Preparation and more

In my previous post I told a story about how my dad learned new things. But there were also things to which he was oblivious. My mother and I had the same habit when getting ready to go out with the family. Once we were prepared we sat and waited. My dad was a putterer. He would go around and do this and the other thing and finally would ask, "Aren't you ready yet?" To which I would reply, "I'm waiting for you." Dad never made the connection that my mother or I sitting meant that we were ready to go. Not even though both mom and I mentioned that directly to him as in "Dad, when I'm ready to go I sit down and wait for everyone else to arrive."

Oh well, he had many things which he did better. One of which is that we knew he loved us. I guess for that we both put up with some little irritations. And I know he put up with some things in us that irritated him, so....

Preparation

My dad was wonderful in many ways - warm, loving, always ready to lend a hand or the shirt off his back - but he never got how seriously I wanted to prepare for doing a solo or helping with the music in worship. He'd go, "You've got the afternoon free, come do a piece for the nursing home." and wonder why I said, "Dad, you've got to give me some notice." I don't think he really started to understand until a car trip - the last trip I took with both my parents.

Then he watched through the trip as I took a familiar piece and broke it down. I worked on my breathing. I worked on the phrasing. I worked on the sounds of the vowels. You name it, I worked on it. I spent most of the eight-hour drive on a piece which he had heard me do more than a few times. And dad started to realize that, as a musician, I took a great deal of care and worked each piece over before any performance.

He didn't have that many opportunities to warn me before asking me to perform as he was retired by that point, but at least he learned - when I was in my mid-thirties - that while I could performe without much notice, I really wanted to work on preparing for anything I did.

I guess old dogs can learn new tricks.

Memories

What we remember happening and what actually happened aren't always the same. I remembered as a child about five years old going to a psychologist for intelligence testing. My twin brother rememberedI went, but he didn't. I think both of us assumed that it was because the results would be the same.

Intelligence testing wasn't what happened.

My mother thought that I might be turning into a homosexual. So they took me to see what could be done. And with all the best intentions in the world helped to send me into denial about my sexual orientation. They used a book (Growing up Straight by Peter and Barbara Wyden) that had all the latest research and did all the right things - as in making sure I had plenty of time with my father, discouraging effeminate mannerisms and activities and more.

I found this out after I finally figured out why I wasn't meeting the right woman and that no woman would ever be the right woman. And some of my memories took on new focus. I hadn't realized that it was after 'the visit' that my mother stopped me playing with costume jewelry. But that wasn't the only memory that fell into place.

That one happened after a conversation with my dad. But more memories of desires I'd ignored and feelings that I hadn't dealt with came to the forefront after I admitted to myself that I was attracted to men as partners (not just sexually) in my life. My life just made a lot more sense after I figured out my sexual orientation and became gay.

Not everyone has an eye-opening moment of waking up and realizing they've been in denial about their sexual orientation. I suspect there's less and less of those sudden awakenings to who we are as in this culture been able to become more understanding of human sexuality (and sexuality throughout the animal realm) but putting the pieces together after I finally stopped cramming them into the wrong shape was one of the best times of my life. I don't recommend the pain of denial, but laughter and joy came to me when feelings and events just popped into focus after those years of denial. And that joy is something I still treasure.

Depression Day 4

Day 4

At seven she took the third pill. And she felt like she’d done something if not enough. She had hoped that she’d notice something even though the doctor had said it would be two weeks to a month, but nothing had changed. And it was only a faint glimmer that the doctor had said that an anti-depressant might work that got her to take the pill.

After yesterday spent lying in bed she thought she ought to eat, though she wasn’t really hungry.

So she got up and went to the kitchen, where she sat down and stared at the cupboards wondering what to eat. The thought of cereal nauseated her, even the sugar topped ones would taste like cardboard, so she just went with the shredded wheat. She didn’t need a bowl for that. She could eat it over the sink and anything that dropped she could run through the garbage disposal. And while every bite tasted like sand, still she knew that there was enough to feed her and she wouldn’t feel like throwing it all up afterwards.

And after she finished eating she sat down and waited for a half hour or so.

Then she got up and cleaned the sink.

And after she finished cleaning the sink she sat down and waited for a half hour or so.

Then she went and showered.

And after showering she sat on the tub for a half hour or so.

Then she brushed her teeth

And after brushing her teeth she sat on the tub for a half hour or so.

She thought about combing her hair, but went back to bed.

And she stayed in bed even as the phone rang and the answering machine picked up and it was her son.

And she knew that he’d be worried, but she just couldn’t talk to him, she just didn’t have the energy to talk to anyone. And she’d started treatment so she could mention something next time he called, but talking to someone was too much for today. Hadn’t she already done enough? She’d actually showered on a day when she didn’t have anything scheduled and that hadn’t always happened in the past so maybe the drug was having some effect even though it wasn’t supposed to be working for another two weeks, but it wasn’t’ two weeks anymore. It was less than two weeks, but still more than a week so maybe she was just fooling herself since she still felt the pain and she still didn’t have energy to do anything. How many hours had it taken to eat and clean up after breakfast and she used to be able to do that and six other things before seven and now she was left just trying to get up at seven to take a pill and that pill might not do any good. So why was she even taking that pill when she just was in so much pain and everything took so much effort and she lay in bed.

She listened to the answering machine click off after her son said, “I love you.” and wondered what it was she felt for him. All her being was consumed by pain and she had nothing left for the son she had born so many ears ago.

And then the real pain hit as she wondered – what sort of mother am I that I can’t even answer the phone when my son calls. All I’m doing is lying in bed and even though the pain is still throbbing shouldn’t I be able to pick up the phone and listen and reassure my son that I’m not lying dead even though that would hurt so much less than what I’m feeling right now.

And her thoughts circled round and around like the murmuring of the tide coming in – only not so painless.

And after a few hours she realized that if she called her son would be at class and she wouldn’t have to talk, she could just leave a message, and even though that didn’t feel like enough it was something.

And so she hit the speed-dial and waited for the phone to ring praying that he’d be in class so she wouldn’t cry and make him upset, praying that he’d be in class so she wouldn’t have to talk, praying that her nightmare would be over sometime. And the answering machine finished so she quickly said, “I’m glad you called, sorry I missed you, love you.” and hung up.

And she was relieved and sad and tired and wondered what sort of mother didn’t want to talk to her own son. And yet she was too tired to spend time in conversation and wondered if she should tell him she was on an anti-depressant, but thought he didn’t need to worry about her when he was away from home and she should be taking care of him so he didn’t need to know just yet.

Depression Day 3

Day 3

She was awake and turning long before seven. She was always awake and tossing through the night. But she had determined she was going to take the prescription at 7am and so she waited. She might not be able to do anything else today, but that one thing was all she needed to do. Yesterday she’d gotten more than the pill taken. She’d done a load of laundry. So today she could just lie in bed enduring the pain until it passed.

And that’s all she did.

Depression Day 1

Day 1

As she lifted her head the sour smell of stale sweat from her pillow arose. But it was too hard to move much more and so she lay back down in desperation. She didn't feel as if there were any good reason for her to stay in bed, but she just couldn't move. And that was what she had felt for a long time.

At least it felt like a long time. At this point she wasn't sure how long. She vaguely remembered happy times. But it was as if those happy times were through ten feet of cotton candy and her life now. She could see herself laughing in some photos, but couldn't figure out what that felt like. Yes, she had been happy, but not in a long, long time.

Her living room and kitchen were immaculate. But that was because she didn't have the energy to leave them messy. When she ate – everything was cleaned and put away before she fell asleep. And she didn't buy any food that might go bad. The dried milk she kept on hand didn't taste all that good when she made it up for the meal – it was supposed to sit – but when she had the energy to eat and clean up she wanted to do it then. If she waited any time her burst of energy would be long gone and then there's be the dishes to clean and they'd sit. She'd done that before when she'd tried to wait. And the dishes would sit with the big round eye of a plate accusing her of not doing anything and her mind quivering with the blows of unmet expectations. And she just couldn't face the unwashed dishes one more time. So she made the dried milk up and drank it before it had cooled and as the horrid taste went down – thought – at least I got something in my body one more time.

And at times it was a moment-by-moment decision to keep on existing in such pain. She'd started treatments but so far none of them had worked. And she lived in pain. And she could no longer remember what it had been like before she lived in pain. And the treatments – try this drug and it will take two to six weeks before it works – you've been taking it for eight weeks and there's no change, then stop taking the drug and in two weeks will try another drug – seemed futile. And every day longer until each day seemed like years.

They called it depression – she called it pain.

And she lived with it.

Today she was curled up in bed. Her book club was at noon, but she hadn't read the book and she wasn't sure she could go because she didn't want people to know that she hadn't read the book. It was six in the morning and the book had arrived. The package was sitting next to her bed. But she'd only opened it enough to see the spine and then had let it lie there, accusing her, saying she should just reach out and begin reading it, letting her know how worthless she was since she couldn't reach over there. Instead she tossed and turned and even when she wasn't looking at the book the thought of it ate at her, the acid of not getting it done rising up in her throat and burning so that she couldn't sleep, but couldn't pick up the book.

And she thought – I could call Angie, but I've already made too many excuses for not reading the books. And I've called her too many times. And if I keep calling her she might not want to hear from me again. And I don't want her to see me like this. And maybe I just won't go, but I've missed too many meetings already. And it's too early to call her, but I've missed too many meetings, or I've been to them and not read the book and I just can't do it, but I don't want to miss the meeting and the book is sitting right over there so if I start reading now I could at least pretend to know what the book is saying, but I can't concentrate enough to read and besides my comments aren't as good as those of the other people and can't be since I haven't read the book and the books been sitting there for two weeks but I just haven't had the energy, but I'm perfectly fine so I should have read the book and then I wouldn't have to call Angie and cancel but I still haven't cancelled so!
I could go but then I'd be unprepared and everyone would see what a mess I am.

And it was six-fifteen in the morning and she did not have the energy to get out of bed or to grab the book and yet she was tossing and turning and wondering if she could get out of bed today.

Once upon a time she thought that she would have thought nothing about getting out of bed. And she wondered why it seemed so hard to do, but it did. She was wrapped in a cocoon of frustration and anger and despair and it was torturing her to move and sit up and swing her legs over the bed and she dreaded the day and what would come and what would happen and whether she could actually do something. And she thought, I've got a doctor's appointment today so I don't need to actually go to the book club. I can tell them I'm waiting and they'll understand and then I don't need to read the book, but I do want to read the book and I do want to keep up with things, but how can I keep up with things when I can't concentrate on anything and it takes so much energy and I've been up since 6am and I just can't get out of bed and I used to be able to get out of bed in the morning but it seems like so much work.

And then her thoughts became, not incoherent, only of the pain. At times it was throbbing like when she'd had a migraine, at other times it was just there as a haze that covered everything so that she could barely take a breath and those times she dreaded the return of the throbbing with every movement and noise and during the throbbing she dreaded the return of a persistent ache so that neither was a relief from the other. The pain remained.

It sounds so simple, she thought, when the pain had gone. It sounds so simple to get up and do something. And yet all I can do is lie there until it passes.

And it was around eleven so she got up and called Angie to tell her that she was too sick to go to the book club.

And she lay back down to rest. How long those sessions lasted was irrelevant. Five minutes/ Five hours/ Five days she was in pain. And she could see no end.

She'd heard that some in her situation were tempted to suicide, but that held no attraction. Could she be certain that it would relieve the pain? Could she be certain that it would be final? Might not she wake up to even worse – though she couldn't imagine how – pain? The questions ran through her mind, but found no purchase as all available centers were taken up by pain and longing for something different, some escape.

If there was a light at the end of the tunnel, it was a train coming to meet her. And the tunnel had no end.

She was in a pit. And the sides were soft so she could get no hold. And when she tried to pile the dirt up so she could stand a little closer to the top all it did was fade into the rest of the dirt and she felt soiled and unkempt and still couldn't see any way out. No glimmer of light appeared at the top of the pit whether it was day or night.

There were times when there was neither pain nor agony – they were few – but they were there. But those times she felt nothing. And she wondered, she wondered then, if she were still alive.

In the nothingness that was in-between the pain she couldn't imagine what it was like to go through life feeling something other than that pain. And when she wasn't feeling anything she felt dead. And while being dead was comfortable – more comfortable than the pain – it wasn't where she had been, though she couldn't see how to get any other place. And she wasn't sure she had the energy to go any other place.

The pain ruled. And when there wasn't pain there was nothing left. And when there was pain there wasn't anything else she could do except feel the pain.

So she started about the tasks. The morning had been spent in bed so she changed the sheets. Fortunately she had several sets so she didn't have to think about doing the laundry yet. And then she took a shower. She remembered that there'd been times she spent what seemed like hours in the shower luxuriating in the sense of the water on her skin, but now she felt nothing. The pounding of the water was like the beat of her heart when the waves of pain washed over her and so she was in and out of the shower.

She didn't have the energy to decide what to wear, but that we o.k. The clothes she'd just washed went at the back of the closet so at least she wore something different when she pulled the stuff out from the front. If it was a dress, then she wore nylons. If it was a suit, then knee-highs, and she just didn't have to think about anything. And thinking took up more energy than she had to spare.

And she just did not have the energy any more.

She was lucky, she thought, that she'd never used much make-up or done much with her hair. She didn't know how she'd have coped if she had to do more than the little blush and brushing of hair these days. She certainly kept up appearances…. She didn't think any one realized how hard it was for her to get through the day, but never having done more than the minimal in the first place except for special occasions and not going out just meant she had one less thing to do to keep people from worrying about her, though why they should she couldn't understand any more.

She had no energy to care about anyone else and so she wondered why anyone would care for her. And so she got ready to go to the doctor. It was her annual check-up. The card arrived asking her to cancel if the time wasn't good and since it was too much work to pick up the phone she'd left the appointment.

Depression Day 2

Day 2

She was awake and turning long before seven. But she had determined she was going to take the prescription at 7am and so she waited. She might not be able to do anything else today, but that one thing was all she needed to do. Perhaps she would be out of pain, perhaps not, but she could do that one thing just for today she would take the pill at seven and not worry about tomorrow.

She had never considered suicide – that just wasn't an option. But she thought of sticking a long thin wire – too thin to cause any damage up her nose and through her sinus cavities until it reached the brain and then scraping the brain away from all connections to her skull and severing the nerves. That wasn't to kill self, just a way to stop the pain.

The fires burned in her head when she was lying down and when she was moving every motion was through water. And sometimes every movement seemed through pain and in slow motion. And so it was in pain that she took the pill for depression. Even though she knew that it wouldn't work for several weeks, she took the pill. Even as the thoughts of this won't work and I'll have to start all over again came rushing through – she took the pill.

And then she went back to bed and curled up in a ball of tears. But the tears were beyond the weepy tired that she'd had when she'd worked long hours. They were not tears of exhaustion – though she had no energy. They were not tears of frustration – though the weariness in every moment frustrated her. They were tears that came because she had nothing left. And she lay like that for what seemed hours, but was only minutes, then got up again and went to fix breakfast – cereal right out of the box.

And then she went back to bed and curled up.

And she lay there, not writhing, not turning, not moving, just curled up and laying in one spot.

And she lay there in pain.

And she thought

How long, O Lord, How long?
I cry out by day, but I hear no answer.
My tears fill the night but there is no relief.

And the psalm was a comfort. She didn't know how she got into this situation and sure didn't know how she would come out of the pain, but the psalm comforted her. Someone else had been where she remained.

And after that thought she fell asleep.

And in her dreams the fire still burned and the pliers still pinched and her nerve endings played like a Kabalevsky theme without any resolution. She could remember when even the discordant notes resolved, but couldn't hear how it had happened. And her nerves were still played without relief.

But the real pain was in the feelings and images that kept her quivering in terror as the prey of images and thoughts and doubts and fears and worries and misgivings that tore through her head at every new event – even the ringing of the telephone or the whisper of a breeze. And so she lay in bed trying not to move so that the pain she was in wouldn't change to something worse.

And the pain wasn't worse when she moved, but it wasn't better. And while it seemed to change places and intensities it was easier to live with it not moving than with the pain moving around.

And her mind went back to: How long, O Lord, how long…. and then kept circling around how long.

And that was the only coherent thought until the afternoon.

Then she looked out the window and saw the rain and wondered what it would be like to sun herself in the rain. It was cold and damp, but beside the pool she could sit and remember the days when she thought sitting by the pool was fun while the rain chilled her so that her mind might go numb.

Sitting in the cold rain seemed more attractive than lying in bed. The rain – maybe – would be a distraction to the way her mind raced and rambled and hurt and tearing itself to pieces.

And she nearly went out into the rain, but then thought how much work it would be to clean up her afterwards and sat down and watched the rain through the patio doors.

She watched the rain and thought about the chill of sitting outside, letting her thoughts congeal and freeze until they could no longer hurt.

And she sat through the rain, through the drizzle as it finished and she watched the rain.

And then she got up and started the laundry.

It was already sorted for the washer.

She'd learned to have multiple laundry baskets and sorted things as she took them off. So she never faced the task of sorting clothes and she could always see when she had enough for a load. And she didn't face a mountain of laundry to organize. And the less movement she had was best.

Today every movement seemed as if it was through congealed grease. The muscles ached and she wasn't sure that she hadn't let out more than a few noises. Yet the pounding in her head seemed to drown out anything she could say. And so she got her first load to the wash, checked the settings and started a load of whites.

She had a chair in the laundry room so she sat while waiting for the load to finish.

And she waited for her muscles to stop aching.

And she waited.

She listened to the whining of the machine and wondered if a bearing was going bad. Or if she was obsessing over a noise that the machine had always made and would always make. She only heard the pitch when the load was spinning an maybe it was just the washer going through its regular cycle and she wondered if she'd heard last time she did the laundry, but she couldn't remember whether or not she had heard that same sound or whether she'd left the laundry room and gone back to bed or whether she'd stayed in the chair and let the load finish. And those thoughts kept running through her head as fast as the spin cycle until she was dizzy.

And she waited for the final spin to finish.

And she wondered how she used to be able to do other things while the laundry was going. She'd have cleaned a room, fixed a chair, taken out the garbage, raked some leaves or something. And now all she could manage to do was sit and worry that something else was going to go wrong. And something else was going to make more work.

And the machine stopped. And she opened the lid. And she began to take the shirts and blouses and linens out to put in the dryer. And then she sat down to take a rest after the load was in the basket. She needed to rest before going over to the dryer.

And she tumbled the clothes into the dryer, started it, and sat down again – wondering if she should have started the laundry today. There were days when she just couldn't do anything, days she had spent on the couch after getting out of bed, and when she hadn't been able to get out of bed. And this should have been one of them she thought as the dryer growled.

At least the whine from the washer was gone – at least until the next load. And she wasn't going to do another load today. She wasn't even sure that she'd get the load in the dryer folded. But she got the one thing done from the doctor's appointment yesterday – she'd started taking the antidepressant.

Depression - again the story continues

Day 1

As she lifted her head the sour smell of stale sweat from her pillow arose. But it was too hard to move much more and so she lay back down in desperation. She didn’t feel as if there were any good reason for her to stay in bed, but she just couldn’t move. And that was what she had felt for a long time.

At least it felt like a long time. At this point she wasn’t sure how long. She vaguely remembered happy times. But it was as if those happy times were through ten feet of cotton candy and her life now. She could see herself laughing in some photos, but couldn’t figure out what that felt like. Yes, she had been happy, but not in a long, long time.

Her living room and kitchen were immaculate. But that was because she didn’t have the energy to leave them messy. When she ate – everything was cleaned and put away before she fell asleep. And she didn’t buy any food that might go bad. The dried milk she kept on hand didn’t taste all that good when she made it up for the meal – it was supposed to sit – but when she had the energy to eat and clean up she wanted to do it then. If she waited any time her burst of energy would be long gone and then there’s be the dishes to clean and they’d sit. She’d done that before when she’d tried to wait. And the dishes would sit with the big round eye of a plate accusing her of not doing anything and her mind quivering with the blows of unmet expectations. And she just couldn’t face the unwashed dishes one more time. So she made the dried milk up and drank it before it had cooled and as the horrid taste went down – thought – at least I got something in my body one more time.

And at times it was a moment-by-moment decision to keep on existing in such pain. She’d started treatments but so far none of them had worked. And she lived in pain. And she could no longer remember what it had been like before she lived in pain. And the treatments – try this drug and it will take two to six weeks before it works – you’ve been taking it for eight weeks and there’s no change, then stop taking the drug and in two weeks will try another drug – seemed futile. And every day longer until each day seemed like years.

They called it depression – she called it pain.

And she lived with it.

Today she was curled up in bed. Her book club was at noon, but she hadn’t read the book and she wasn’t sure she could go because she didn’t want people to know that she hadn’t read the book. It was six in the morning and the book had arrived. The package was sitting next to her bed. But she’d only opened it enough to see the spine and then had let it lie there, accusing her, saying she should just reach out and begin reading it, letting her know how worthless she was since she couldn’t reach over there. Instead she tossed and turned and even when she wasn’t looking at the book the thought of it ate at her, the acid of not getting it done rising up in her throat and burning so that she couldn’t sleep, but couldn’t pick up the book.

And she thought – I could call Angie, but I’ve already made too many excuses for not reading the books. And I’ve called her too many times. And if I keep calling her she might not want to hear from me again. And I don’t want her to see me like this. And maybe I just won’t go, but I’ve missed too many meetings already. And it’s too early to call her, but I’ve missed too many meetings, or I’ve been to them and not read the book and I just can’t do it, but I don’t want to miss the meeting and the book is sitting right over there so if I start reading now I could at least pretend to know what the book is saying, but I can’t concentrate enough to read and besides my comments aren’t as good as those of the other people and can’t be since I haven’t read the book and the books been sitting there for two weeks but I just haven’t had the energy, but I’m perfectly fine so I should have read the book and then I wouldn’t have to call Angie and cancel but I still haven’t cancelled so I could go but then I’d be unprepared and everyone would see what a mess I am.

And it was six-fifteen in the morning and she did not have the energy to get out of bed or to grab the book and yet she was tossing and turning and wondering if she could get out of bed today.

Once upon a time she thought that she would have thought nothing about getting out of bed. And she wondered why it seemed so hard to do, but it did. She was wrapped in a cocoon of frustration and anger and despair and it was torturing her to move and sit up and swing her legs over the bed and she dreaded the day and what would come and what would happen and whether she could actually do something. And she thought, I’ve got a doctor’s appointment today so I don’t need to actually go to the book club. I can tell them I’m waiting and they’ll understand and then I don’t need to read the book, but I do want to read the book and I do want to keep up with things, but how can I keep up with things when I can’t concentrate on anything and it takes so much energy and I’ve been up since 6am and I just can’t get out of bed and I used to be able to get out of bed in the morning but it seems like so much work.

And then her thoughts became, not incoherent, only of the pain. At times it was throbbing like when she’d had a migraine, at other times it was just there as a haze that covered everything so that she could barely take a breath and those times she dreaded the return of the throbbing with every movement and noise and during the throbbing she dreaded the return of a persistent ache so that neither was a relief from the other. The pain remained.

It sounds so simple, she thought, when the pain had gone. It sounds so simple to get up and do something. And yet all I can do is lie there until it passes.

And it was around eleven so she got up and called Angie to tell her that she was too sick to go to the book club.

And she lay back down to rest. How long those sessions lasted was irrelevant. Five minutes/ Five hours/ Five days she was in pain. And she could see no end.

She’d heard that some in her situation were tempted to suicide, but that held no attraction. Could she be certain that it would relieve the pain? Could she be certain that it would be final? Might not she wake up to even worse – though she couldn’t imagine how – pain? The questions ran through her mind, but found no purchase as all available centers were taken up by pain and longing for something different, some escape.

If there was a light at the end of the tunnel, it was a train coming to meet her. And the tunnel had no end.

She was in a pit. And the sides were soft so she could get no hold. And when she tried to pile the dirt up so she could stand a little closer to the top all it did was fade into the rest of the dirt and she felt soiled and unkempt and still couldn’t see any way out. No glimmer of light appeared at the top of the pit whether it was day or night.

There were times when there was neither pain nor agony – they were few – but they were there. But those times she felt nothing. And she wondered, she wondered then, if she were still alive.

In the nothingness that was in-between the pain she couldn’t imagine what it was like to go through life feeling something other than that pain. And when she wasn’t feeling anything she felt dead. And while being dead was comfortable – more comfortable than the pain – it wasn’t where she had been, though she couldn’t see how to get any other place. And she wasn’t sure she had the energy to go any other place.

The pain ruled. And when there wasn’t pain there was nothing left. And when there was pain there wasn’t anything else she could do except feel the pain.

So she started about the tasks. The morning had been spent in bed so she changed the sheets. Fortunately she had several sets so she didn’t have to think about doing the laundry yet. And then she took a shower. She remembered that there’d been times she spent what seemed like hours in the shower luxuriating in the sense of the water on her skin, but now she felt nothing. The pounding of the water was like the beat of her heart when the waves of pain washed over her and so she was in and out of the shower.

She didn’t have the energy to decide what to wear, but that we o.k. The clothes she’d just washed went at the back of the closet so at least she wore something different when she pulled the stuff out from the front. If it was a dress, then she wore nylons. If it was a suit, then knee-highs, and she just didn’t have to think about anything. And thinking took up more energy than she had to spare.

And she just did not have the energy any more.

She was lucky, she thought, that she’d never used much make-up or done much with her hair. She didn’t know how she’d have coped if she had to do more than the little blush and brushing of hair these days. She certainly kept up appearances…. She didn’t think any one realized how hard it was for her to get through the day, but never having done more than the minimal in the first place except for special occasions and not going out just meant she had one less thing to do to keep people from worrying about her, though why they should she couldn’t understand any more.

She had no energy to care about anyone else and so she wondered why anyone would care for her. And so she got ready to go to the doctor. It was her annual check-up. The card arrived asking her to cancel if the time wasn’t good and since it was too much work to pick up the phone she’d left the appointment.

Day 2

She was awake and turning long before seven. But she had determined she was going to take the prescription at 7am and so she waited. She might not be able to do anything else today, but that one thing was all she needed to do. Perhaps she would be out of pain, perhaps not, but she could do that one thing just for today she would take the pill at seven and not worry about tomorrow.

She had never considered suicide – that just wasn’t an option. But she thought of sticking a long thin wire – too thin to cause any damage up her nose and through her sinus cavities until it reached the brain and then scraping the brain away from all connections to her skull and severing the nerves. That wasn’t to kill self, just a way to stop the pain.

The fires burned in her head when she was lying down and when she was moving every motion was through water. And sometimes every movement seemed through pain and in slow motion. And so it was in pain that she took the pill for depression. Even though she knew that it wouldn’t work for several weeks, she took the pill. Even as the thoughts of this won’t work and I’ll have to start all over again came rushing through – she took the pill.

And then she went back to bed and curled up in a ball of tears. But the tears were beyond the weepy tired that she’d had when she’d worked long hours. They were not tears of exhaustion – though she had no energy. They were not tears of frustration – though the weariness in every moment frustrated her. They were tears that came because she had nothing left. And she lay like that for what seemed hours, but was only minutes, then got up again and went to fix breakfast – cereal right out of the box.

And then she went back to bed and curled up.

And she lay there, not writhing, not turning, not moving, just curled up and laying in one spot.

And she lay there in pain.

And she thought

How long, O Lord, How long?
I cry out by day, but I hear no answer.
My tears fill the night but there is no relief.

And the psalm was a comfort. She didn’t know how she got into this situation and sure didn’t know how she would come out of the pain, but the psalm comforted her. Someone else had been where she remained.

And after that thought she fell asleep.

And in her dreams the fire still burned and the pliers still pinched and her nerve endings played like a Kabalevsky theme without any resolution. She could remember when even the discordant notes resolved, but couldn’t hear how it had happened. And her nerves were still played without relief.

But the real pain was in the feelings and images that kept her quivering in terror as the prey of images and thoughts and doubts and fears and worries and misgivings that tore through her head at every new event – even the ringing of the telephone or the whisper of a breeze. And so she lay in bed trying not to move so that the pain she was in wouldn’t change to something worse.

And the pain wasn’t worse when she moved, but it wasn’t better. And while it seemed to change places and intensities it was easier to live with it not moving than with the pain moving around.

And her mind went back to: How long, O Lord, how long…. and then kept circling around how long.

Strong mother and weak father

It is a mystery to me why so many ex-gay sites seem to think that gay men all have overbearing mothers and weak fathers. I suppose if it is twisted more than a little one could say that about my parents - it would be wrong. My mother was a strong woman who raised three sons and my father was a strong man who was involved with his children. In many ways my father looked more like a peacemaker than my mother. My mother was, in some ways, more involved with the church on the state and national levels, while my father was involved more with the local congregation. Yet they were both involved in many ways in the lives of their children. From my dad taking on the leadership for a Boy Scout troop - in part so their would be a troop for his sons to my mother teaching all of her sons how to cook, sew, iron and do laundry - so that they wouldn't be as helpless as her husband when they were living on their own. To both being at almost every event from school to music recitals to scouting to graduations and more; they were involved, supportive parents. They were partners in life and in the raising of their children.

And so on this day, the birthday of my father, I give thanks for both of them.

And I especially give thanks for the love my father had for my mother. Because of the evidence of that love I did not settle for marriage to a woman, even though I came close, since I just could not see the love between myself and the wonderful women who wanted to marry me. I just couldn't marry anyone without what my parents' had and so spared more than one woman the heartache of finding that the man she married was gay. And so I continue to give thanks for the love of those women and remain grateful for the care they have shown me.

Depression - with more added

As she lifted her head the sour smell of stale sweat from her pillow arose. But it was too hard to move much more and so she lay back down in desperation. She didn’t feel as if there were any good reason for her to stay in bed, but she just couldn’t move. And that was what she had felt for a long time.

At least it felt like a long time. At this point she wasn’t sure how long. She vaguely remembered happy times. But it was as if those happy times were through ten feet of cotton candy and her life now. She could see herself laughing in some photos, but couldn’t figure out what that felt like. Yes, she had been happy, but not in a long, long time.

Her living room and kitchen were immaculate. But that was because she didn’t have the energy to leave them messy. When she ate – everything was cleaned and put away before she fell asleep. And she didn’t buy any food that might go bad. The dried milk she kept on hand didn’t taste all that good when she made it up for the meal – it was supposed to sit – but when she had the energy to eat and clean up she wanted to do it then. If she waited any time her burst of energy would be long gone and then there’s be the dishes to clean and they’d sit. She’d done that before when she’d tried to wait. And the dishes would sit with the big round eye of a plate accusing her of not doing anything and her mind quivering with the blows of unmet expectations. And she just couldn’t face the unwashed dishes one more time. So she made the dried milk up and drank it before it had cooled and as the horrid taste went down – thought – at least I got something in my body one more time.

And at times it was a moment-by-moment decision to keep on existing in such pain. She’d started treatments but so far none of them had worked. And she lived in pain. And she could no longer remember what it had been like before she lived in pain. And the treatments – try this drug and it will take two to six weeks before it works – you’ve been taking it for eight weeks and there’s no change, then stop taking the drug and in two weeks will try another drug – seemed futile. And every day longer until each day seemed like years.

They called it depression – she called it pain.

And she lived with it.

Today she was curled up in bed. Her book club was at noon, but she hadn’t read the book and she wasn’t sure she could go because she didn’t want people to know that she hadn’t read the book. It was six in the morning and the book had arrived. The package was sitting next to her bed. But she’d only opened it enough to see the spine and then had let it lie there, accusing her, saying she should just reach out and begin reading it, letting her know how worthless she was since she couldn’t reach over there. Instead she tossed and turned and even when she wasn’t looking at the book the thought of it ate at her, the acid of not getting it done rising up in her throat and burning so that she couldn’t sleep, but couldn’t pick up the book.

And she thought – I could call Angie, but I’ve already made too many excuses for not reading the books. And I’ve called her too many times. And if I keep calling her she might not want to hear from me again. And I don’t want her to see me like this. And maybe I just won’t go, but I’ve missed too many meetings already. And it’s too early to call her, but I’ve missed too many meetings, or I’ve been to them and not read the book and I just can’t do it, but I don’t want to miss the meeting and the book is sitting right over there so if I start reading now I could at least pretend to know what the book is saying, but I can’t concentrate enough to read and besides my comments aren’t as good as those of the other people and can’t be since I haven’t read the book and the books been sitting there for two weeks but I just haven’t had the energy, but I’m perfectly fine so I should have read the book and then I wouldn’t have to call Angie and cancel but I still haven’t cancelled so I could go but then I’d be unprepared and everyone would see what a mess I am.

And it was six-fifteen in the morning and she did not have the energy to get out of bed or to grab the book and yet she was tossing and turning and wondering if she could get out of bed today.

Once upon a time she thought that she would have thought nothing about getting out of bed. And she wondered why it seemed so hard to do, but it did. She was wrapped in a cocoon of frustration and anger and despair and it was torturing her to move and sit up and swing her legs over the bed and she dreaded the day and what would come and what would happen and whether she could actually do something. And she thought, I’ve got a doctor’s appointment today so I don’t need to actually go to the book club. I can tell them I’m waiting and they’ll understand and then I don’t need to read the book, but I do want to read the book and I do want to keep up with things, but how can I keep up with things when I can’t concentrate on anything and it takes so much energy and I’ve been up since 6am and I just can’t get out of bed and I used to be able to get out of bed in the morning but it seems like so much work.

And then her thoughts became, not incoherent, only of the pain. At times it was throbbing like when she’d had a migraine, at other times it was just there as a haze that covered everything so that she could barely take a breath and those times she dreaded the return of the throbbing with every movement and noise and during the throbbing she dreaded the return of a persistent ache so that neither was a relief from the other. The pain remained.

It sounds so simple, she thought, when the pain had gone. It sounds so simple to get up and do something. And yet all I can do is lie there until it passes.

And it was around eleven so she got up and called Angie to tell her that she was too sick to go to the book club.

And she lay back down to rest. How long those sessions lasted was irrelevant. Five minutes/ Five hours/ Five days she was in pain. And she could see no end.

She’d heard that some in her situation were tempted to suicide, but that held no attraction. Could she be certain that it would relieve the pain? Could she be certain that it would be final? Might not she wake up to even worse – though she couldn’t imagine how – pain? The questions ran through her mind, but found no purchase as all available centers were taken up by pain and longing for something different, some escape.

If there was a light at the end of the tunnel, it was a train coming to meet her. And the tunnel had no end.

She was in a pit. And the sides were soft so she could get no hold. And when she tried to pile the dirt up so she could stand a little closer to the top all it did was fade into the rest of the dirt and she felt soiled and unkempt and still couldn’t see any way out. No glimmer of light appeared at the top of the pit whether it was day or night.

There were times when there was neither pain nor agony – they were few – but they were there. But those times she felt nothing. And she wondered, she wondered then, if she were still alive.

In the nothingness that was in-between the pain she couldn’t imagine what it was like to go through life feeling something other than that pain. And when she wasn’t feeling anything she felt dead. And while being dead was comfortable – more comfortable than the pain – it wasn’t where she had been, though she couldn’t see how to get any other place. And she wasn’t sure she had the energy to go any other place.

The pain ruled. And when there wasn’t pain there was nothing left. And when there was pain there wasn’t anything else she could do except feel the pain.

Science and toilets

Science speaks to the usual things. From Pure Pedantry comes a link to an article about game theory and toilet seats. It seems there is an actual way of determining whether the seat should be up or down. I suspect it doesn't factor in some parts of the equation as in a room mate that I once had who left the toilet seat as it had been before he got there whether he was standing or sitting and had bad aim. After living with that situation I leave the toilet seat up and will probably continue to do so. Knowing the urine is quite sterile doesn't mean that I enjoy the feeling that I've just found some on the seat.

Running the church

I once talked to a pastor who had served the congregation where many of my mother's family worship. He said that when he went to that congregation he was warned that the N... family ran the church. So he was a bit cautious. Then he figured out that they spoke their minds, argued their positions and once a decision was made shut up and supported that decision even when they disagreed. They ran the church because they volunteered and worked where needed, but not because they wanted the power or prestige. Somehow I took that as the compliment it was meant to be.

Leave the Gate

Growing up with farmers and ranchers one of the rules was ‘Leave that gate as you found it.’ I learned it through example long before I could express it. I didn’t need to know whether the cows were to be kept in or out or let wander between the fields. All that was important was to make sure that we kept the gates where they were to help granddad or my aunts and uncles do the work on the ranch.

That’s not a bad rule for life. Unless you know what you’re doing, leave things as you find them. The simplest form that I learned before kindergarten is just to leave things as they are. I didn’t always follow it. Sometime when I was about three I wandered into the kitchen and found that things were in a different drawer than I remembered. So I took my time and switched them back to the way they’d been. My mother had to sit me down and explain that she had changed the places of her kitchen utensils. I guess that I might have been following the rule since I thought I should put things back in the way they’d always been.

I suspect I may sometimes have been irritating as a child since I wanted things left the way that I’d put them. My brother and I shared some of our books in music lessons. There was a time when he was teasing me when we were switching places at the piano for practice and he put one of our shared books on the top of the piano. I asked him (perhaps demanded) to put it back. He didn’t. I left it there. And, until he found it, I kept telling him that he was the last one to have it. I told the whole truth, but I didn’t tell enough to help him out. And I gored my own ox since I was supposed to practice from that book. But being a little bit stubborn I didn’t touch the book since it wasn’t where I’d arranged my books to be and my brother hadn’t put it back. I suppose that’s a case of being way to stubborn about leaving the gate as I found it.

My mother once said, ‘You’re the most amenable of my children and the most stubborn.’ I wouldn’t disagree. If I didn’t think it was worth fighting over I’d go along. But once my stubborn side came into play – and I had to have what I thought was good reason – then I was stubborn as a mule.

And I was as stubborn as a mule my grandparents had while mom was growing up. This mule had a tendency to pull back and break the reins when it was tied up. A couple of my uncles thought they’d teach the mule not to do this. So they used a chain in place of the leather reins and hitched the mule to a telephone pole. The mule pulled back. The mule kept pulling back. The mule pulled the telephone pole down on its head. (Trust me, this story made it into the book of family stories that we collected for my grandparent’s fiftieth wedding anniversary.) The mule was knocked out, but survived. My uncles learned not to hitch the mule up to anything.

After I was in college my mother and I were traveling with one of my brothers and an imp of the perverse caused my mother to ask my brother if he knew who had sat in the middle the most while we were growing up. My one brother said the name of my other brother. Mom and I both smiled at each other as she said my name. My brothers fought over who got the window seats and I sat in the middle for three times and then just got in and let my brothers continue to fight over the window seat. I just didn’t want to fight and didn’t think it was that big of a deal. For some reason my brother, even by the time both of us were out of the house, just hadn’t noticed my stubborn streak, but mom had noticed both the amenable and stubborn sides. We’re in our forties and I still don’t think my brother (and this is my twin) has noticed how stubborn I can be at times. Oh well.

One reason I’m reluctant to use my stubborn streak is that it can be destructive. Yes sometimes is the time to get on one’s horse and ride into the battle. But, as in the earlier example of the music book, there are times when it’s just not worthwhile it harms me more than any goal that might be achieved. So I try to figure out what’s a constructive use of my stubborn streaks.

One of the ways I’m doing this is just like my mother. Every year she read through the Bible. In the year that my parents went back to Germany to see where his mother had lived, my mother read through the Bible in German – as she was learning German for the first time. This year my goal has been to read through the New Testament in Greek. I took the language in college and in graduate school, but haven’t used it much lately. So this year – it’s back to learning how to read another language. Next year, I’m back to English, but for one year my stubborn streak served me well.

And I also try to use that stubborn streak along with the lesson of leaving the gate as I found it. One of my issues is conservation. Some things are more easily done than others. But at our motel we save the soaps and lotions that we can’t put out and give them to people who need soap and shampoo. It’s not much but it is something. We also work on reusing what we can. If a key card packet doesn’t have anything written on it, then we can use it for the next customer. I may not be able to stop jump faxes – I tried calling the stop numbers and ended up with more – but I can cut them up, staple them together, and come up with note pads. Sure, it takes a little more time but those things make me feel as if I’m leaving the world as is came to me or a little better.

What are your inclinations that can be used for both good and bad? A stubborn streak, a tendency to jump in feet first, a tendency to hold back and see what’s happening, something more?

How can I keep from giving?

For all that I can be suspicious and write some cynical stuff, most of the people I've worked with are great and really need the food./clothing/gas I ran a food program and clothes closet right out of college and found it a source of strength in other times to reflect on what I've been able to do for others.

I don't think I've told the story here, but once upon a time I had a teacher - Mr. McCullough - he was doing a class on prejudice. My twin brother had the same class later in the day and was told not to answer any questions that day as he entered. The example of my parents was the problem. Mr. McCullough asked the class what would happen if a stranger came to the door and asked for food. And I knew. I raised my hand and said that my parents would get them some. And Mr. McCullough started to describe someone diry and ragged and such and I started to raise my hand again. And was told to not answer the question. For some reason this high school teacher didn't want my brother to ruin his point in a later class the way I did.

My parents learned at home. One of the stories from the depression is that mother's parents always had a couple of hired hands. It wasn't because they needed them - not with five boys. But they had people show up and they 'hired' them - sometimes with just food and lodging because that's all they had - until they could get another job.

Or should I mention my cousin who appeared at her parent's house for dinner with several men in tow. They were migrant laborers who were planning to get their Friday paychecks and go home to New Mexico for the weekend. But the boss didn't pay them on Friday as he wanted them on Saturday. So they were out of money, out of food and she brought them home and her parents fed them.

I grew up knowing the joy of helping people out. That's why even though I can by cynical and disbelieving when people ask for help I won't stop doing it just because I might get taken. If I'm conned so what. There are more people out there that I've helped and that I've seen appreciate it and that have needed that extra moment of caring that enriches me more than it does them and so .... I keep on rejoincing and giving because that's part of what makes for a life that is worthwhile.

And even more about my life

There are times when I wish that I could read minds. As in being asked to bring up a couple of towels to a room and when I get to the room being berated because I only brought two. It seems the guest wanted enough for their whole family. That I double checked whether they wanted hand towels and washcloths when I took the request seems to have escaped, that I brought up two, when they said 'a couple' and meant four was present for about thirty minutes. Well – I exaggerated it only felt like thirty minutes between the time I found out they wanted more than a couple and I picked up more and brought the extras to the room and heard again about my poor service skills in only bringing two when they wanted more.

That's not the only time I wish I could read minds. When a guest asks for a double there are three possible interpretations. And I wonder, 'Do they want a room with two beds? for two people? or with a double sized mattress?' I don't know until I ask. And most people are pleased to explain, but then I get the 'you know what I mean – a double' people who can't imagine that their usage is not the only possible explanation.

But most of the time I don't really want to know more that what people are talking about in front of me. When I've heard about how their roommate/significant others snores/talks/ bothers them for the twentieth time I already have the details in mind. I don't need to read their mind. I already know more than I want.

And then there are the complaints and the praises where I don't want to know more than is being said. I've had a couple of suspicions that people praising me wanted something else. I think it's because one of them asked for my name and my card and told me what a good job I'd done and then sent a complaint to the national office about what a poor job I'd done. Since I get far more compliments through the national office than complaints I take those with a grain of salt, though I do look at them seriously and try to improve. And certainly I make mistakes. I do have a problem with complimenting me to my face and bad mouthing me to someone else. I'm glad I couldn't read the mind of that guest, since I might have shown them how sarcastic I can get. While I might do that with my friends I tend to believe that I shouldn't be sarcastic with a customer. I can be tempted however into doing that which I don't want to do.

Also in complaints is the mind of the woman who called my ugly, about to lose my job, lacking in customer service skills, and more. I think the fact that I'd asked her to leave after finding her with a dog in the pool contributed to the fact that she was upset. There is a no pet policy posted at our motel. Somehow that fact escaped her notice. At least she said that she hadn't been aware of that when I caught her with the dog in the pool. I think she misspoke since she complained to the national office and told them that she'd been told to sneak the dog into the motel by a desk clerk. I had a little trouble believing that since the desk clerk and I had searched for a barking dog for several minutes before we found the dog in the pool. Maybe it's my mind I don't want her to read, certainly she seemed to have spoken her mind fairly clearly, but it's certainly not a mind I want to know any further things about.

Breakfast time is another time I'm just as glad I don't read minds. I really don't mind the requests for items that I'm out of. I do mind some other things. The guest who argued over how to make waffles in our waffle maker – I don't mind being told that the guest had closed the lid and was waiting to for it to quit beeping, as then the iron would have heated up. I do mind being told that I was wrong twice in a row when I told her that the waffle iron was hot and the beeping was because the iron sensed it had been closed, assumed that she had poured in the batter and was wanting her to rotate it so as to start the timer. Finally, that guest read the directions and then believed me. Actually this is another time I 'm glad that guests can't read my mind.

When I've had someone come down to the front desk two, three, four times to tell me how much he and his girlfriend are enjoying their time at the motel. I don't want to read their mind. And I certainly don't want him to read my mind even if my question of "Why are you telling me if you're having such a great time? Shouldn't you be back in the room having a great time, if it is indeed such a great time?" might be enough to keep him from coming back and that would keep me from thinking longingly of sticking pens into my ears.

I really don't want to read the mind of the guest who talked to me about whether or not the housekeepers were stealing from her room. Those mentions of Hispanics being thieves didn't really appeal to me nor did her dismissal of my suggestion that sticking a stuffed animal in the doorway while she went to breakfast (so she didn't have to keep a key with her) was more likely to lead to a theft than the actions of housekeepers who had been with the motel for seven and six years respectively.

And speaking of housekeepers, it's not that I'm glad I don't read minds, I'm also appreciative that I don't know what words they're saying in Spanish some days. One of those days was when they went into a room where potpourri was sprinkled on the bed and flower petals on the carpet. I suspect (that means I'm absolutely sure) that if I'd known any of the words the housekeeper said as she picked up each petal from the carpet I'd have had to reprimand her for her language. But then I wouldn't have wanted to be a hypocrite as I was probably thinking similar things as I worked to get the stains from the potpourri out of the linens.

I'm glad the customer the other night wasn't reading my mind. He was telling me about how we could have handled firing a desk clerk better. If he'd stopped right there I would have been fine. But he mentioned how nice she was to the customers and my mind started thinking about how she was a little nicer to some customers than we expected. He said something along the lines of how maybe he didn't know all the problems and I was thinking I really hope you don't know the problems. I mentioned she'd been late a few times and he went but I've known people to keep their jobs when they run late and do extra things around the place. And I was thinking it's not just that she's running late even though that's what I mentioned and there are some extras that we don't want our employees to provide around the place.

Yes, on the whole, I'm glad I don't read people's minds. And I'm certainly glad that they can't read mine.

My mother

Once upon a time my mother was heading out of town to a meeting. Since the foster child she was caring for couldn't go outside of the county borders mom was taking the child to a friend's house (another foster parent) for the day. Mom really didn't think the weather was that bad even though there was some snow. Then she got to a hill and all of a sudden was facing the other direction. The car had done a 180. The child threw up her hands and went 'Whee'. My mother wiped her brow and went 'Whew', then decided as long as she was facing the direction of her house she ought to go there and avoid driving in any more snow and ice for the day.

Leave the gate

Growing up with farmers and ranchers one of the rules was 'Leave that gate as you found it.' I learned it through example long before I could express it. I didn't need to know whether the cows were to be kept in or out or let wander between the fields. All that was important was to make sure that we kept the gates where they were to help granddad or my aunts and uncles do the work on the ranch.

That's not a bad rule for life. Unless you know what you're doing, leave things as you find them. The simplest form that I learned before kindergarten is just to leave things as they are. I didn't always follow it. Sometime when I was about three I wandered into the kitchen and found that things were in a different drawer than I remembered. So I took my time and switched them back to the way they'd been. My mother had to sit me down and explain that she had changed the places of her kitchen utensils. I guess that I might have been following the rule since I thought I should put things back in the way they'd always been.

I suspect I may sometimes have been irritating as a child since I wanted things left the way that I'd put them. My brother and I shared some of our books in music lessons. There was a time when he was teasing me when we were switching places at the piano for practice and he put one of our shared books on the top of the piano. I asked him (perhaps demanded) to put it back. He didn't. I left it there. And, until he found it, I kept telling him that he was the last one to have it. I told the whole truth, but I didn't tell enough to help him out. And I gored my own ox since I was supposed to practice from that book. But being a little bit stubborn I didn't touch the book since it wasn't where I'd arranged my books to be and my brother hadn't put it back. I suppose that's a case of being way to stubborn about leaving the gate as I found it.

My mother once said, 'You're the most amenable of my children and the most stubborn.' I wouldn't disagree. If I didn't think it was worth fighting over I'd go along. But once my stubborn side came into play – and I had to have what I thought was good reason – then I was stubborn as a mule.

And I was as stubborn as a mule my grandparents had while mom was growing up. This mule had a tendency to pull back and break the reins when it was tied up. A couple of my uncles thought they'd teach the mule not to do this. So they used a chain in place of the leather reins and hitched the mule to a telephone pole. The mule pulled back. The mule kept pulling back. The mule pulled the telephone pole down on its head. (Trust me, this story made it into the book of family stories that we collected for my grandparent's fiftieth wedding anniversary.) The mule was knocked out, but survived. My uncles learned not to hitch the mule up to anything.

After I was in college my mother and I were traveling with one of my brothers and an imp of the perverse caused my mother to ask my brother if he knew who had sat in the middle the most while we were growing up. My one brother said the name of my other brother. Mom and I both smiled at each other as she said my name. My brothers fought over who got the window seats and I sat in the middle for three times and then just got in and let my brothers continue to fight over the window seat. I just didn't want to fight and didn't think it was that big of a deal. For some reason my brother, even by the time both of us were out of the house, just hadn't noticed my stubborn streak, but mom had noticed both the amenable and stubborn sides. We're in our forties and I still don't think my brother (and this is my twin) has noticed how stubborn I can be at times. Oh well.

One reason I'm reluctant to use my stubborn streak is that it can be destructive. Yes sometimes is the time to get on one's horse and ride into the battle. But, as in the earlier example of the music book, there are times when it's just not worthwhile it harms me more than any goal that might be achieved. So I try to figure out what's a constructive use of my stubborn streaks.

One of the ways I'm doing this is just like my mother. Every year she read through the Bible. In the year that my parents went back to Germany to see where his mother had lived, my mother read through the Bible in German – as she was learning German for the first time. This year my goal has been to read through the New Testament in Greek. I took the language in college and in graduate school, but haven't used it much lately. So this year – it's back to learning how to read another language. Next year, I'm back to English, but for one year my stubborn streak served me well.

And I also try to use that stubborn streak along with the lesson of leaving the gate as I found it. One of my issues is conservation. Some things are more easily done than others. But at our motel we save the soaps and lotions that we can't put out and give them to people who need soap and shampoo. It's not much but it is something. We also work on reusing what we can. If a key card packet doesn't have anything written on it, then we can use it for the next customer. I may not be able to stop jump faxes – I tried calling the stop numbers and ended up with more – but I can cut them up, staple them together, and come up with note pads. Sure, it takes a little more time but those things make me feel as if I'm leaving the world as is came to me or a little better.

What are your inclinations that can be used for both good and bad? A stubborn streak, a tendency to jump in feet first, a tendency to hold back and see what's happening, something more?

Daughter of Jairus - Luke 8

How many ways in this story did Jesus violate the conventions for religious leaders? The woman with the hemorrhage was unclean, the dead body was unclean and more.

But this story is about going beyond the immediate to the real needs of people. In the bustle of a crowd Jesus noticed someone who was desperate. Menstrual bleeding for twelve years, that woman shouldn’t have even been in the crowd that day, she was unclean and was supposed to be out away from people so she wouldn’t make them unclean, let alone be around someone she respected, such as a teacher.

And yet this woman touched Jesus and he felt power leave and he responded to her. Even in the midst of another problem he took time for a nameless woman. Frankly I’m not like that. I get involved in one task and don’t really notice anything until that’s done. If I’m doing several things, then I’m probably not paying attention to much of anything other than those several things. I can walk and talk at the same time, but noticing what else is going on is beyond me.

And what we see in this story is someone rich and well known coming to Jesus in need. And what we see here is someone not so well known or popular looking to Jesus for help. And what we see is Jesus coming to both rich and poor in their time of need. We see a Jesus who has ruth and compassion for the least among us.

The miracle isn’t, in my opinion, the healing of the sick or the raising of the dead. The miracle is in the giving of self and going to the least among us. And Luke is all about helping the one’s who are weak, oppressed, different and more. In fact, there are a few scholars who believe that a woman wrote Luke. One of the reasons for that speculation (it is a very serious speculation) is that there are so many women in Luke and they play a prominent role.

Time and time again we hear that we are not to be like others. We’re not about searching for power or wealth. We don’t go to the people who like Jairus are leaders first; we go to the people who have little or no power. We don’t come to the powerful for answers; we take time in private prayer and conversation with each other. What does the Lord require? – see Micah 6:8. What is the greatest commandment? and the second like it? – see Luke10:27 and other places. Once we start concentrating on loving our neighbor and working so that the needs of those without power are met, then we are on the way of following Christ.

We have someone who overturned the tables of the moneychangers, who called religious leaders whitened tombs, who said that many who called upon his name would be surprised at the last days. The scriptures do not show our savior’s message as someone who wants us to be walking in the halls of power and saying ‘this person is voting our religious values and that person is not.’ They show someone who walks the halls of power and asks the people to account for their use of that power.

So do we walk with the powers that be congratulating ourselves on our relationships with those who can do things? Or do we walk as those who call the powerful and rich to be better than they thought they could be? Which one would Jesus do?

Stories of my family

In high school one of my teachers, social studies, recommended that we read a book by Barbara Ward called ‘The Rich Nations and the Poor Nations”. He said that, ‘there’s probably only one other copy in our town.’ I went home and mentioned this to my parents. My dad said, “I think I have a copy at the office” and my mother said, “I’ve got a copy downstairs that your aunt sent me and one upstairs that I bought at a conference.

My parents were also responsible for another social studies teacher having problems. I went into class one day and the teacher asked us, “What would your parents do if someone came to the door and asked for food?” Since my dad had been in charge of ministerial emergency funds in more than one community I put up my hand and said, “Give them food and if they needed lodging get them a room at the local motel.” So my teacher tried to make the situation worse and described someone dirty, ragged, and with a noisy car. I started to raise my hand and was told “Roger, don’t answer the question”. One of my brothers had the same class at another period and was told as he came in the door, “Don’t answer my questions today.”

This sort of story isn’t that unusual in my family. We have stories of my grandparents taking in people during the depression. Or in more recent years one of my cousins was working with some migrant workers. The boss put off paying them one Friday so he could get them back on Saturday. They had planned their money so that they could go back home on Friday and return on Monday. My cousin showed up at her parent’s house with several extra men at dinnertime. I might not always say that my relatives are nice, but I will say they set a good example.

I get some stubbornness from my family as well. One of my uncles got into a conflict with the college where he worked, or so I heard the story, and they thought they had him over a barrel. He quit. From teaching mathematics he went to tuning pianos. He made more money. A few years later he was teaching again – this time how to tune pianos.

At a recent family reunion one of my aunts mentioned that they didn’t know where the red hair in my uncle’s beard came from. I mentioned that my mother said it came from our great-grandfather K. She was surprised; my uncle – whom my mother had called her favorite brother – was surprised. Family stories get passed down different ways.

I sometimes wonder why all the criminal shows have people running up stairs. Don’t they know that they’re trapped there? Then I recall where my twin brother and spent many summer hours. We were up on the roof of the garage eating peaches. We were up on a limb of the locust tree. We were climbing the TV antenna to look at the purple martin house. Perhaps it’s not so strange that people flee to the heights.

Those little lies

Today someone said something along the lines of 'Your breakfast closes early.' And I went, 'we keep it open until nine am.' And they continued along with, 'most places keep it open until ten' And I went, 'not around here.' Then the final word was, 'We've never seen a breakfast close so early.' And I sighed.

I know that the places around here close at nine am. I've been at a lot of motels where the breakfast closes at nine. It's just not that unusual. And to have someone say that they've never seen it before is either a lack of travel experience or a little lie. And those little lies add up.

I suppose that the person just wanted to be in the right. But a little lie is the wrong way to go about it. We all make mistakes and all of us have lied on ocassion. But the attitude that allows one to lie, just a little bit, just for a good purpose, just adds up over time into an attitude that allows lying at one's convenience. And that's why just a little lie is still wrong.