The Demolition Man

We're finally doing it. We're going to make the upstairs bathroom as nice as the rest of the house.
We hired our man: a tall, brawny contractor with years of experience in building lovely kitchens and bathrooms.
In my mind I see the finished product: new contemporary-looking shower tiles with a decorative strip of contrasting tile traveling about two thirds up the wall. New granite countertop with a tile backsplash. Lovely wainscoting to set off the new tile and counter top. Brand new fixtures.
I can hardly wait to see the new bathroom.
Tim arrives on Tuesday. I'm surprised --and I tell him so -- that he doesn't have too many tools with him. He laughs goodnaturedly.
Because he knows all about these kinds of jobs.
And I don't. I only see the finished product in my mind.
Tim envisions the entire process, leading up to the glorious end.
That first day I've never heard so much, banging and booming, clanging, rattling, crunching. The dust flies, clings to everything, filters through the house, gets tramped all over my nice wide-plank wood floors. Tim's assistant runs down the stairs carrying box after box of bathroom debris outside.
At the end of the day, my little bathroom looks desolate. It is totally non-functional.
But the next day, the wainscoting is up, a new shower pan and new plumbing has been installed. Still not functional, but looks promising.
It scares me to see the bathroom empty. But Tim knows exactly what he's doing. I trust him.
I know that, in a week's time, I will have my bathroom back, and in much better condition.

There's a Master Carpenter working on me, as well. Sometimes, as he demolishes old attitudes, habits, fears, strongholds, I feel left without a safe sin to get me through the day. But I trust Him. I've seen some of His other projects and I feel confident that He'll be able to complete the job on me. And it'll be worth the mess, the devastation, the disfunction.
I'll have me back, much better than before.

"Unless the Lord builds the house, its builders labor in vain." Psalm 127:1

How I Sometimes Pray

Dear Lord,
I blah, blah, blah, blah, blah,blah, blah, and I blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.
So, blah, blah,blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. I blah, blah, blah.
I blah, blah, blah, NEED blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. and I blah, blah, blah. PLEASE, blah, blah, blah, blah.
I WANT blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. I NEED blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah AND ALSO blah, blah, blah, blah. I blah, blah, blah, blah. Please blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. PLEASE blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. . . . .
Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah and I blah, blah, and blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. I blah, blah blah. And blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, and blah, blah, blah, and blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. And I WANT blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. I blah, blah, FEEL, blah blah, blah ME blah, blah, ME, blah, me, blah, blah.
In Jesus' name.
Amen

Dear Dena,
Is it my turn to speak?
The Lord

"Be still and know that I am God." (Psalm 46:10)

My PC, the Big Bully

My PC is a bully.
It's like the horse at the local riding stable who sizes you up and knows you're a gringo before your untrained seat even plops into the saddle.
PC (short for Pugnacious Codger) snickers every time I approach it. It senses my fear.
Today, for example, PC let me think all was well. It hummed along, applying words and edits onto the screen according to my speedy fingers.
Waited till I was warmed up and in a groove.
Then, Blam!
One of my lines suddenly shifted to the right about twenty-five spaces.
What the. . . ?
I placed the cursor to the left of the first word in the line and tapped the backspace. The last word of the previous sentence jumped down and joined the errant line.
Huh?
My son, Garrett, was just getting ready to leave for work.
"Help!"
Garrett came into the office, leaned over and peered at the strange sentence while I explained what happened. He tried the same thing: placed the cursor, tapped backspace. The line moved back where it belonged.
Garrett smiled smugly. I know what he's thinking: I'm computer challenged.
As soon as he was gone PC employed another of its exasperating moves.
You type a word and the letters fail to appear on the screen for a full three to five seconds. Just as you type the word again, the previously typed letters appear. Now you have "thethe."
Argh!
Oh, PC has many tricks up its sleeve. But as soon as Bruce sits down to type up his Bible study notes, it sits up straight and folds its hands in its lap. The big bully.
Nary a typo nor a misplaced line on the screen for Bruce.
My theory is that PCs everywhere recognize the vibes sent out by right-brained humans. (Bruce is decidedly left-brained.)
Maybe the vibes come directly from my fingers.
Should I put on latex gloves?
What do you think?

Cats and God

I don't know why they do it. I've known very few cats who don't do it. Perhaps an animal behaviorialist could tell me.
I settle onto my bed for a good read. My head and shoulders are comfortably propped with a pillow and my book rests on another pillow on my chest. Perfect height for reading.
I thumb to the page where I'd left off and start to drift into the world of fictional characters and settings.
Then. . . ploomth. Nina, the cat leaps onto the bed. She usually starts at the foot of the bed. I feel the little mattress depressions of her paws, stealthily moving upward toward my shoulders and head. Her throat rumbles with affectionate (and hopeful) purrs and she nudges the book away from my face.
My arm comes down, pinning her soft little body next to my torso.
Same old drill.
She waits, lies still, yellow-green eyes staring, waiting.
I turn my attention back to the book.
Nina's body shifts slightly but not enough to distract me.
Another shift.
Now her head rests on my shoulder. I can feel her breath, coming in little puffs. She gazes at me adoringly.
Next comes the paw, which she uses to pull herself up closer to my face. The action is nearly imperceptible.
My cat is stalking my face.
And in another second half of the book's page is obscured by a furry face. She leans forward, sips my breath, her purrs coming in quick little "huffa, huffa, huffa" pants.
Not to be denied, the cat wants all of my attention.
Not content merely with a warm side and caressing fingers.
No, I must look at her, only at her. My book is an idol, to be cast down (on the floor, actually). Nina desires my worship.
She will not accept cast-off attention.
That is not worship.
No when-I'm-ready, or when-I-feel-like-it, or if-it's-convenient, kind of attention.
That is not worship.
I must sacrifice the book.
And if I put her off, she will be back. Again and again.

How like God are cats!

"I am the Lord, your God. . . you shall have no other gods before me." (Genesis 20:2,3)

Book, Take Me Away!

After a long day filled with writing, teaching, chores, running errands and social activities, it is one of my most sublimes pleasures to settle into bed with a good book and hot mug of tea.
Remember the old commercial, touting bath oil beads?
In my mind I can still hear the echo of the lady's voice as she sighs, "Calgon, take me away."

That's the way I feel about a good book.

When I was in the seventh grade my brother handed me Tolkien's Lord of the Rings and said, "Here, read this book and quit bugging me."

I disappeared into my bedroom and, within minutes, was transported to Middle Earth. Frodo completely charmed me. I fell in love with Aragorn. And Gandalf? Oh, how I wanted to don a grey cloak and traverse my own mysterious, dangerous, heroic world, riding a magnificent silvery stallion who could outrun the fleetest of Mordor-spurred steeds.

I cried at the last few sentences of the third book in the trilogy, emerging from my bedroom -three days later, having hardly slept or eaten, feeling as if my childhood had been abandoned somewhere in the middle of The Two Towers.

A masterpiece such as The Lord of the Rings is much more than an epic tale. The story of men, Elves, Dwarves and Hobbits willing to sacrifice their lives for the sake of preserving their noble world and the lives of their loved ones touched my soul and forged pathways in my impressionable young mind. It was John 15:13 fleshed out in impossibly real fictional characters: "Greater love has no man than this, that he lay down his life for his friends."

Stories have such power. First, they transport us. Then, they teach us. Last, they inspire us to be better than we are.

Tonight, I'm going to turn off Fox News, pour some Earl Grey tea and nestle in with another great book. Ahhhh.

Spread Too Thin

I'm a participating music instructor in my community's area music teacher's association. Last week we conducted our annual recital. Kids - and some adults - performed. In general, the young musicians played (or sang) well.
I prefer that their teachers would have required them to memorize their music. (You generally play with greater accuracy if your eyes are not swiveling between the music and your instrument. I could on and on about the various merits of playing by memory, but that' s not the purpose of this post.)
Two students - a brother and sister - came in late. That same day they'd also been participating in a sports event.
They each read their music. Nothing was memorized. Neither was sufficiently prepared. Each performance was marred by inaccurate rhythms, wrong notes. hesitations, inconsistent tempos, terrible pedalling, and long pauses in which the performer turned the music over for the last few pages of music. (Another reason why it's best to memorize music.)
I'm surprised that the teacher allowed them to play, unprepared as each was for performance.
I happen to know the parents of the two siblings. They're fine people. Unfortunately they subscribe to that modern philosophy of child-rearing: expose your child to EVERYTHING; make sure their every waking moment is filled with entertainment and activity. (Heaven forbid that the child should have a moment of down-time - sandwiched in between his frenetic schedule - for writing in a journal, or quiet reading, or imaginative day-dreaming. . . or prayer.)
The brother and sister who played are bright and lovely kids. But I know that their schedules are so filled with sports and other extracurricular activities that there is scant time for proper preparation. . . for anything.
So, they can do a lot of things.
But none well.
Doubtless, the two will go on to high school and college, choosing some field that will lead them to a nice career in some field that is neither artistic or athletic.
They won't be able to say to their kids, "I won first place in my community's piano competition," or, "I went on to State competitions for track and field."
Nope.
Because they were spread so thin they didn't have time to get good at either piano or track and field or the myriad other activities that fill their days.
It's like a piano student a few years ago who told me that he just wanted to "kind of" play the piano. He didn't want to get "really good" at it. I know what he was saying: he didn't want to spend the time required for excellence.
Sad.
Parents, help your child commit to working hard at one (maybe two) skills. Then, when he or she achieves childhood excellence, they'll know the time and devotion required to be excellent in their future career, their parenting, their volunteerism. . . and especially, their service to Christ.

Proverbs 22:29 "Do you see a man skilled in his work? He will serve before kings. He will not serve before obscure men."

What's Your Perfect Book?

I just bought a tall bookcase for my office. It was nearly empty a couple of months ago. Now the shelves are nearly filled with novels I've read recently.
Since I'm taking writing classes, reading books on writing craft, attending writers' groups, critiquing and being critiqued, and practicing -always practicing -to perfect my writing, the next most logical step is to immerse myself in well-written novels.
Want to know what I've discovered?
There are no perfect books. (Except the Bible)
Oh, there are excellent books. Some are crafted so well that I'll stop to read a sentence several times just to savor the artistry of a well-heeled phrase.
Some books have an incredibly well-thought-out plot. The scenes move the story along, keeping me engaged for hours as the author weaves characters and situations.
Some novels have such a powerful or compelling character that I have to read the book over and over.
But, there's always something that doesn' quite do it:
Maybe the romance between two characters just doesn't come to life.
Or the situation isn't plausible.
Or the author could have developed a theme to a greater depth.
The author is so afraid of telling that there's almost none. I'd like SOME narrative, please.
Or the character doesn't move me because he/she seems unfinished.
Or the character's motivation seems silly or unrealistic.
Or the technical aspect of the writer's craft is so obvious that it pulls me out of the story.
Or - and this is a biggy for me- I feel cheated because the beginning convinced me that the rest of the book would deliver. And it didn't.

Some really great books that I believe are close to perfection:
Music and Silence by Rose Tremain
Jack Maggs by Peter Caret
Peace Like a River by Leif Enger
Memoirs of a Geisha by Arthur Golden

What's on your list of a perfect book and why?
I'd love to know.