7
May
2007
By Barbara
My coworker rushed through the hallway shouting “Thank you, Jesus! Hallelujah! Thank you, Lord!”
Later that same afternoon we threw a goodbye party for this same staff member who is leaving us at the end of the month to build another career. After she was presented with her gift and cards and cake, she stood to say a few words. She looked around the room and called most of us by name, telling us what made her feel close to us or what we had done to make her feel loved.
In the process she began telling us what she would be doing in her new career - helping women heal from hurts – teaching groups and the like. And, then the words came that stopped me short - and I found I could no longer listen to her. My ears hummed and I felt my face flush.
She stood there and told us this . . .”you all deserve what you want out of life. We are gods. We are goddesses!” . . . and there was much more, but I had grown cold and hot all at once. I was listening to blasphemy being blatantly proclaimed in a place* where we Christians are not supposed to proclaim His name. Just earlier in the day I had heard her take my Lord’s name in vain, for that is all it could be.
How can one believe firmly that he or she is a god - and still proclaim that Jesus is Lord? I just don’t get it.
That night I shared the day with my husband. He heard me out and then said - “but we WILL be gods.”
“What?”
“It says it in the Bible - when Jesus comes back we will be gods with Him,” he continued.
“No, it says we will be like Him - not that we will be gods with/like Him.”
Rather than make it a huge argument - because it is not my place to teach him and because such discussions in the past have only led to pain, I stopped there. (My husband proclaimed belief in Jesus long ago, but does not live for Him.)
I cannot forget either my husband’s or her statements. Those words ring of idolatry. They take me right back to Genesis chapter 3 where the serpent tempted Eve with the words “and ye shall be as God . . .”
While I cannot give a whole answer as to why my coworker’s comments seemed to be blasphemy, I can fully agree that I am NOT a god(dess) nor do I want to be. I am comforted by the knowledge that my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ and His Father God and the Holy Spirit, in a blessed Trinity are the One and Holy God.
*I work for a non-profit agency and we are not to be blatant in our beliefs. For example, we have “holiday” parties, not Christmas parties!
Written By: barbara
Posted under: Women's Voices . 
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6
April
2007
By Barbara
Heard part of a song on my way to work this morning that made laugh out loud - the sentiment, I’m sure, was honest and true, but it just cracked me up. I’ve no clue who was singing - or the name of the song - it was on the Christian radio station about 7:45 Alaska morning time.
The phrase? Talking about the crucifixion - after 3 days . . . you can’t keep a good Man down.
And my laughter? Not so much at the sentiment - because it is true - He arose on the third day - but more because my reaction was so much like my Grandma Abbott would have had - did have whenever my sister and I would rave about the (at that time) new group, the Beatles. She would roll her eyes and bemoan the insensitivities of youth “these days.”
Yes, I admit, my first thought was on the irreverence - or perceived irreverence of the phrase. But you know what?
I’m ever so glad that the devil could NOT keep THE Good Man down!
It is a GOOD Friday, indeed.
first published 04-06-07 at my blog
Written By: barbara
Posted under: Women's Voices . Email This Post
19
March
2007
By Barbara
Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s . . . The last of the Ten Commandments, it s in no way the least of the commandments. So hard to obey – but it so very important.
I am delighted to tell you all that my oldest daughter’s writing has been selected twice recently. The first time was for a Writers Night competition. The second time was for a highly acclaimed college publication.
Interestingly, my offered work was not selected either time. Interestingly, I had to literally force her to enter the first (all entrants to the first were entered into the second – something we didn’t know until today.) In fact, I hand delivered her entry to that competition.
All together now – what a good mama!
Not so fast my friends. As dearly as I love my daughter – and as proud of her as I am – and for as smitten as I am with her writing – there has been just that tiniest, niggling, bone of jealousy. (and me with blue eyes, not green)
Why was her writing better than mine? Why her writing chosen when mine was was not? Why?
Pretty juvenile, isn’t it? Sounds like sibling rivalry. Almost.
What it really is – is sin. It is coveteousness. And it is offensive to my Lord.
I have congratulated her – and I have done it sincerely. I will likely purchase a couple of extra copies of the publication when it is printed.
All that aside, I need to ask my Lord for forgiveness and pray that I can be a bit more like Him the next time she and I enter such a contest – and she is recognized and I am not. You see – that is likely to happen more and more as she grows in her craft. She is an accomplished writer and I am thankful for her gift
Written By: barbara
Posted under: On Being a Parent, Women's Voices . Email This Post
29
December
2006
nothing to do with it . . .
By Barbara
I was a tad frantic this morning - made several phone calls to folks I thought could help - none were able to do so.
You see, I work for a “secure” facility. Our doors are kept locked. We all have keys to enter the premises.
We all do - until this morning. We all do - except for me. You see, I somehow had lost my keys. It’s a pretty recognizable set of keys, too - kept on a purple carabiner (snap tool, I think the Guardsmen call it) with a long tailed rust colored suede leather fob. I use that so I can spot it, or feel it easily, you see.
So, phone calls were made to my pastor asking him to go to the church to look there - to Lessa to ask her to check my house - to Ladybug to ask her to look around where I had parked this morning when I picked up TAT - to the school where I had dropped off TAT - to hubby moose to ask him to check the house when he goes home for lunch . . . I even went out to look in this lot - but knew it was kind of hopeless because the plow had come earlier and if it was in the snow, I would not be able to find it until the next thaw (oh, in about three months or so).
Finally I could stand it no longer . . . I drove to the school myself to check - then went in to tell them what I was doing in case someone called about some strange lady wandering amongst the cars in the lot. No keys.
I drove towards home - stopping at our cluster mailbox - kicked around the snow in front of it where I had stopped last night to check the mail. (thankfully, the city plow hits our street last on the list so the snow was just thick - and cold - and WET!)
Then I drove into our driveway, parking where hubby moose generally parks. Wait - what is that poking up out of the snow? Could it be? Yes!!! It was - my keys - actually, the long tailed suede fob!
Called everyone to let them know - well, except Lessa - she has gone back to bed by now, I’m sure - I’ll call her sometime after noon.
When I came back to work bearing keys held high - everyone said “you’re LUCKY!”
Nope, friends, LUCK had NOTHING to do with it. Prayer had EVERYTHING to do with it.
I believe in a Sovereign God who cares even about such a thing as lost keys. He allowed me to find them. And, it was thanks to the prayers of my pastor and his family and myself. The inablity to sit still at this desk a moment longer which led me home to find them - yup, I attribute that to His Sovereignty.
Praise the Lord!
(first published at my website.)
Written By: barbara
Posted under: Women's Voices . Email This Post
12
November
2006
by Barbara
(originally posted at my blog)
Lance Corporal Michael H. Laskey of Soldotna died while conducting combat operations in Al Anbar provice. No additional details . . .
Today’s (Sunday, November 5) issue of the local newspaper is not online yet, but I will give you the link if you care to check later - Peninsula Clarion. (you will need to sign in - it is free)
Mike was a member of the local unit of Young Marines. He and his unit, with his mother being the CO, volunteer each year at my agency’s largest awareness activity. Their help has been invaluable to us.
Two summers ago his then very pregnant wife, also a member of the unit, came along to help. My first sight of her that day was her bending down, then lying down on the ground, to look under her car. I was, gramma that I am, worried that she was either in labor or going to go into labor due to this exertion. She, just like I would have 30+ years ago, laughed off my worries.
Their little girl, Liberty Lynn, was born two months later. Daddy didn’t get to come home for her birth, but did get to come shortly afterwards for a short leave to meet her. His tour was over the following summer.
He signed up for another hitch in March. He called his Mom Wednesday to tell her he loved her. He was killed Thursday.
This is happening all over the United States. And, now it has happened in tiny Soldotna, Alaska. We all grieve with the family.
but let me quote what his mother Carol said to the reporter:
“He knew his chance of being killed over there was very possible, but he felt because he was doing something for his country, he would die for his country.”
“My son wanted to be a Marine. The day 9-11 hit he went and signed on the dotted line.”
Mike will be buried in Arlington National Cemetery at his request. He has asked not to be taken there in a hearse, but in his favorite conveyence - a beach-truck covered in mud. I trust he will get his wish.
And, in 2008 when my granddaughter and I visit Washington D.C. with her eighth grade class, we will look for his gravesite to leave a memorial there.
Rest in peace, Mike. I’m glad to have known you.
Written By: barbara
Posted under: On Being a Parent, Women's Voices . Email This Post
11
November
2006
by Barbara
There is something satisfying about standing over an ironing board taking the wrinkles out of a favorite blouse. I realize that in this day and age when permanent press/no iron clothing is a must and the norm, I am an oddball for thinking so.
I can still remember the very first time my mother allowed me to iron a basket of clothes. I was only four years old and I loved to watch her. It looked like great fun, even though the irons we used were called sad irons. Unlike today’s sleek, lightweight beauties, these were heavy, cast iron, solid metal irons. Mom had a row of them heating up on top of our stove to be used by turn until they cooled too much to be effective.
There is nothing like the smell of iron-hot, starched cotton. Sounds play a part in the memory, too. There was that particular sizzle as we would wet our fingers with our tongues, then test the heat of the iron by pressing, briefly, that finger to the iron. HISSSST - yup, still warm enough to work well.
I was taken back in time today as I set up my ironing board – and isn’t it something that today’s boards still have that grating squeak as you set them up? I dampened a basketful of blouses using a spray bottle. Memories washed over me as I remembered that when I was small we used a glass Coca-Cola bottle with a metal-headed sprinkler corked into the neck.
On washing days we would have spent the majority of the day hanging laundry on the backyard clothesline and praying that the clouds overhead had no rain in them. Many were the times we would have to run into the yard to rescue nearly dry laundry from a late afternoon thunderstorm.
Sheets were folded and stacked onto shelves, while pillowcases and other things were set aside for the iron. The basket would soon be full of my sister’s and my school blouses, my mother’s work uniforms, hankies and pillowcases. The sprinkler bottle was put to good work then as each piece received its baptism and was rolled and placed back into the basket.
Ever wise, my mother set me up with a basket of handkerchiefs and pillowcases. This was “back in the day†when men carried large white handkerchiefs and ladies carried smaller, yet still substantial, hankies at all times. I was delighted to press and fold, press and fold again each piece. Even now I can remember the sense of pride I felt as my stack of finished work grew taller while the basket grew empty.
Mom praised me abundantly and I went to my room that night with a great feeling of accomplishment. I’m sure she had to re-iron everything, but she never made me feel less than adequate in what I had done.
Many might see ironing as drudgework. But I sort of miss it and I found it emotionally healing this week.
Written By: barbara
Posted under: On Being a Parent, Women's Voices . Email This Post
10
October
2006
by Barbara
I broke his little heart. That hated two-letter word – NO – helped me do it. Two-year-old Isaiah was crushed and let the world around him know it. Gramma had the audacity to look into his big blue eyes and say “No.†To him! How awful!
The grandchildren aren’t used to Gramma saying no. They hear it often enough from Aunties and Uncle and Mamas and Daddy. But, Gramma and Grandpa are the “Yes Parrots.†For the most part.
The older grands have the routine down pat. Each week one of them is treated as King (or Queen) for a Day. We pick them up, take them to the restaurant of their choice for lunch, and then take them with us as we shop for the week’s groceries. Once we have gone through all of the food aisles each child is permitted to go “to Toys†to pick out their choice.
We’ve been doing this now for several years. It started when there were only five. We added the babies as soon as they were able to sit up and be away from Mama for the required period of time.
The youngest girl – now 5 – fell asleep mid-way through the store her first few trips. She still got a toy, though. Grandpa chose the gaudiest, noisiest one he could find – and happily presented it, along with the baby girl, to the not so thrilled parents.
Little Isaiah loves to go with us. He is not able, yet, to understand that his turn only comes around every 7 weeks.
“I coming, Nonny!†“I buckle†(the seatbelt) “Go, bye-bye, Nonny!†were the words we heard on this day. And, oh, the tears when he heard that “no†would melt the coldest of hearts. So I picked him up and gave him a cuddle. I told him his turn would be soon. And then I did the hardest thing in the world. I turned and went to my car to leave. It had been his oldest brother’s turn – we were finished shopping – I was tired and had groceries to put away.
Besides – in just three weeks it would again be his turn. If he has forgiven me by then, that is.
Some people say I have too much of my life wrapped up in my grandchildren. They say it like that’s a bad thing. I don’t think we can ever give a child too much time – or too much love.
Even though Isaiah’s heart was broken at the age of two – soon he will understand that each child gets to spend special time with Grandpa and Nonny (the others call me Nana or Gramma). He, like the rest, will come to treasure that undivided attention received.
And someday – when he, himself, is a Grandpa – he’ll understand that the treasure was all ours.
Written By: barbara
Posted under: On Being a Parent, Women's Voices . Email This Post
6
October
2006
By Barbara
I received it several years ago, but I haven’t opened the box my uncle sent to me before his death in 1993 in a long time. “I want you to have it,” he had told me. And, while I felt honored that he should think so, I didn’t appreciate it as much then as I do tonight.
When I received the box I was in my ‘running away from God’ phase. I knew I was His child, yet I was arrogant and insistent that my way was the only way. I struggled with giving myself over to Him totally. Finally, I gave up the struggle - turned my back on “religion” and walked away into a long, dark night without His light.
During a rough ten-year period of time, I played hard, convinced that I was having a great time. I ran with a rough crowd and began to drink, even though I knew that was the cause of my father’s demise.
And then I made a couple of visits to Arizona to see an aging uncle - brother to my deceased mother. He and their “baby” sister were my last ties to Mom. We shared a love of the written word - both of us were poets of sorts, and we wrote volumes for letters. He encouraged me to keep searching for the barbara I had buried inside of me.
Shortly before he died, he sent me his grandfather’s Bible. I thought of it as a nice gift, precious because it had been the family Bible for over a hundred years at that point. But I set it aside and pretty much forgot about it.
This week my aunt called me and we chatted about some family history. I wondered if the answers to some of her questions were in that box. When I arrived home from work I dug it out.
In doing so - I discovered something. Raised catholic to satisfy my father, I had never known the rich heritage I had in my ancestors. In this well-worn book I found that heritage. A rich family history lies within those pages - births, deaths, marriages have been written in, first, my great-grandfather’s hand, and then in my grandmother’s.
But more than that . . .
LIFE was found in those pages. On a flyleaf is penned: Matt. 1:21 followed by a paragraph hard to read because of badly faded ink and a loopy script. I can make out the words, though: “Jesus saves me every day. Jesus saves me every night. Jesus saves me all the day. In the darkness and the light. Jesus saves! O bless His name. Jesus saves me all the time.”
Dated July 9, 1870 the words are followed by an underlined phrase: “Praise the Lord!”
My heritage is a family that loved Jesus. I am blessed to follow in their footsteps now as I serve that same risen Lord and echo their thoughts . . . O bless His name. Jesus saves me all the time.
Written By: barbara
Posted under: Women's Voices . Email This Post
5
October
2006
by Barbara
I struggle with my loyalties at times. I have an innate loyalty deep in my soul for those in authority above me. I’m sure it has something to do with the fact that I spent twelve years in parochial schools - under the rule of the women in black dresses - and the men in equally black dresses. I was taught to respect authority, to pretty much believe unswervingly whatever I was taught. If it came from the people in those black dresses it must be TRUTH - spelled all in caps, of course.
Now here I sit as a 56-year-old mother of two grown daughters, Gramma to the brightest, most perfect grandchildren that I could have, wife of 37 years - and I’m questioning those loyalties.
I hear people daily who have NO problem lambasting our governing bodies, the very people for whom I was taught abject obeisance. It bothers me greatly that I cannot do the same thing. What is in me that shudders at being disrespectful to the office if not to the man sitting in the office? Why do I find it difficult to speak out against the atrocities of war - or poverty - or the fact that many don’t have enough money this week to purchase groceries OR gasoline?
Why am I unable to rant and rave at the government because of these things?
Do I like war? A hundred times NO! I grew up the daughter of a man who fought the Japanese - in “THE” war itself, and every night in his bed where he was “safe” from them. He fought them by beating my mother.
I grew up a teenager whose high school friends fought in Vietnam and either came home so changed I couldn’t be with them any longer or who didn’t come home at all - outside of a box.
I grew up as an aunt whose nephew went to Desert Storm. Young men and women from my own town went off to the same war. Some came back - thank God my nephew is one of those.
I grew up as a mother - awakened by a phone call from a son-in-law on 9-11 telling me to watch the TV - we were under attack - “make sure the guns are loaded, Mom, we’re next.” I listened for days afterward to the silence in the skies above my house - eerie, total, absolute silence.
I don’t like war - I grew up with it - and I am growing old with it. I long for peace - and yet I know that there can be no peace. That is what we are told by our God. There will be wars and rumors of wars. Men will rise up against their brothers, their fathers, their sons.
And, still I am loyal to the office of the President and pray for him and those around him. And trust in the God of the ages (not the god of the black dresses) and pray that He will hold us safe from harm.
Written By: barbara
Posted under: Women's Voices . Email This Post
2
October
2006
by Barbara
“Rogue” stripes are what my daughter calls the gray/white strands at my temples. (Rogue is a character from the X Men comic books.)
My hair doesn’t like to lie in the neat bangs my hairdresser trims them into. It starts out that way, but things can change quickly on any given day. Days filled with personal summers - power surges - hot flashes will soon see me pushing my hair back from my forehead. That’s when the brightest of my Rogue stripes makes its appearance. Normally hidden underneath those neat bangs, they “pop” out in all their white glory when my hair is pushed back.
Gray hair and I go back a ways. I was 31, teaching 2 and 3 year olds in a pre-school. There was that one little kid. You know the one. Won’t/can’t sit still; won’t/can’t listen; won’t/can’t follow directions; that child can challenge a teacher or drive her to distraction. That child can cause a teacher to tear at her hair - or cause her first gray hair.
One gray hair - PLUCK! BOINGGGG! 3 gray hairs replace it - 5 gray hairs - 10 - too many to count.
My first response (after plucking) was a visit to my hairdresser. Every 4-6 weeks I was faithful and my hair went through shades of brown, blonde, and red. I did nothing too radical - being pretty conservative. This was prior to the wild and anything but conservative dye jobs of today.
My hair coloring days ended when I realized just how much of my hair was turning gray. I’d seen people let their hair grow out after coloring it for several years and I didn’t want the same thing to happen with me. There are few things less attractive than seeing all that white hair growing down over top of dark hair.
I decided to cut my losses while I could. I would stop while I still had more natural color than gray. Since then I have gotten a lot grayer, but you still have to look for the hiding Rogue stripes. They’ve been joined by stripes at my temples running the length of my hair. Whenever I pull my hair back behind my ears - or push my bangs back - the white shines.
Having the stripes - and even showing them off to the world - doesn’t bother me much any longer. You see, I’m at the high end of my 50’s now, and that one little kid is long ago grown up. He probably has his own little gray hair maker by now.
Me? I’ve seen my two daughters grow up and become mothers themselves. We traveled the road of pre and post adolescence together and I’ve watched as they’ve begun to raise their own children. We’ve come this far together - I’ve gotten my stripes the best way - I’ve EARNED them.
Written By: barbara
Posted under: Women's Voices . Email This Post
