, left Wisconsin at 4:00am and drove a straight shot 20 hours west, leaving the car he best likes to drive here for me; he then flew back two days later and has to tool around (or slide around, actually, since we are up to our eyeballs in winter this year) in the little car. Now, THAT'S a Valentine!

Some say Valentine's Day is a made up holiday. It's too much pressure. It's fake. It's too hard on those without "significant others." But I say Valentine's Day is a reminder. It's a nudge. It's an opportunity. It's a chance to tell those who share your life, whether at home or school or church or work or those who just cross your path during the day - that they matter. That they really matter. And more than tell, to show. With simple words, simple things, in simple ways or even in grandiose gestures, if that gets your (and their!) motor running.

Tonight part of my family will be with me and part not. Two of the smallest parts requested spaghetti and tomato soup for supper. Simple and kind of Valentine-y red, don't you think?  The two little guys who requested that menu matter to me, and I'm going to show them that they do. Happy Valentine's Day!

1 John 4:9-11 In this the love of God was made manifest among us, that God sent his only Son into the world, so that we might live through him. In this is love, not that we have loved God but that he loved us and sent his Son to be the propitiation for our sins. Beloved, if God so loved us, we also ought to love one another.

Presidents' Day

Happy Presidents’ Day on February 17! If you are a federal government employee, this day is for you!

Celebrated each 3rd Monday in February, Presidents’ Day was originally established in 1885 to recognize the nation’s very first president, George Washington (your calendar might even still say it’s Presidents’ Day and Washington’s birthday). Washington was really born on February 22, but the holiday was moved to its present day in 1971 as part of the Uniform Monday Holiday Act, which created more 3-day weekends for the nation’s workers. Several states still have separate holidays honoring Washington and Abraham Lincoln (whose birthday is February 12) but Presidents’ Day now celebrates all presidents, past and present—February birthdays or not (Ronald Reagan also had a February birthday, on the 6th). Hmmm...and there was one more February chief executive. It was...it was...it was...William Henry Harrison. Who?

Yes. William Henry Harrison (2/9). He was the ninth (president), first (president to die in office), oldest (person to be elected president, at 68, before Ronald Reagan, who was 69), shortest (term—served only 32 days) and last (president born as a British subject before American independence). He was a husband, a father (10 children), a government servant, a military general and war hero, county official, Ohio state lawmaker, US congressman, senator and diplomat. He won the presidency in 1840 and was inaugurated on a nasty, frigid March 4, 1841. His inaugural address lasted a long two hours, which he delivered without wearing an overcoat in an effort to prove his vim and vigor, despite all the negativity surrounding his “advanced age.” He caught cold, developed pneumonia and died just a month later on April 4, 1841.  His wife never even saw the White House. Because of his term’s brevity, he is the only president who never appointed a single federal judge at any level; no states were admitted to the Union while he was president. The Huffington Post called him a “lesser presidential light” and it was also said that he was “not the best president, but not the worst.” Let’s just say he was never seriously considered as Mt. Rushmore material. Nonetheless, he will still be one of the February 17 Presidents Day honorees.

Kind of like me, and maybe you. I’ll never be queen, never be a famous missionary in a foreign land. Gaston and Section school parent groups were as far up the presidency ladder as I’ll ever get. But one day I’ll be honored as a new resident of heaven and gifted with my very own mansion. My neighbors will all be saints and I’ll have all the riches I could ever want. I won’t be sick, I won’t be sad and I’ll converse with the Creator of the universe. Isaiah 55 tells me to “Come, everyone who thirsts, come to the waters; and he who has no money, come, buy and eat!” John 1:12 promises, “But to all who did receive him, who believed in his name, he gave the right to become children of God.” Doesn’t matter if I’m the best, or the worst. Just matters that I’m His.