Born under a cloud of never-meant-to-be,
Surrounded by elephants and leeches,
It doesn't take me long to reject
The God of the Plan.
Some are warmed by this God.
To me, that God is cold comfort,
Like worshipping an unlit yule log.
Searching for order in the Mystery,
I embrace the God of the Choice.
I flirt with Pelagius,
and throw my lot in with Arminius.
I embrace the God of the Process,
This messy, dynamic, frightening Being,
Who is willing to wrestle with me,
Down in the dust like two small boys,
Like he wrestled with my forefather Jacob.
This is what warms me: this Opponent-Friend of mine.
I taste the salt of his sweat.
I feel his hot breath on my neck.
I hear his calls for my surrender.
We are locked forever in each others' grasp,
and there is no letting go.
It is the struggler who reaches Peniel.
Sunday, October 22, 2006
Thursday, October 12, 2006
Guinness
Regular readers of my blog may have guessed (and they would be right) that I have a rich inner life. I was just pondering that today. I don't know if I think more than other people, or think harder than other people, or what. I do know that it seems like I'm thinking all the time, that I seem to be aware that I'm thinking all the time, and that I often find my own thoughts quite entertaining, going so far as to laugh out loud at something I have thought to myself. How embarrassing. But, back to Guinness.
Guinness is my new alter ego. When people find out about Guinness, their first question to me (after they quit looking at me funny) is "Why?"
This summer, I was feeling a little blue. I decided that what I needed to do to snap out of it was inject a little playfulness in my life. And I needed something non-fattening and cheap. So, eating caviar out of the old man's navel was out.
Instead, I played a game called "If I could change my name, what would I change it to?" If you're being honest, you will admit that you've played it, too.
I have to say that thinking on this question entertained me for quite a while and did distract me from what was bothering me. After considering and discarding a number of possible new names, I finally hit upon one that I thought I could live with: Guinness.
I called my sisters immediately and announced that they should begin calling me Guinness forthwith. I taught my little nephews to call me "Aunt Guinness." I began signing off my e-mails with my new name. Most of my birthday presents this year were addressed to "Guinness." Even a co-worker calls me Guinness. I have a baseball cap (courtesy of my sister Monte) that says Guinness. Call me Guinness and I will answer.
People often ask me why I chose the name Guinness. I like it because it's a strong name and a fun name. It sounds old-fashioned and new-fashioned at the same time. It's associated with sin (well, beer anyway) and sainthood (Os Guinness, theologian). It's an Everyman (or Everywoman) kind of name.
The only person who refuses to call me Guinness is the old man. He is adamant about this. No amount of cajoling on my part can get him to budge, although he did acquiese on my birthday and on my birthday only. Even pointing out that my computer's new desktop sports a graphic that reads "Now Enjoy Guinness Anywhere" has not convinced him that he should address me by my new moniker. His loss.
Guinness is my new alter ego. When people find out about Guinness, their first question to me (after they quit looking at me funny) is "Why?"
This summer, I was feeling a little blue. I decided that what I needed to do to snap out of it was inject a little playfulness in my life. And I needed something non-fattening and cheap. So, eating caviar out of the old man's navel was out.
Instead, I played a game called "If I could change my name, what would I change it to?" If you're being honest, you will admit that you've played it, too.
I have to say that thinking on this question entertained me for quite a while and did distract me from what was bothering me. After considering and discarding a number of possible new names, I finally hit upon one that I thought I could live with: Guinness.
I called my sisters immediately and announced that they should begin calling me Guinness forthwith. I taught my little nephews to call me "Aunt Guinness." I began signing off my e-mails with my new name. Most of my birthday presents this year were addressed to "Guinness." Even a co-worker calls me Guinness. I have a baseball cap (courtesy of my sister Monte) that says Guinness. Call me Guinness and I will answer.
People often ask me why I chose the name Guinness. I like it because it's a strong name and a fun name. It sounds old-fashioned and new-fashioned at the same time. It's associated with sin (well, beer anyway) and sainthood (Os Guinness, theologian). It's an Everyman (or Everywoman) kind of name.
The only person who refuses to call me Guinness is the old man. He is adamant about this. No amount of cajoling on my part can get him to budge, although he did acquiese on my birthday and on my birthday only. Even pointing out that my computer's new desktop sports a graphic that reads "Now Enjoy Guinness Anywhere" has not convinced him that he should address me by my new moniker. His loss.
Saturday, August 26, 2006
How I Helped An Old Man Run Away
This is a true story.
It was not my typical Monday morning as my car was filled with tubs of the high school's benefit auction invitations that were headed to the bulk mail unit of the downtown post office. My goal was to be there at 7 a.m. sharp.
I hate the bulk mail unit. My experiences with that place deserve a blog entry of their own. Perhaps another time. Suffice it to say that I never leave there feeling the 5'6" I was when I entered. Those bulk mail guys (and they are all guys) usually whittle away about five feet of it. That Monday I hoped to deal with them before I was fully awake.
I made it to the bulk mail unit by 7:20 a.m., dropped off the invitations, and left relatively unscathed with only one joke made at my expense, five incredulous "how could you not know that?" looks, and three condescending remarks. On that basis, this particular trip to the parallel universe of the bulk mail unit I considered to be a mild success.
Having once again negotiated the world of bulk mailing, I decided I deserved a congratulatory edible. But what, exactly? As I drove toward work, I pondered where I should purchase my reward. MacDonald's? Winchell's? Burger King? Where, oh where? I passed a number of viable alternatives, finally settling on a small, Vietnamese-run grocery store that, although I passed it almost daily, I had never frequented before.
It’s a corner grocery store just like any corner store in any big city run by any Vietnamese family. As I went in, I noticed an elderly, white gentleman, a day's growth of beard on his face, wearing rumpled blue slacks (the kind that appliance repairmen often wear) and tennis shoes. He was seated on a stool drinking coffee from a cardboard cup. The store’s owners had created a kind of three-sided corral for their pastry selections, and this old man was seated on a stool in the midst of it. How dare he sit there and separate me from the comfort I craved?! Not wanting to ask him to move, I maneuvered to the beverage cold case to get some juice, hoping that in the interim the old man would move. Sure enough, he did!
As he slowly made his way to the cashier, I crashed the space he had formerly occupied, choosing a couple of items sure to boost my blood sugar quickly and ease the pain of my bulk mail unit experience. Despite the difference in our ages and weights, the old man and I arrived at the counter at the same time.
"Where's the nearest Washington Mutual?" he asked the young Vietnamese woman at the register.
She looked puzzled.
"The nearest Washington Mutual?" he asked again, louder.
"Um ... I think ... I think ..." She looked out the front window of the store, cars flying by. "Um ..."
I had to get out of there with those snacks!
"It’s that way!" I practically shouted, pointing east. Both the old man and the cashier turned to me. "The closest one is that way," I said more quietly. The cashier nodded and murmured, "Yes, yes."
"How far?" asked the old man.
"Probably about 15 blocks," I said.
The old man thanked me and then thanked the young Vietnamese woman for letting him sit and rest while he had his coffee, and then left the store, dropping his cup and napkin in the trash as he went out. Finally! I quickly made my purchases and left, knowing that in a very few minutes I would be alone with my well-deserved treats.
As I was getting ready to put my key in the lock of the car door, I noticed the old man standing just around the corner of the store. Just standing. I did a quick assessment of him and seeing that I was slightly shorter but three times heavier and about 30 years younger, I thought, "What the heck? If he gets out of line, I believe I can take him."
"Sir," I called. "I’m going right by that Washington Mutual. Would you like a ride?"
"It’s not out of your way?" he asked.
"Not at all. I’m going right by there."
"That would be nice," he said as he moved toward my car.
I unlocked my car door and climbed in, reaching across the seat to unlock the passenger side. The old man pulled on the door, and it creaked and protested as it always does because it’s old and sticks. He slowly sat down in the passenger seat, pulling in first his left leg, then his right. I waited to start the car until he got settled and put on his seatbelt. He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a five-dollar bill and extended it toward me.
"Here. For gas."
I waved it away. "No, you keep it. The Washington Mutual is right on my way to work. I’m going right by there."
He hesitated, then returned the money to his pocket. "Okay," he said. "I just didn’t want you to think I was a bum."
"I can tell you’re not a bum," I said. And I could. Despite that fact that he was slightly disheveled, there was a dignity about the old man. He struck me as someone who had worked hard and lived simply, not needing or wanting much more than a comfortable home and a good supper at the end of each day.
We rode in silence as we pulled from the store’s parking lot onto the street that would take us to the Washington Mutual. The old man looked out the passenger window, watching the homes and businesses slide by. He sighed.
"You see, my wife died last Thursday."
"I’m so sorry," I exclaimed.
"The funeral was yesterday. I didn’t know it would be so hard. I cried like a baby. She was a good woman."
I looked over at him. Although his voice was strong, I could see his eyes were beginning to water.
"After she died, people told me, ‘You should go live with your son in Portland.’ So I thought about it and decided maybe I should. But, I heard my son and his wife talking last night. She was telling my son that I was going to mess up their ‘lifestyle.’ I guess I get up too early in the morning or somethin’." His voice trailed off and he was quiet again for a moment. "So this morning, I decided to go back home. To Albany. My son and her were asleep when I left. They don’t even know that I’m gone." He paused, then continued, resolute. "I’m going to the Washington Mutual to get some money out of my account. Then I’m going to the bus station and going home."
We rode a few more blocks in silence as I took in all that he had shared. "How long were you married?" I asked.
"We were married 58 years," he said, proudly. "She was 78 when she died. I’m 80. She was a good woman"
"That’s a long time to be together," I said.
"Yup. I can’t believe she’s gone. I can’t believe how much I cried at her funeral."
"Well, this is a big loss. You were together for so long. She was a big part of your life for lots of years."
"She was a good woman," he said again.
I spotted the Washington Mutual sign. "We’re almost there," I said. "Just a block and a half."
"I sure do appreciate this," he said. "I was going to try to walk down here, but I don’t know if I would have made it. The last two years, my wife was sick and I had to take care of her. I took real good care of her. But she was so sick. So I didn’t get out much to exercise like I used to do." He drew a breath. "She was so sick."
"Well, like I said, this was right on my way," I replied.
As we pulled into the Washington Mutual lot, I realized that it would be another half-hour until the bank opened. Slowing to a stop, I said, "Listen, this bank doesn’t open for another half-hour. But there’s another Washington Mutual on down the street. It’s in a Fred Meyer store. How ’bout I take you down to that one? Then you can get another cup of coffee or do some shopping while you wait for it to open or whatever. What do you think?"
He paused. "You know, that would be real nice."
I pulled through the lot and merged back into the eastbound traffic.
"Do you have any other children," I asked, "besides your son here in Portland?"
"Yup. Two girls, but they’re back in Florida. And I have a son in Lincoln City. He came over right after my wife died. But all he wanted was her stuff. I said ‘Take whatever you want.’ They were her things and they were things that made her happy. I didn’t really care about them so much. And without her there to enjoy them, it don’t seem like they matter at all anymore." He sighed. "She was a good woman."
"I know that she was," I said.
"I can’t believe how much I miss her."
"You were together a long time."
"She was so sick. Finally the doctors said there was no more that they could do. But I took real good care of her."
"I know that you did."
"She was a good woman."
"I can tell that you loved her very much."
We rode in silence the last few blocks to the Fred Meyer store and pulled in. I took him to the entrance closest to the bank.
"Well, here you go," I said.
"I sure do appreciate this," he replied.
Again, I waved it off. "No problem. Like I said, I was going this way."
"So, I’m going home," he said as he unbuckled his seat belt.
"I hope you have a safe trip."
He nodded and reached to unlock his door, pushed it open, and got out. He turned to push it close. As it often does, it made its awful creaking sound and didn’t want to budge. The old man looked worried.
"No problem," I smiled, "Just push it hard. It’s fine."
"Okay," he said. And then, "God bless you."
The old man gave the door one, two and then three progressively more forceful pushes until, with one final protest, it gave way and closed. The old man gave a wave, then turned and walked into the store.
It was not my typical Monday morning as my car was filled with tubs of the high school's benefit auction invitations that were headed to the bulk mail unit of the downtown post office. My goal was to be there at 7 a.m. sharp.
I hate the bulk mail unit. My experiences with that place deserve a blog entry of their own. Perhaps another time. Suffice it to say that I never leave there feeling the 5'6" I was when I entered. Those bulk mail guys (and they are all guys) usually whittle away about five feet of it. That Monday I hoped to deal with them before I was fully awake.
I made it to the bulk mail unit by 7:20 a.m., dropped off the invitations, and left relatively unscathed with only one joke made at my expense, five incredulous "how could you not know that?" looks, and three condescending remarks. On that basis, this particular trip to the parallel universe of the bulk mail unit I considered to be a mild success.
Having once again negotiated the world of bulk mailing, I decided I deserved a congratulatory edible. But what, exactly? As I drove toward work, I pondered where I should purchase my reward. MacDonald's? Winchell's? Burger King? Where, oh where? I passed a number of viable alternatives, finally settling on a small, Vietnamese-run grocery store that, although I passed it almost daily, I had never frequented before.
It’s a corner grocery store just like any corner store in any big city run by any Vietnamese family. As I went in, I noticed an elderly, white gentleman, a day's growth of beard on his face, wearing rumpled blue slacks (the kind that appliance repairmen often wear) and tennis shoes. He was seated on a stool drinking coffee from a cardboard cup. The store’s owners had created a kind of three-sided corral for their pastry selections, and this old man was seated on a stool in the midst of it. How dare he sit there and separate me from the comfort I craved?! Not wanting to ask him to move, I maneuvered to the beverage cold case to get some juice, hoping that in the interim the old man would move. Sure enough, he did!
As he slowly made his way to the cashier, I crashed the space he had formerly occupied, choosing a couple of items sure to boost my blood sugar quickly and ease the pain of my bulk mail unit experience. Despite the difference in our ages and weights, the old man and I arrived at the counter at the same time.
"Where's the nearest Washington Mutual?" he asked the young Vietnamese woman at the register.
She looked puzzled.
"The nearest Washington Mutual?" he asked again, louder.
"Um ... I think ... I think ..." She looked out the front window of the store, cars flying by. "Um ..."
I had to get out of there with those snacks!
"It’s that way!" I practically shouted, pointing east. Both the old man and the cashier turned to me. "The closest one is that way," I said more quietly. The cashier nodded and murmured, "Yes, yes."
"How far?" asked the old man.
"Probably about 15 blocks," I said.
The old man thanked me and then thanked the young Vietnamese woman for letting him sit and rest while he had his coffee, and then left the store, dropping his cup and napkin in the trash as he went out. Finally! I quickly made my purchases and left, knowing that in a very few minutes I would be alone with my well-deserved treats.
As I was getting ready to put my key in the lock of the car door, I noticed the old man standing just around the corner of the store. Just standing. I did a quick assessment of him and seeing that I was slightly shorter but three times heavier and about 30 years younger, I thought, "What the heck? If he gets out of line, I believe I can take him."
"Sir," I called. "I’m going right by that Washington Mutual. Would you like a ride?"
"It’s not out of your way?" he asked.
"Not at all. I’m going right by there."
"That would be nice," he said as he moved toward my car.
I unlocked my car door and climbed in, reaching across the seat to unlock the passenger side. The old man pulled on the door, and it creaked and protested as it always does because it’s old and sticks. He slowly sat down in the passenger seat, pulling in first his left leg, then his right. I waited to start the car until he got settled and put on his seatbelt. He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a five-dollar bill and extended it toward me.
"Here. For gas."
I waved it away. "No, you keep it. The Washington Mutual is right on my way to work. I’m going right by there."
He hesitated, then returned the money to his pocket. "Okay," he said. "I just didn’t want you to think I was a bum."
"I can tell you’re not a bum," I said. And I could. Despite that fact that he was slightly disheveled, there was a dignity about the old man. He struck me as someone who had worked hard and lived simply, not needing or wanting much more than a comfortable home and a good supper at the end of each day.
We rode in silence as we pulled from the store’s parking lot onto the street that would take us to the Washington Mutual. The old man looked out the passenger window, watching the homes and businesses slide by. He sighed.
"You see, my wife died last Thursday."
"I’m so sorry," I exclaimed.
"The funeral was yesterday. I didn’t know it would be so hard. I cried like a baby. She was a good woman."
I looked over at him. Although his voice was strong, I could see his eyes were beginning to water.
"After she died, people told me, ‘You should go live with your son in Portland.’ So I thought about it and decided maybe I should. But, I heard my son and his wife talking last night. She was telling my son that I was going to mess up their ‘lifestyle.’ I guess I get up too early in the morning or somethin’." His voice trailed off and he was quiet again for a moment. "So this morning, I decided to go back home. To Albany. My son and her were asleep when I left. They don’t even know that I’m gone." He paused, then continued, resolute. "I’m going to the Washington Mutual to get some money out of my account. Then I’m going to the bus station and going home."
We rode a few more blocks in silence as I took in all that he had shared. "How long were you married?" I asked.
"We were married 58 years," he said, proudly. "She was 78 when she died. I’m 80. She was a good woman"
"That’s a long time to be together," I said.
"Yup. I can’t believe she’s gone. I can’t believe how much I cried at her funeral."
"Well, this is a big loss. You were together for so long. She was a big part of your life for lots of years."
"She was a good woman," he said again.
I spotted the Washington Mutual sign. "We’re almost there," I said. "Just a block and a half."
"I sure do appreciate this," he said. "I was going to try to walk down here, but I don’t know if I would have made it. The last two years, my wife was sick and I had to take care of her. I took real good care of her. But she was so sick. So I didn’t get out much to exercise like I used to do." He drew a breath. "She was so sick."
"Well, like I said, this was right on my way," I replied.
As we pulled into the Washington Mutual lot, I realized that it would be another half-hour until the bank opened. Slowing to a stop, I said, "Listen, this bank doesn’t open for another half-hour. But there’s another Washington Mutual on down the street. It’s in a Fred Meyer store. How ’bout I take you down to that one? Then you can get another cup of coffee or do some shopping while you wait for it to open or whatever. What do you think?"
He paused. "You know, that would be real nice."
I pulled through the lot and merged back into the eastbound traffic.
"Do you have any other children," I asked, "besides your son here in Portland?"
"Yup. Two girls, but they’re back in Florida. And I have a son in Lincoln City. He came over right after my wife died. But all he wanted was her stuff. I said ‘Take whatever you want.’ They were her things and they were things that made her happy. I didn’t really care about them so much. And without her there to enjoy them, it don’t seem like they matter at all anymore." He sighed. "She was a good woman."
"I know that she was," I said.
"I can’t believe how much I miss her."
"You were together a long time."
"She was so sick. Finally the doctors said there was no more that they could do. But I took real good care of her."
"I know that you did."
"She was a good woman."
"I can tell that you loved her very much."
We rode in silence the last few blocks to the Fred Meyer store and pulled in. I took him to the entrance closest to the bank.
"Well, here you go," I said.
"I sure do appreciate this," he replied.
Again, I waved it off. "No problem. Like I said, I was going this way."
"So, I’m going home," he said as he unbuckled his seat belt.
"I hope you have a safe trip."
He nodded and reached to unlock his door, pushed it open, and got out. He turned to push it close. As it often does, it made its awful creaking sound and didn’t want to budge. The old man looked worried.
"No problem," I smiled, "Just push it hard. It’s fine."
"Okay," he said. And then, "God bless you."
The old man gave the door one, two and then three progressively more forceful pushes until, with one final protest, it gave way and closed. The old man gave a wave, then turned and walked into the store.
Sunday, June 04, 2006
Cramping My Style
As hard as it was to see my son take off for the university, you'd think I'd be thrilled to have him back home. You'd think.
It is amazing how quickly the old man and I converted to a new way of living. And how resistant we are to reverting to accommodate the son we have renamed "The Interloper."
Our battles are the classic ones between the generations.
Clothes: The Interloper seems to think I should wear them.
Music: Gone are Amy Grant and Barbara Streisand. Gone are Manhattan Transfer and the Irish Tenors. Instead there is noise everywhere, and it doesn't just come from the stereo. It comes from the computer, the television, the radio, and The Interloper's mouth. Sometimes noise comes from all these places at one time and it can appear that no one but me is noticing. Then there are the musical discussions with The Interloper that I have missed so much (insert eye roll here). Discussions of genres and lyrics and genres and performers and genres this and genres that.
Food: The old man and I have become used to eating when we want and what we want without even considering each other, much less The Interloper. Now, each day, I get a question that includes the words "dinner plan." As in, "What's the dinner plan?" or "Do we have a dinner plan?" It seems distressing to The Interloper that we seldom have a "dinner plan," whatever that is.
Cars: The Interloper says, "I think I'll go to Fred Meyer." I say, "Okay." The Interloper says again, "I think I'll go to Fred Meyer." I say, "Have a good time, honey." The Interloper says, "I thought you might like to drive me." I say, "You think funny."
The Interloper is useful on occasion. He knows how to fix me a glass of ice water the way I like it. In about six weeks, I'm going to be awfully thirsty again.
It is amazing how quickly the old man and I converted to a new way of living. And how resistant we are to reverting to accommodate the son we have renamed "The Interloper."
Our battles are the classic ones between the generations.
Clothes: The Interloper seems to think I should wear them.
Music: Gone are Amy Grant and Barbara Streisand. Gone are Manhattan Transfer and the Irish Tenors. Instead there is noise everywhere, and it doesn't just come from the stereo. It comes from the computer, the television, the radio, and The Interloper's mouth. Sometimes noise comes from all these places at one time and it can appear that no one but me is noticing. Then there are the musical discussions with The Interloper that I have missed so much (insert eye roll here). Discussions of genres and lyrics and genres and performers and genres this and genres that.
Food: The old man and I have become used to eating when we want and what we want without even considering each other, much less The Interloper. Now, each day, I get a question that includes the words "dinner plan." As in, "What's the dinner plan?" or "Do we have a dinner plan?" It seems distressing to The Interloper that we seldom have a "dinner plan," whatever that is.
Cars: The Interloper says, "I think I'll go to Fred Meyer." I say, "Okay." The Interloper says again, "I think I'll go to Fred Meyer." I say, "Have a good time, honey." The Interloper says, "I thought you might like to drive me." I say, "You think funny."
The Interloper is useful on occasion. He knows how to fix me a glass of ice water the way I like it. In about six weeks, I'm going to be awfully thirsty again.
Thursday, March 30, 2006
Life Is A Curious Thing
Thanks, P'Jammers, for calling me back to my blogging roots.
It's been an interesting four months. The old man and I have been caught up in a dilemma that many people would like to have--too many job options and good ones to boot. He was offered an interview for a job and I was just plain offered a job on the same day back in February. We've been arm wrestling for who's going to get which opportunity ever since. Life has been a rollercoaster with all these amazing--and scary--twists and turns. We have yet to reach the end of this particular ride--we don't even see the end in sight yet.
Let me just leave you, kind reader, with these few words from an Amy Grant song:
Life, ooh life is a curious thing
Well, I know that it can be demanding
I know that it can be unkind
I don't really understand it
But Lord sure knows I try
Life is a curious thing
Life, ooh life is a curious thing
Just goes to show that you never know
Just what tomorrow may bring
But I'll tell you this that what it is
Is seldom what it seems
'Cause life is a curious thing
Life, ooh life is a curious thing . . .
It's been an interesting four months. The old man and I have been caught up in a dilemma that many people would like to have--too many job options and good ones to boot. He was offered an interview for a job and I was just plain offered a job on the same day back in February. We've been arm wrestling for who's going to get which opportunity ever since. Life has been a rollercoaster with all these amazing--and scary--twists and turns. We have yet to reach the end of this particular ride--we don't even see the end in sight yet.
Let me just leave you, kind reader, with these few words from an Amy Grant song:
Life, ooh life is a curious thing
Well, I know that it can be demanding
I know that it can be unkind
I don't really understand it
But Lord sure knows I try
Life is a curious thing
Life, ooh life is a curious thing
Just goes to show that you never know
Just what tomorrow may bring
But I'll tell you this that what it is
Is seldom what it seems
'Cause life is a curious thing
Life, ooh life is a curious thing . . .
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