tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-48342345766394732972024-03-08T02:04:48.029-08:00mil graciasNancy Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12660294694426043259noreply@blogger.comBlogger388125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4834234576639473297.post-91489054347814066712024-02-29T10:10:00.000-08:002024-02-29T10:10:23.792-08:00More poems from Ecclesiastes<p><span style="font-size: medium;"> <b>Under the Sun<br /></b><i>Ecclesiastes 4</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">There be dragons<br />
on the margins of old maps,<br />
warning not to venture near the edge.<br />
But perils also threaten<br />
within the borders.<br />
Under the sun there be<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">--the disposed in southern Gaza <br />
and the armies that keep them there<br />
--bombed out villages <br />
and the scorched fields of Ukraine<br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">--homeless in Portland<br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">and refugees on the border with Mexico<br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">--urban loneliness<br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">--politicians whose ambition<br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">robs them of integrity</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>Meaningless, </i>the preacher tells us.<br /></span><i style="font-size: large;">All misery on the third planet from the sun.</i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">I half believe him.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzxwCLj5M1npFaWU_UEeP2MPgnKqVk1gzwGT5PQXOehV2rC6Fm29kYctj_E_IqWEGhLr-PG-U67j2mfCQhFN_eE52U7Hk8E2Et162rJzCb_zRD_l0mU4gLo2pauqP_6rp_XiaLJikhcXsY5EkX9iC5M_l2QEpputidBojE3IQ7yNgZkrVcFo5kkKoYBaMc/s450/capture2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="216" data-original-width="450" height="193" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzxwCLj5M1npFaWU_UEeP2MPgnKqVk1gzwGT5PQXOehV2rC6Fm29kYctj_E_IqWEGhLr-PG-U67j2mfCQhFN_eE52U7Hk8E2Et162rJzCb_zRD_l0mU4gLo2pauqP_6rp_XiaLJikhcXsY5EkX9iC5M_l2QEpputidBojE3IQ7yNgZkrVcFo5kkKoYBaMc/w400-h193/capture2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
<b><br /></b></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Be Quiet<br />
</b><i>Ecclesiastes 5:1-2<br />
<br />
</i>The monks and the Quakers<br />
have it right.<br />
Best not to disturb the silence<br />
of holiness. Be like a squirrel,<br />
tail in the air, stone-still,<br />
alert. Worship is dangerous.<br />
A lot is happening<br />
on the forest floor.<br />
Above your head<br />
more than the leaves are moving.<br />
Be quiet. Listen.<br />
He's coming.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>After the Dissertation<br />
</b><i>Ecclesiastes 6<br />
<br />
</i>I wonder why I did it.<br />
All that work. All that money.<br />
All that time. And for what?<br />
I briefly became the world expert<br />
on an infinitesimal piece<br />
of human knowledge<br />
that became obsolete<br />
within a year.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">I now have a title<br />
which, Quaker<br />
that I am,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">I never use.<br />
Stupid.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<br />
<span style="font-size: medium;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Party<br />
</span></b><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Ecclesiastes 7:1-2<br />
<br />
</span></i></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Instead of a baby
shower<br />
I’d host a death shower<br />
except that I know<br />
my dead friend<br />
won’t bother to come.</span><br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--></span>Nancy Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12660294694426043259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4834234576639473297.post-51429205704607979912024-02-21T10:10:00.000-08:002024-02-21T10:11:46.535-08:00Meaningless! Poems from Ecclesiastes<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGom3dKGqLVngHqPiknWLfPoRAO5JAGeOJxvqh1nUwe5BmGYM90tMiYOLq7D0Du9pi1PhPjQUDwuImCVizlFWcB6-jpmQXf4cRqHh-7kuDZyDTkNrunLUXlAdIfxcM-cYplbKkrkBXBN86JFqTFoxOrcp743_EEgKos2EW-HMz27ZLNYgP8_nSWQhA_BVW/s612/istockphoto-166018714-612x612.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="408" data-original-width="612" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGom3dKGqLVngHqPiknWLfPoRAO5JAGeOJxvqh1nUwe5BmGYM90tMiYOLq7D0Du9pi1PhPjQUDwuImCVizlFWcB6-jpmQXf4cRqHh-7kuDZyDTkNrunLUXlAdIfxcM-cYplbKkrkBXBN86JFqTFoxOrcp743_EEgKos2EW-HMz27ZLNYgP8_nSWQhA_BVW/s320/istockphoto-166018714-612x612.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><b>What a Way To Start<br />
</b><i>Ecclesiastes 1:1-2, 12-14<br />
<br />
</i>Teenage angst and naïve hopes<br />
converge as I enter the classroom.<br />
Philosophy 101. Not a prerequisite.<br />
An elective I freely elect.<br />
I want to unravel the strands<br />
that tangle the universe.<br />
I’m a serious, if young, scholar,<br />
an earnest seeker after Truth.<br />
A freshman with dreams.<br />
I sit in the second row,<br />
not wanting to be obvious.<br />
I wait, notebook and pen<br />
on the desk. Ready.<br />
On the brink of wisdom.<br />
At 10:00 on the dot<br />
he walks in, looking the part<br />
in jeans, turtleneck, and beret.<br />
He adjusts his glasses, looks us over,<br />
and, without introduction,<br />
enters the heart of all things.<br />
<i>Utterly meaningless,</i> he tells us.<br />
<i>Everything is meaningless.<br /><br /></i><i><o:p></o:p></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b>Timing Is Everything…<br />
</b><i>Ecclesiastes 3:1-11<br />
<br />
</i>when it comes to beauty.<br />
The patterns shift<br />
in God’s choreography. <br />
There is, we’re told,<br />
a season for everything.<br />
In its time, note the loveliness<br />
of war—the splendor of explosion,<br />
the precision of plans of destruction,<br />
the music of lament, and the cleansing<br />
of the earth. Hatred wears its apparel<br />
magnificently—storm-cloud tones,<br />
stark colors of spite, dark and terrible.<br />
Beautiful the timely exchanges<br />
of laughter and sobs, of having<br />
and losing it all.<br />
Physician and terrorist take turns.<br />
As the wise ones say,<br />
<i>Wherever you are, be there.<br />
</i>It might be your time.<br /><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b>Three Perspectives on Chasing the Wind<br />
</b><i>Ecclesiastes 4</i><b><br />
<br />
</b>1. The preacher<br />
<br />
Why chase the wind<br />
if you can never catch it?<br />
Go ahead. Become a follower<br />
of tornados, camera in hand,<br />
after the big story.<br />
But know that the wind<br />
is not to be trusted.<br />
Even a small flower-ruffling<br />
breeze will betray you<br />
in the end, leave you holding<br />
a fistful of nothing.<br />
<br />
2. The poet<br />
<br />
Why not? I’m not a grabber.<br />
So much loveliness flies<br />
out in front, ineffable, flirting<br />
teasing promising nothing.<br />
Nothing is fine with me<br />
as long as I can keep reaching.<br />
Believing in someday.<br />
<br />
3. The fool</p><p class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">Holy or not,<br />
I’m the fool. <br />
I’m giving my life<br />
to chase the wind<br />
until she finally<br />
catches me.<br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--></span><br /><br /><o:p></o:p></p>Nancy Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12660294694426043259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4834234576639473297.post-88470828905954308512023-10-31T11:04:00.000-07:002023-10-31T11:04:22.021-07:00Ageism in the health care industry<p> <span style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">We live in a time of medical
specialization. We learn about the family doctor by watching ancient “Little
House on the Prairie” re-runs. Where once one doctor oversaw all medical care
and actually knew their patients, now it seems there is a specialist for each
body part. Add to that the reality that as we age our body parts start
malfunctioning; thus we end up seeing a lot of doctors.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1PvqOkZ4p5HQtHxgzoxZmHj1V-f_VBh-fxl3L-NLVWTXToD0xxlb7OTLq2ePGasVV24sdDwE02I6kq7WI2bVwduhQVbo1VS-FqD1YWMkXnq38QPZvc-mYDbZAEnCLApUETNTTF9KlxNsvbcU1QwUlEFcBlK1HldtLCOINDIbD74L1EiqltIl7Me08l7wB/s1500/old%20tree%203.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="991" data-original-width="1500" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1PvqOkZ4p5HQtHxgzoxZmHj1V-f_VBh-fxl3L-NLVWTXToD0xxlb7OTLq2ePGasVV24sdDwE02I6kq7WI2bVwduhQVbo1VS-FqD1YWMkXnq38QPZvc-mYDbZAEnCLApUETNTTF9KlxNsvbcU1QwUlEFcBlK1HldtLCOINDIbD74L1EiqltIl7Me08l7wB/s320/old%20tree%203.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />Right now I’m in touch with my
primary care physician (PCP), an audiologist, a neurologist who specializes in migraines,
and a dermatologist. I accompany Hal on his visits to his urologist,
gastrologist, an orthopedic specialist in hands and another one who focuses on
backs. I may have missed one. All of these doctors are young (from my mature
perspective), in their 40s or early 50s. Curiously, my doctors are all female,
which I have nothing against. But Hal’s specialists are all male. We have the
same PCP, a young woman in her 40s.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Another fact: more often than not
these days, when we go to see one of these doctors, we’re likely to instead get
the physician’s assistant (PA), usually someone in their mid-30s.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">But we need their help, so we
humble ourselves before the wisdom and skill of youth. And hope for the best.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuov6gnXY2jKBtVRX41nMnXLE4nqmTBvCB129D-8zPyEMSKYOU_Q1FLphzSBcpRdsNb9PKdrnmEcq-oBTvIGGvQAukevuLaWFKSe__klfo9XxACkJhJZUpD57lsM6_cEeE0RmnB557PYgE5HI4W5Gmj7IQGB6Y6c_3faFPKibUcmuuO0-iOK6cW0uxRLJK/s327/81qM8QkasOL._AC_UY327_FMwebp_QL65_.webp" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="327" data-original-width="215" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuov6gnXY2jKBtVRX41nMnXLE4nqmTBvCB129D-8zPyEMSKYOU_Q1FLphzSBcpRdsNb9PKdrnmEcq-oBTvIGGvQAukevuLaWFKSe__klfo9XxACkJhJZUpD57lsM6_cEeE0RmnB557PYgE5HI4W5Gmj7IQGB6Y6c_3faFPKibUcmuuO0-iOK6cW0uxRLJK/s320/81qM8QkasOL._AC_UY327_FMwebp_QL65_.webp" width="210" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />I’ve been reading a fascinating
book by award-winning scholar and geriatrician Louise Aronson. The book is
entitled <i>Elderhood: Redefining Aging, Transforming Medicine, Reimagining
Life </i>(2019). Aronson, herself a woman in the prime of life, traveled a
twisting path before choosing geriatrics as her specialization. She tells this
story in her book.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Among other topics, Aronson gives
a penetrating view of ageism (age discrimination, especially against the
elderly) in the medical system, beginning with the training of physicians. She
writes that<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;">Over their four years in
medical school and three to ten years of residency and fellowship training,
doctors in training are taught that human beings come in two age categories
that matter: children and adults. After required classes and rotations elucidating
differences in physiology, social behaviors, and health needs between those two
age groups, they choose whether to work in children’s hospitals or adult
hospitals, and as pediatric specialists or adult specialists. If they happen to
notice that older adults make up to 16 percent of the population but over 40
percent of hospitalized adults, or that patients over sixty-five are the group
most likely to be harmed by medical care, that knowledge will be tempered not
only by medicine’s predilections for saves and cures but also by comments from
their teachers and mentors such as “Unless you really like changing adult
diapers, don’t waste your time” learning geriatrics.” (5-6)<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Aronson goes on to show how this
kind of discrimination in training carries over into medical practice, with
many doctors treating and medicating older persons just as they would younger
adults, without considering that the aging body has different needs and
reactions. She claims that “The second-class citizenship of older patients is
entrenched and systemic” in the health care industry.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">At this point I need to stop and
say that all of my doctors have treated me with kindness and respect. (I can’t
say the same for some of the PAs). I’ve detected no obvious ageism.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Yet there is something subtle
going on, an uncomfortable itch that only gets worse as I scratch it.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqmz4RrIcOMgSsJnuhYlRwllpa2LSQIiv4mrjDrwASvFAyV85vj0DkKssfyCL9_kn9-jK7MULagdWHrSDQCP85UOECP6p5uiAoSrQxeARZVWRQIux-ZqK9rtZjBPG0CidcTGXl-CWom0qt_qD_eC_Vcmtl5BxPsziidh15GJoNC-3elY08eZx9A5HhTl4R/s255/old%20tree%202.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="198" data-original-width="255" height="198" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqmz4RrIcOMgSsJnuhYlRwllpa2LSQIiv4mrjDrwASvFAyV85vj0DkKssfyCL9_kn9-jK7MULagdWHrSDQCP85UOECP6p5uiAoSrQxeARZVWRQIux-ZqK9rtZjBPG0CidcTGXl-CWom0qt_qD_eC_Vcmtl5BxPsziidh15GJoNC-3elY08eZx9A5HhTl4R/s1600/old%20tree%202.jpg" width="255" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />About eight years ago, just as I
was entering retirement age, I began experiencing symptoms of head-pressure and
dizziness. (I’ve told this story in other blogposts.) I began reporting it to
my doctor. Aronson notes that “When a patient uses the word ‘dizzy’ most
clinicians will tell you that something inside them clutches, if only for a
second.” Even more so if the patient is older. After several years of my
mentioning this (probably not forcefully enough), my doctor began ordering
tests and referring me to specialists. Lots of them. After two years of
exploring the options, every doctor involved told me they found nothing wrong.
One even said, “Don’t worry. Most old people have some degree of dizziness.
It’s aging.” My PCP said, “I’m sorry. I can’t do anything for you.” And smiled
sympathetically.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">It felt like no one believed me. So
I changed insurance plans and found a neurologist at a research hospital who
finally gave me a diagnosis. Like I said, I’ve already told this story.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I really don’t know how many of
the obstacles in my journey were due to my age. Probably not all of them. Even
so, having read Aronson and made my own observations, I recognize that age
discrimination is widespread.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Here are some preliminary
conclusions I’ve reached:<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">1.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->I
am thankful for people like Louise Aronson on the forefront of a change of
attitude in the health care industry, a positive change I believe is coming.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">2.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->I
will prepare myself better for each medical visit, reminding myself that I am a
person of value, that my health matters as much as anyone’s. I will gently
insist on being heard.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">3.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->I
will prepare to treat my doctors with respect, no matter how young they are, a
respect I trust will be returned, no matter how old I am.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The quote at the beginning of
Aronson’s book is by Cicero. Apparently ageism has been around for a long time.
He said that “Old age will only be respected if it fights for itself, maintains
its rights … and asserts control over its own to its last breath.”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNPLjKD0TJIZlJ21tEFcHRXMgbK_QK4eVdfivTwbirfehkhCnZUAwUd5pPSF1hcL76tpNTmh5ytbkqL43RsflAFS9xzvF455rWfPgyjthyzVja9Nm2iJQQ-liCBLRcX-8l_O38iQ3gEc91cowwhSvCxc-MuO3eamODcJtTmzxc9WjhgGCoKgkpMd5dFw0A/s299/old%20tree.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="169" data-original-width="299" height="169" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNPLjKD0TJIZlJ21tEFcHRXMgbK_QK4eVdfivTwbirfehkhCnZUAwUd5pPSF1hcL76tpNTmh5ytbkqL43RsflAFS9xzvF455rWfPgyjthyzVja9Nm2iJQQ-liCBLRcX-8l_O38iQ3gEc91cowwhSvCxc-MuO3eamODcJtTmzxc9WjhgGCoKgkpMd5dFw0A/s1600/old%20tree.jpg" width="299" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p>Nancy Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12660294694426043259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4834234576639473297.post-36793470225616873282023-10-03T08:26:00.003-07:002023-10-03T08:26:43.024-07:00Babies and other cute beasts<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A friend and I took a brief
retreat on the Oregon coast last week. One morning we were just sitting and
looking out the window at the ocean and the people walking the path just a few
yards away.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Then Francie exclaimed, “Oh! How
cute!”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I responded with, “Yes! A fluffy
puppy going poop in the grass!”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">She came back with, “What?!” (She
didn’t actually say, “You’re crazy!” but she communicated it with the look on
her face.)<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">It turns out that we were looking
at the same scenario but seeing different things. She was looking at the
bundled-up baby in the man’s arms, and I saw the dog who was, indeed, doing its
business on the edge of the path. Two different perspectives. Both kind’a cute.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi56IorAERK2mBBQVaBpvsNf_tfcC2oi9lg1q1S0HA-Gl3ijsIbNQr55O6MShkOAzw9uKj2085ebCu-QwpBnbHmOxUYsXZP8lw4WOwS9YLS-yJZtRo5f828cja3YGuqOqOwhgqvG3xT7FuZuC2Q9fxcdans_lX8BIOH4qOnvb6bQwpYHLK9W97Iijs8Nia2/s4104/Nancy,%20Mokey.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2856" data-original-width="4104" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi56IorAERK2mBBQVaBpvsNf_tfcC2oi9lg1q1S0HA-Gl3ijsIbNQr55O6MShkOAzw9uKj2085ebCu-QwpBnbHmOxUYsXZP8lw4WOwS9YLS-yJZtRo5f828cja3YGuqOqOwhgqvG3xT7FuZuC2Q9fxcdans_lX8BIOH4qOnvb6bQwpYHLK9W97Iijs8Nia2/s320/Nancy,%20Mokey.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />I have a life-time of memories of
cute dogs, most of them named Mokey. When I was two-years-old, Mokey was a
small cocker spaniel my parents considered an appropriate pet for a little
girl. What I remember about Mokey comes mainly from black and white photos. My
parents told me that one day I did something terrible-two-ish to the dog. He
bit me, and they took him to the pound that very day.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Mokey #2 was a black and white
springer spaniel with long ears and a playful sweet disposition. We all loved
him. In my teenage years Mokey was a golden collie and my special friend during
the times I needed one.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFzlHaipWrqQ9iyfcIR2mwg6HxuWEMabA0Yj_Q7T5Zj854fFKKCJRv99grjR7TVpIe3azH89UQcKGnsdRxHYGNcJmGAxfWAVplvDtkg2RKeBGlHujHUHVzaEuMLeWm4Bz7UsFMFluqE8f9pEj4vm12P5pKZCf12Fegl7lBKfoilQiiAdRmcqNrPliGudDD/s1798/87%20Cindy%20Lou%20Who%20in%20Zongo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1198" data-original-width="1798" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFzlHaipWrqQ9iyfcIR2mwg6HxuWEMabA0Yj_Q7T5Zj854fFKKCJRv99grjR7TVpIe3azH89UQcKGnsdRxHYGNcJmGAxfWAVplvDtkg2RKeBGlHujHUHVzaEuMLeWm4Bz7UsFMFluqE8f9pEj4vm12P5pKZCf12Fegl7lBKfoilQiiAdRmcqNrPliGudDD/s320/87%20Cindy%20Lou%20Who%20in%20Zongo.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />During the Bolivian years we lived
in the city of La Paz with little yard space, so we decided not to have a dog,
until the day our daughter brought home a fetching terrier puppy (saying the
neighbors gave him to her, which wasn’t exactly true), and we couldn’t resist.
We named him Mokey. After Mokey’s
untimely death (ant poison) we adopted a Pekinese and named her Cindy-Lou-Who
(who was not more than two); we couldn’t name her Mokey so soon after the death
of her beloved predecessor.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">We loved all these dogs. Dogs can
be the most affectionate and cutest critters ever.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The same for babies. I must humbly
admit that both my children and all my grandchildren were over-the-top super
cute babies. When pushing the baby down the street in a stroller, people
passing us would stop and gasp. (My memory may be a little faulty on that
point.)<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">But—and here I come to the main
point of this blog, the cutest of all cuties is yet to come. Our granddaughter
and her husband have just informed us that we are going to be GREAT
GRANDPARENTS! For the first time ever! Wow!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Good writers don’t use many
exclamation points. And they are parsimonious with adjectives, but that
announcement has just got to be the most Phenomenal! Splendiferous! Fantastic!
Amazing! Incredible! Exhilerating! and Exponentially Outlandish! news of all
time!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Can you tell this is my first
grandchild? Can you tell I’m excited?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Get ready! Cuteness is coming.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">(Maybe they’ll name him/her Mokey.)</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPyA5AUe3fNuUTUo61dk-48B2zYQ_XZJ_i5omouSGqacEv5Zrv7-JMpAqErH1sttHnQfEw8tLyHfIy1ZKjHac2X1ZPBJTTs2jrG6gKiYsIGXhjUcji8Ou0nAOzxPReKiRntarqhIZJrHk4m1Epf4ufgPPg_8W8inHiHF59CeYN3IhstQgZES2MQRsnriHN/s4994/Bree%20Jade.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4994" data-original-width="3329" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPyA5AUe3fNuUTUo61dk-48B2zYQ_XZJ_i5omouSGqacEv5Zrv7-JMpAqErH1sttHnQfEw8tLyHfIy1ZKjHac2X1ZPBJTTs2jrG6gKiYsIGXhjUcji8Ou0nAOzxPReKiRntarqhIZJrHk4m1Epf4ufgPPg_8W8inHiHF59CeYN3IhstQgZES2MQRsnriHN/s320/Bree%20Jade.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: medium;"> Future parents, Bree and Jade</span></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZufwj5RA9CxVrLtzwpYImbwRzCr7tRuMb4lRdwzLcqYJJKMqklgYtYc8SQ7e-O_ttzsIUY9PlJxotLjD0Rb0lIN2zCISll-iIu3hBuE6MDjf8ZhMjwqa_rjLb8a3HqY5yF921VbnxyHFyp5iyZ0VFgw-KsOeGBJVOR19d_AxcSlf5F-Z4lxY7pj2v7V7j/s1300/young%20tree.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="865" data-original-width="1300" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZufwj5RA9CxVrLtzwpYImbwRzCr7tRuMb4lRdwzLcqYJJKMqklgYtYc8SQ7e-O_ttzsIUY9PlJxotLjD0Rb0lIN2zCISll-iIu3hBuE6MDjf8ZhMjwqa_rjLb8a3HqY5yF921VbnxyHFyp5iyZ0VFgw-KsOeGBJVOR19d_AxcSlf5F-Z4lxY7pj2v7V7j/s320/young%20tree.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"> Cute baby tree surrounded by parents, grands, and greats</span><p></p>Nancy Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12660294694426043259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4834234576639473297.post-17111698644322973232023-09-11T12:03:00.002-07:002023-10-11T20:55:40.740-07:00Giving our grandchildren back to God<p> <span style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Saturday morning we got an
alarming message from our grandson Aren. “A large earthquake has just struck. I’m
out in the streets with crowds of people. I’m OK.” Aren lives in Marrakech, Morocco.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">This earthquake has been in the
headlines the last three days, with news of the devastation. The 6.8 quake
struck without warning late Friday, the epi-center being south of Marrakech. While
the city was minimally affected, many small villages to the south in the Atlas
Mountains have been decimated. The 2700 people reported dead (and the number is
climbing) are mostly in these villages.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">We proudly watched Aren graduate
in 2019 From George Fox University with a degree in engineering. He soon found
a job with a large business in the greater Portland area, but his heart has
always been in overseas service. He spent several years searching for the right
organization and situation to go out with in some kind of short-term service,
thinking that two years might be enough to get direction for the rest of his life.
He wanted to be involved in helping people start small businesses in poverty-stricken
areas. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">We always knew that someday he
would leave family and be off somewhere on the other side of the world. We knew
this would probably be a good thing. And we knew that we'd miss him.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A few years ago he discovered an
opportunity with an NGO in Morocco. They were working in setting up a unique
business in the city of Marrakech—a climbing gym. Aren is athletic and loves
climbing walls and cliffs. It seemed a good fit (and has proved to be so), and
so a year of applications, interviews, a visit to the field, and raising support
followed. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Finally, in November of 2022, less
than a year ago, Aren boarded the plane in Portland for his big adventure. Although
we had walked with him through the difficulties and triumphs of the process, praying
often and participating in the excitement, it was hard for his family and
friends to see him leave.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">It’s been a good experience so far
and Aren has been faithful in communicating. (Thank God for modern technology
that allows for actual conversations and instant messages.) He has focused on
language and culture learning, forming relationships and, of course, learning
the business. Although missing home at times and experiencing the natural
ups-and-downs of this kind of cross-cultural experience, he seems to be
thriving.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Friday night, Aren was sitting in
his living room with a Moroccan friend when the floor started dancing. They ran
out into the streets where people were in panic, the pavement still bouncing
around. Buildings in his immediate neighborhood were still standing, although
everything seemed precarious. Aren told us that his ADHD helped him and he
immediately assessed the situation and began thinking through possible actions.
After the ground stopped moving, he and his friend headed on foot for the home
of a team member where he was able to borrow a four-wheel-drive vehicle. Aren
and a few of his friends loaded the car with as much water as they could buy. They
drove through the city, seeing it was only minimally damaged, and headed out to
a village where one of his friends lived.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFtPbyAHNXBJlkaPMkFPuUB46eHQ0xYcqoty68RFprjyBp6kGuIAw9RvGTHv-xeXnRcwYhqFK9hV_pS26aUN_lZ2SYj4KZfbCJ5h8dY1vIueCctKzr-f2k0dLuhgeyhne1y7zCvDjnZ2cH8ZXJ1LZuxhjX7EqDBgCcnlKHsippy7ICJ3ASrKoHn2gFE3ZA/s3000/3fa5533d-f673-434f-a96e-3ff350af9776.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="3000" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFtPbyAHNXBJlkaPMkFPuUB46eHQ0xYcqoty68RFprjyBp6kGuIAw9RvGTHv-xeXnRcwYhqFK9hV_pS26aUN_lZ2SYj4KZfbCJ5h8dY1vIueCctKzr-f2k0dLuhgeyhne1y7zCvDjnZ2cH8ZXJ1LZuxhjX7EqDBgCcnlKHsippy7ICJ3ASrKoHn2gFE3ZA/s320/3fa5533d-f673-434f-a96e-3ff350af9776.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />Half the buildings in the village had
been destroyed and many people killed. Survivors were dazed, walking around,
grieving. The guys spent the rest of the night there, searching for survivors,
digging through rubble, comforting people as best they could. By morning they
saw trucks of Moroccans entering the village with enough supplies and workers
to begin meeting the need. They went home to sleep for a few hours before
heading out to another village the next day. <o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">He called us this morning (his
Monday evening) and we mainly listened. He says he is not yet ready to
emotionally process what is happening to the country and to him personally.
There is still too much to be done. He’s especially concerned for the many
remote villages without easy access. He wants to take his motorcycle up into
the hills to discover communities that need help.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">That sounds really dangerous. But
we held back on counseling him not to do it. It would be our fear speaking, not
whatever wisdom we might have. We have to leave him to his own discernment of
what God is asking of him.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">But I do fear, even as I am proud
of him. Hal and I both have the sense that God placed him in this situation “for
such a time as this.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I’m remembering this morning the
message from Kahlil Gibran about children (and grandchildren). I read it and
marked it up years ago, before I was even married or had children of my own. It
touches me today.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;">Your children are not your
children.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;">They are the sons and daughters
of Life’s longing for itself.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;">They come through you but not
from you.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;">And though they are with you,
yet they belong not to you….<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;">You are the bows from which
your children as living arrows are sent forth.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;">The archer sees the mark upon
the path of the infinite, and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go
swift and far.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;">Let your bending in the archer’s
hand be for gladness;<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;">For even as he loves the arrow
that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable.</span><o:p></o:p></i></p>Nancy Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12660294694426043259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4834234576639473297.post-23218490435382702382023-09-05T15:25:00.001-07:002023-09-05T15:43:46.774-07:00From toddler to totterer<p><span style="font-size: medium;"> <span style="text-indent: 0.25in;">One of the joys of being older is
that many of us can identify life-long friends, people we knew in our youth and
who we still consider close friends. Whether physically together or apart,
we’ve experienced the different seasons of life together and shared our
struggles, as well as our hopes and dreams for the future.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I’m not talking about
acquaintances or cousins. Real friends. Soul mates. Kindred spirits, as Anne of
Green Gables would put it. I’m blessed with a handful of these, and most of
them are still living.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I met Darlene over 50 years ago
when we were both young wives, attending, with our husbands, the same small
congregation in Arcadia, California. Our first-born babies knew each other, as
much as babies can actually know someone other than mother. We’ve kept touch
through the years, sometime living on separate continents, sometime living in
the same town. We live in different states now, but we keep up on the phone and
even with occasional in-person visits. We still regularly pray for each other.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Last week Darlene was the featured
writer for the <i>Fruit of the Vine</i> devotional booklet. In the introduction
to her week of meditations, she writes, “How did the decades fly by like blurry
scenery outside a high speed train? Suddenly we rounded a corner, slowed down a
bit, and I stepped off in a different country! Whoa, I’m transported to ‘elder
land.’… This week, I’ll share personal experiences from my new platform.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Darlene’s a thoughtful person and
a good writer, and the week’s readings were rich. She gave me permission to
share here the meditation from Friday, September 1. It’s called “Everlasting
Arms.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6WgCDGV4ShG_DE2jkzkmELmk5XmSXWVWHclsCEQxZGWUlIE0RNkrhWFGGV9gHyRgTEzit1Fi37YkQbuitvDwz_IIGAJybnZhAWfB5xwuG_X83ZUt7JJW52-DlGvgXZqRGFpKA7sEa5g4NUgpxP2RbKYf3KCTHdZIGgH4pLmiYsBmohN9GTUxvsPLGO7AK/s540/baby%20walking.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="540" height="197" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6WgCDGV4ShG_DE2jkzkmELmk5XmSXWVWHclsCEQxZGWUlIE0RNkrhWFGGV9gHyRgTEzit1Fi37YkQbuitvDwz_IIGAJybnZhAWfB5xwuG_X83ZUt7JJW52-DlGvgXZqRGFpKA7sEa5g4NUgpxP2RbKYf3KCTHdZIGgH4pLmiYsBmohN9GTUxvsPLGO7AK/w320-h197/baby%20walking.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></i></div><i><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><br /></span></i><div><i><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></i></div><div><i><span style="font-size: medium;">When our great-grandson took
his first triumphant steps, everyone cheered, acknowledging this amazing
accomplishment! It takes a constellation of brain-to-muscle internal steps
precluding that final coordination to success. But there’s still a long
perfection process afterwards, called the toddler stage. Lots of wobbling,
insecurity, falling, grabbing ahold of something solid, trying to gain better
footing—then, confidence.<o:p></o:p></span></i><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;">There are lots of toddler steps
throughout life’s journey. We experience them personally in new environments,
jobs, and relationships. It all takes time, and we don’t always get encouraging
cheers. We learn to walk and then to run, then finally how to slow down.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEoKrGiOdt1CCRhTdowr2zzUD94LmMoYQVPm_lYbyMbTLiwHCWI95nsLj9gAx9xVDnzVc8bPCp-EweIPKzDhjwj0xNxZY21pAi9D1gYRkqYGntgzgFBsu3cAxJpUzRRgNJVoSHtCcduoVd7Ug79PIAEC7L48F7XRx3tvp2riDP-TfNI4w-P-iOoOw0ZWjp/s900/old-man-walking-with-a-cane-underwood-archives.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="712" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEoKrGiOdt1CCRhTdowr2zzUD94LmMoYQVPm_lYbyMbTLiwHCWI95nsLj9gAx9xVDnzVc8bPCp-EweIPKzDhjwj0xNxZY21pAi9D1gYRkqYGntgzgFBsu3cAxJpUzRRgNJVoSHtCcduoVd7Ug79PIAEC7L48F7XRx3tvp2riDP-TfNI4w-P-iOoOw0ZWjp/s320/old-man-walking-with-a-cane-underwood-archives.jpg" width="253" /></a></span></i></div><i><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />Eventually, we re-enter another
period of insecurity and join the <u>tottering stage</u>! Post-operative hips
and knees, weakening muscles, and unsure eyesight make what was once easy
traveling now more precarious and mindful. We’re more apt to use the railing,
walk closer to the wall, and unashamedly accept an offered arm on unstable
landscape.<o:p></o:p></span></i><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;">At any age throughout our
journey, we feel insecure when hitting rocky roads like death, disease, or
divorce. We may need help getting back up after an emotional loss or physical
fall. From <u>toddler</u> to <u>tottering</u> (and all stages between) we need
grace. Our Lord promises to walk us through the valleys, over mountains, and
through pastures—to guide us with rod and staff, and his loving arms to lean
on. Because we are the body of Christ, we need our hands to lift and help
others.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;"><u>Prayer</u>: Lord, please
help me to be sensitive to the needs of others who may need lifting up. (By
Darlene Graves with references to Proverbs 3:5-6; Psalm 91:9-12; and Psalm
121:3-4.)<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I love Darlene’s description of life’s
developmental stages: “We learn to walk and then to run, then finally how to
slow down.” The journey from<i> toddler to totterer</i> makes me smile. Two
things we all need for facing old age are courage and humor. Thank you, Darlene,
for encouraging me and for making me laugh.</span></span></div>Nancy Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12660294694426043259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4834234576639473297.post-16381814494546250932022-11-08T12:54:00.003-08:002022-11-08T12:54:46.444-08:00The vacuuming prince<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Keeping a retirement community of
some 400 residents running requires a large staff. These are the people around
us everyday, who clean our rooms, cook and serve our meals, fix our broken
faucets, and tend to us when we get too old to take care of ourselves. In time
they become familiar to us. We learn their names and they learn ours. Some
become friends.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Some of the stated values of this
particular retirement community are integrity, compassion, dignity, and
service. The community tries (maybe not always with perfect success) to live
out these values in board decisions, administrative policies, resident
activities, and employment practices. Fair wages, adequate on-the-job training,
and a recognition of the dignity of each person—these are the goal.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Most of us residents are grateful
for the staff that work here. I especially enjoy the opportunity to interact
with the Hispanic workers; they remind me of my home in Bolivia. And it’s
refreshing to have so many young people—high school and college
students—serving us meals in the dining room. (I did the same thing in this
same dining room when I was in college. I loved how the residents treated me.) <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">According to the last report, this
community employs 246 staff persons, many part-time. Most of them seem happy to
be working here (they all need to work somewhere); others seem burdened. But
they all have private lives. They all have stories.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Some of the ways residents express
their appreciation is through a scholarship fund and bi-annual bonuses in the
form of gift cards, furnished entirely by resident offerings. Perhaps even more
important, is when residents respond personally to different ones, learning,
not only their names, but also what we can of their unique stories. This can be
a challenge as they’re all on a schedule, with timed breaks. But little by
little, it’s possible.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Let me tell you John’s story. I
first ran across John as he was vacuuming the carpet in our hall. I greeted him
and he responded with such a warm smile, it touched me and after that I made it
a point to chat with him whenever our paths crossed. Once he commented on a
hanging of shells on my door, asking me where it was from. I told him it was
from the island of Ponape in the South Pacific. He smiled and told me he
recognized it because that’s near his homeland, the island of Yap.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Yap? Intrigued, we invited John up
to our room one day after work. We had lots of question, and what we learned
amazed and delighted us.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicv86MQ_Eg1bPVF4dEAdTd489MAv-FK8eFb9jIuY-YFjgFqAgZr9zOVLQxzj9YOUyCfMxrTbRXF0TldJi1NZkFtxikLDvhnS44t9ptxgdONU20wLAEtKFeV18VbSZUTDOqB6Z045_2lCgJdjOYSjUGVsoqFrBlF4o4MLhaRNUGIrZy3zWJ2egyfaPy3g/s940/Yap.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="639" data-original-width="940" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicv86MQ_Eg1bPVF4dEAdTd489MAv-FK8eFb9jIuY-YFjgFqAgZr9zOVLQxzj9YOUyCfMxrTbRXF0TldJi1NZkFtxikLDvhnS44t9ptxgdONU20wLAEtKFeV18VbSZUTDOqB6Z045_2lCgJdjOYSjUGVsoqFrBlF4o4MLhaRNUGIrZy3zWJ2egyfaPy3g/s320/Yap.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />Yap is a cluster of islands about
800 miles east of the Philippines surrounded by barrier reefs, part of the
Federated States of Micronesia. Beautiful beaches climb inland to forested
mountains. It has a year-round temperature of about 80 degrees Fahrenheit.
Population on the main island runs between 11,000-12,000 people. It’s small but
it sounds like a paradise. <o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGR1HAYLtCj7BrxXcTOPI6j3drrZKTB2SpAXBg_GxsoYbKpukI264uaNpSJLhLZhk0T2k35d6D8rRj7v8LKM0LSV7G2y-Bv7ngRaZnEqFh6rQIVUqwQZhAKehAgmUg5lwiy7ImnKNkMRoTlxmKPFkt3MXxIj_N-D8oN454s9fQcDAMVSkg-R6_LbzTyQ/s600/thediplomat.com-yapislandmen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="546" data-original-width="600" height="311" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGR1HAYLtCj7BrxXcTOPI6j3drrZKTB2SpAXBg_GxsoYbKpukI264uaNpSJLhLZhk0T2k35d6D8rRj7v8LKM0LSV7G2y-Bv7ngRaZnEqFh6rQIVUqwQZhAKehAgmUg5lwiy7ImnKNkMRoTlxmKPFkt3MXxIj_N-D8oN454s9fQcDAMVSkg-R6_LbzTyQ/w320-h311/thediplomat.com-yapislandmen.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The religion is a form of imported
Catholicism mixed with animism and ancestorworship. People are proud of their
customs and language, and struggle to maintain their way of life while facing
the modern world. Hard to do.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">John comes from this culture, but
he is not just a random member. He is royalty. His step-father was chief or
king of the island, a position handed down in the royal family. As such, John
was in line to become chief.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">When he was in high school, a
Korean student shared the Christian gospel with John and gave him a Bible. He
had always been curious about that figure up on the cross and wondered if there
were more to life. After much reflection and prayer, John decided to become a
follower of Jesus. This did not go over well with the family who disowned him
for a time.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">John moved to Guam and met his
wife Donna in a church. They had their first two children in Guam, then decided
to migrate to the Northwest corner of the United States where both John and
Donna had family. They eventually made their way to Newberg, Oregon where,
after several jobs, John found himself on the maintenance staff of George Fox
University. He worked there for 19 years, while raising his family of now four
children. Oregon became home.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">When George Fox began cutting
staff positions, John decided to move over to Friendsview, again finding a
position on the maintenance staff, where he continues working today.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I wrote this poem about John:</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><i>The Prince of Yap<br />
<br />
</i></b><i>The man who vacuums <b><br />
</b>the carpets in the hall<b><br />
</b>is really the Prince of Yap.<b><br />
</b>His late father was the King of Yap <b><br />
</b>and he was next in line <b><br />
</b>to succeed to the throne.<b><br />
</b>But he didn’t want to be king.<b><br />
</b>He envisioned another life,<b><br />
</b>dreamed of open borders,<br />
less ocean, more scope.<b><br />
</b>So he migrated to America.<b><br />
</b>One of his relatives is now king.<b><br />
</b>He’s happy to be here,<b><br />
</b>vacuuming rugs, secretly knowing<b><br />
</b>he still is, will always be,<b><br />
</b>the Prince of Yap.</i></span><i style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I suspect that other members of
the staff are also secret royalty, probably not in the same sense John is, but
royalty nonetheless. All people of great value with wonderful stories to tell.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><b><o:p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></b></p>Nancy Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12660294694426043259noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4834234576639473297.post-77012394863590678622022-10-07T09:10:00.000-07:002022-10-07T09:10:02.741-07:00The Empress' New Clothes<p><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3y3GOtBvoNJhTFezITGYBryA87eghkBFSDL_wKRk5idb84dwVdDurRrqLVH99WGVGSEFgg5h6hZVA6unHQH7hiLvgCM5jYsva3p3G2X0NwOT6qwn3-c_Gc638igkJ3JlLpFVXCbMVLyDGqmEeX0bnV3prs4N_cvpEScVii8d2jlH3BSxrICCzjU6h2A/s725/il_570xN.3111718638_p9aj.webp" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="725" data-original-width="570" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3y3GOtBvoNJhTFezITGYBryA87eghkBFSDL_wKRk5idb84dwVdDurRrqLVH99WGVGSEFgg5h6hZVA6unHQH7hiLvgCM5jYsva3p3G2X0NwOT6qwn3-c_Gc638igkJ3JlLpFVXCbMVLyDGqmEeX0bnV3prs4N_cvpEScVii8d2jlH3BSxrICCzjU6h2A/s320/il_570xN.3111718638_p9aj.webp" width="252" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />Not at all like the Emperor’s.<br />
His robes glowed and glittered<br />
but itched his arms.<br />
Nothing hung right.<br />
And in the end, they dissolved<br />
in the true gaze of a child,<br />
leaving the poor Emperor<br />
as naked as a blue jay<br />
without its feathers.<br />
Nothing blue left.<br />
The Empress, on the other hand,<br />
chose real silk that really flowed<br />
down the contours of her body,<br />
that comforted as well as adorned,<br />
that fit the reality of her person.<br />
<br />
The Celts have a blessing<br />
for when one puts on a new garment:<br />
<i>May you live and may you wear it<br />
and may you wear seven more<br />
even better than it.<br />
<br />
</i>As a daughter of the King,<br />
I could make do<br />
with a wardrobe like that.</span><o:p></o:p><p></p>Nancy Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12660294694426043259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4834234576639473297.post-51239672194109234242022-09-29T12:16:00.000-07:002022-09-29T12:16:04.717-07:00The Feast of the Archangels<p><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>September 29, 2022<br />
<br />
</i>Today I turn 77.<br />
All birthdays seem like a new chance<br />
to grab hold of life, to breathe<br />
as though this were the first day,<br />to be gob smacked by sunlight,<br />
to turn around in amazement<br />
at trees and bird song,<br />
the smell of coffee and the smile<br />
of my beloved as he says,<br />
<i>Happy birthday, Nancy.<br />
</i>Yes.<br />
This is the day.<br />
This is the life.<br />
I am the one.<br />
Yes.<br />
Come, all you archangels.<br />
Let’s dance!</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXoAcS45IbwjDF1PNOND2awGgtq_u10g-yUnUIgbffA3VQPgKKxZwVilpYQZYkd84mS36NAswfSis6mGfKmqcSYVMWdYDrswjhdpxzGjSU5bOnXr9xq2Bg9nURERrWqTWNP4l3N8o-nDHcqbbCwMCHvA6cBHowINxSxdKDDfKPp47JzWlagFSTHWz6cA/s408/14669502738778297431.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="237" data-original-width="408" height="186" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXoAcS45IbwjDF1PNOND2awGgtq_u10g-yUnUIgbffA3VQPgKKxZwVilpYQZYkd84mS36NAswfSis6mGfKmqcSYVMWdYDrswjhdpxzGjSU5bOnXr9xq2Bg9nURERrWqTWNP4l3N8o-nDHcqbbCwMCHvA6cBHowINxSxdKDDfKPp47JzWlagFSTHWz6cA/s320/14669502738778297431.png" width="320" /></a></div><p></p>Nancy Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12660294694426043259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4834234576639473297.post-52360285547559866872022-08-17T10:11:00.000-07:002022-08-17T10:11:42.508-07:00The Hagar poems<p><span style="font-size: medium;"> Hagar: given to Abram as a concubine, bears him a son, is abused and cast out (Genesis 16)</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Transaction<br />
</span></b><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Genesis 16:1-3<br />
<br />
</span></i></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span>Hagar had no choice.<br />
Did she love Abram?<br />
At least respect him?<br />
Did he know her name?<br />
Had he ever spoken to her?<br />
And Sarai. Was she really<br />
so objective, so focused<br />
on results that she had<br />
no qualms sharing her husband<br />
with a slave?<br />
I know these are questions<br />
of my time, probably irrelevant<br />
in ancient Canaan.<br />
Intimacy was a social transaction,<br />
a deal made with results<br />
in mind. Even so I ask,<br />
what were the human components<br />
of this transaction?<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Stupid<br />
</b><i>Genesis 16:4-6<br />
<br />
</i>When Hagar becomes pregnant<br />
her humanity emerges.<br />
She flaunts her condition<br />
before a barren Sarai,<br />
also very human it seems.<br />
Stupid girl.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Gift with an Edge<br />
</b><i>Genesis 16:10-12<br />
<br />
</i>The descendants without number<br />
part was good, but <br />
a wild donkey of a son?<br />
One who would go through life<br />
flailing his fists, fighting,<br />
hating even her?<br />
A strange promise she would carry<br />
with her, even as she carried<br />
the child.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>He Hears and Sees<br />
</b><i>Genesis 16:7-15<br />
<br />
</i>God found Hagar<br />
in the desert.<br />
God heard the cries<br />
of this abused slave girl,<br />
not one of the chosen.<br />
God saw this desperate child,<br />
gave her a promise<br />
and sent her home<br />
to again submit<br />
to those who would never<br />
see her as a person<br />
or listen to her heart.<br />
Along with the child<br />
she carried, she carried<br />
the memory of One<br />
who heard her,<br />
of One who saw.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Remind Me Again<br />
</b><i>Genesis 16<br />
<br />
</i>In those times<br />
I feel<br />
invisible and voiceless,<br />
remind me again<br />
of the name.<br />
El Roi—the God who sees.</span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBO2P0ghZcna4XIGbGgUMmDY2koIsU899CSEVNUstu4gWBIX5sFC_UD68clJvPHKUNyYePlGX3_eAsVvyYZBEgtWLKLHzWLoppdNMBEW8T1thrDqBNW_5XYWN8CZ3ibilMmCqAgccpXbdcYgH9LT9LpGaJKLgkqJim4wQWPBUBiQpcm-MsswSqhC7EoA/s1280/tumblr_pbx1lkjBnP1u342cjo1_1280.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1280" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBO2P0ghZcna4XIGbGgUMmDY2koIsU899CSEVNUstu4gWBIX5sFC_UD68clJvPHKUNyYePlGX3_eAsVvyYZBEgtWLKLHzWLoppdNMBEW8T1thrDqBNW_5XYWN8CZ3ibilMmCqAgccpXbdcYgH9LT9LpGaJKLgkqJim4wQWPBUBiQpcm-MsswSqhC7EoA/s320/tumblr_pbx1lkjBnP1u342cjo1_1280.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><br />
<br /></span>
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<!--[endif]--></span><p></p>Nancy Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12660294694426043259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4834234576639473297.post-72859696223738877452022-08-02T11:29:00.001-07:002022-08-10T09:54:01.111-07:00Sneaky Peeks<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">My parents were Good Readers.<b><br />
</b>They had Good Taste,<b><br />
</b>and volumes of Great Books<b><br />
</b>filled the bookcases of our home.<b><br />
</b>Some of the Great Books also<b><br />
</b>had Great Pictures, and we three kids<b><br />
</b>liked to look at these, with our parents’ permission.<b><br />
</b>Being very careful, we would thumb through<b><br />
</b><i>The Brothers Karamazov, Ancient Chinese Poetry,<br />
</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and<b> </b><i>Don Quixote de la
Mancha,</i> fascinated, guessing<b><br />
</b>what the stories might be about<br />
<br />
</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU7ScR0XF7cuYpsKHv9zX3Be3V_CzsilEiZvz9gpW9m9J-h9_7gxhJPnxVIP-GVOaZRs7_GzPXp_1L2nDs6-M0KEJnukTpm7XGrJgR4DKCcZz7AY2hyp1ZD5G06dkHlUjjVquCVjS8GnWqKX6JCXPBGePj45kAZAqpJDM0-N6fha48MInEg9riIq3atw/s286/more%20books.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="176" data-original-width="286" height="176" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU7ScR0XF7cuYpsKHv9zX3Be3V_CzsilEiZvz9gpW9m9J-h9_7gxhJPnxVIP-GVOaZRs7_GzPXp_1L2nDs6-M0KEJnukTpm7XGrJgR4DKCcZz7AY2hyp1ZD5G06dkHlUjjVquCVjS8GnWqKX6JCXPBGePj45kAZAqpJDM0-N6fha48MInEg9riIq3atw/s1600/more%20books.jpg" width="286" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />One day we made a Find.<br />
Tucked among the Great Books<br />
we found a collection of literary essays<br />
from Playboy Magazine (about which we knew nothing).<br />
It was mostly words, but here and there,<br />
scattered between the essays, were cartoons.<br />
We didn’t understand the captions,<br />
but the drawings <br />
made us laugh. All these <br />
naked grown-ups—both men and women—gamboling<br />
about in fields (“gambol” is the only verb that works here),<br />
doing strange things.<br />
Who could have thought this up? <br />
It was both informative and hilarious. <br />
We instinctively knew we must keep<br />
this viewing pleasure a secret from our parents, and so<br />
we found a hiding place in the bookcase.<br />
<br />
One afternoon Mom popped in to find out<br />
what we were laughing about. She saw the book.<br />
She quietly left the room. I worried we might be in trouble.<br />
But neither of our parents said anything.<br />
The book, however, mysteriously disappeared.<br />
We never saw it again.</span><o:p></o:p><p></p>Nancy Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12660294694426043259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4834234576639473297.post-58408572432656372482022-07-21T09:23:00.003-07:002022-07-21T09:26:06.784-07:00No discernable answer<p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I was sitting by the
window<br />
reading my Bible,<br />
struggling with belief<br />
as Lot’s wife <br />
turned into a pillar of salt,<br />
when the light<br />
of the rising sun bounced<br />
off my iPad and threw a diamond <br />
of fire on the wall.<br />
It looked like a flaming tongue.<br />
<i>Is this a sign? </i>I prayed.<br />
<i>Are you answering my need<br />
with a Holy Spirit anointing?<br />
But why a single tongue of fire?<br />
O Lord, send a conflagration!<br />
</i>I discerned no immediate answer,<br />
went back to waiting.<br />
As the sun rose higher,<br />
the diamond disappeared.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmTQpcuJskE5URJbssnORRR7fpPSGSN9FjSbKxEp6s1UhwNVcPjoX6Qns0PX-yZcUsycn9syCX8lywVi9LB_LpsBeVXuBwVdKm7WjTCkhTh75eYb9vtjxODE2HI8vzClgY96NP-wETUFsetEcNR3GAyBqpLse3_jfenYtdEu8wnF7RtqbYec7FIS2t1g/s458/5906_5.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="284" data-original-width="458" height="198" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmTQpcuJskE5URJbssnORRR7fpPSGSN9FjSbKxEp6s1UhwNVcPjoX6Qns0PX-yZcUsycn9syCX8lywVi9LB_LpsBeVXuBwVdKm7WjTCkhTh75eYb9vtjxODE2HI8vzClgY96NP-wETUFsetEcNR3GAyBqpLse3_jfenYtdEu8wnF7RtqbYec7FIS2t1g/s320/5906_5.png" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><br />
<br />
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<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>Nancy Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12660294694426043259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4834234576639473297.post-83567068443095389272022-07-05T10:31:00.000-07:002022-07-05T10:31:06.917-07:00The mystery of language: poems from Babel<p><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"></span></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-P3Q3fCzEvCIsj4MkerECkdUKV2y80CmUElA-1CZLDH3QNruQObcTQ5xqkUPBC4KdNXA6P-eCO0TRRpdpKH2Hm6eXfeRTWTcEzfOzuobLPEE_w_o_vtQUOtF-9WSBcGkoLrXHs-BdKW3Khe8TqyLXA0DkLKqRV5UrwqxkFExKA4jnveVjqjAk5gQQdA/s300/300px-Pieter_Bruegel_the_Elder_-_The_Tower_of_Babel_(Rotterdam)_-_Google_Art_Project_-_edited.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="300" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-P3Q3fCzEvCIsj4MkerECkdUKV2y80CmUElA-1CZLDH3QNruQObcTQ5xqkUPBC4KdNXA6P-eCO0TRRpdpKH2Hm6eXfeRTWTcEzfOzuobLPEE_w_o_vtQUOtF-9WSBcGkoLrXHs-BdKW3Khe8TqyLXA0DkLKqRV5UrwqxkFExKA4jnveVjqjAk5gQQdA/s1600/300px-Pieter_Bruegel_the_Elder_-_The_Tower_of_Babel_(Rotterdam)_-_Google_Art_Project_-_edited.jpg" width="300" /></a></b></div><b><br /></b><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Where?<i><br />
</i></span></b><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Genesis 11:1-9<br />
<br />
</span></i></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Why did they think<br />
that building a skyscraper<br />
could earn them a reputation,<br />
make them famous,<br />
if they were the only<br />
inhabitants of the earth?<br />
Where were the other people<br />
who would applaud?<br />
What other nations would tremble<br />
at the mention of their name?<br />
Is there something<br />
going on here<br />
we know nothing<br />
about?<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>What Comes First?<br />
</b><i>Genesis 11:1-9<br />
<br />
</i>Is it language<br />
that divides people,<br />
that causes separation and enmity?<br />
Does language determine culture,<br />
define worldview,<br />
plot the course of history?<br />
What comes first?<br />
This is more complicated<br />
than chickens and eggs.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>From Babel to Music<br />
</b><i>Genesis 11:1-9<br />
<br />
</i>For one who loves languages—<b><i><br />
</i></b>English first, then Spanish,<br />
Portuguese, Aymara, Greek, and Hebrew—<br />
the fate of Babel<br />
hardly seems like punishment.<br />
Maybe—just maybe—<br />
this was part of the original plan.<br />
More than a curb on power and pride,<br />
maybe it was a way<br />
to scatter abroad the beauty<br />
of diversity. Make the work<br />
of building unity more musical.<br />
Worth the effort.<br />
<b><i><br />
<br />
</i>Two Ways<br />
</b><i>Genesis 11:1-9; Acts 2:1-12<br />
<br />
</i>The Old Testament God<br />
used language to divide and scatter.<br />
The New Testament God<br />
(ironically One and the Same)<br />
used tongues of fire<br />
to birth a new people<br />
called to unity,<br />
commissioned to gather in the world<br />
with the one language of love.</span><b style="font-size: 12pt;"><br />
<i><br />
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<!--[endif]--></i></b></span></p>Nancy Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12660294694426043259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4834234576639473297.post-54232677613244300572022-06-14T12:12:00.000-07:002022-06-14T12:12:06.253-07:00How I Am<p><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">Sometimes I am firm,<br />
resolute, and strong.<br />
I say what I mean<br />
and I mean what I say.<br />
Other times, given my age,<br />
I sort of tend to be wishy-washy.<br />
I do, absolutely, remember<br />
a time several years ago<br />
when I impressed myself<br />
at how decisive I was.<br />
I enjoyed the feeling <br />
and determined to feel that<br />
firmness of character<br />
again in the future.<br />
And I will. I’m almost<br />
certain of it.</span><o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtdx3XDLNJ5p-24QL8eWSzrNgjeSfzRTELYNXczOZLNxtGtJFgaCW_K8CNrOB6Q4zQt9PhNyyfoXTjgDiU9Bs-a_3Sqe3EUAeg40mSCXO73JwRnPvEep4gJJJXp12WzJuYsQrjMnz9IBfkRcMlhzqH_R-Tq0wxx47WnyV6XBrYfeo9IzomG24fvcq6Fg/s453/three-zinnen-175209__340.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="340" data-original-width="453" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtdx3XDLNJ5p-24QL8eWSzrNgjeSfzRTELYNXczOZLNxtGtJFgaCW_K8CNrOB6Q4zQt9PhNyyfoXTjgDiU9Bs-a_3Sqe3EUAeg40mSCXO73JwRnPvEep4gJJJXp12WzJuYsQrjMnz9IBfkRcMlhzqH_R-Tq0wxx47WnyV6XBrYfeo9IzomG24fvcq6Fg/s320/three-zinnen-175209__340.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>Nancy Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12660294694426043259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4834234576639473297.post-14430350511073953452022-05-31T06:42:00.002-07:002022-05-31T06:42:40.150-07:00Five views of the lions' den (Daniel 6)<p></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizDOhAE8XUXdW7-2p-ZJ8XPSPjLGwCqfYCEnMVVCyrbktjjcAy4O-tN4MRKZCempGOGui1o9opQ7CLcDgQUqji-FfwEHO9pohNXCkO3wvrJfNLEsqZ--jznVXsZkFJG5REDqk2F2MT1vlajtDrH-WpB86HIDINAtdltQaldmXwiClp7RuC6w1Hzrp6Cg/s900/how-to-draw-a-lion-face-step-by-step-free-lion-head-drawing-download-free-clip-art-free-clip-art-on-of-how-to-draw-a-lion-face-step-by-step.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="760" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizDOhAE8XUXdW7-2p-ZJ8XPSPjLGwCqfYCEnMVVCyrbktjjcAy4O-tN4MRKZCempGOGui1o9opQ7CLcDgQUqji-FfwEHO9pohNXCkO3wvrJfNLEsqZ--jznVXsZkFJG5REDqk2F2MT1vlajtDrH-WpB86HIDINAtdltQaldmXwiClp7RuC6w1Hzrp6Cg/s320/how-to-draw-a-lion-face-step-by-step-free-lion-head-drawing-download-free-clip-art-free-clip-art-on-of-how-to-draw-a-lion-face-step-by-step.jpg" width="270" /></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;">1 The Satraps<br />
<br />
Petty politicians,<br />
irritated by integrity,<br />
consumed by mongrel jealousy<br />
that an upstart immigrant<br />
should get the biggest bone,<br />
they schemed and deceived,<br />
then smirked when it worked.<br />
But it didn’t.<br />
In the end,<br />
the only bones being given<br />
were theirs.<br />
To the lions.<br />
<br />
<br />
2 Daniel<br />
<br />
Integrity, honesty,<br />
devotion to God—<br />
all of this was true.<br />
Even so we can’t assume<br />
that Daniel wasn’t afraid,<br />
that as he prayed in the window<br />
he was not stinking with fear,<br />
throwing up to God<br />
his panic. <i>Help me!<br />
</i>We can’t even assume<br />
he was sure<br />
God was listening.<br />
<br />
<br />
3 King Darius<br />
<br />
Friendship with the Hebrew<br />
had subtly changed him.<br />
Exposure to light<br />
in a dark place<br />
does that to people<br />
over time.<br />
Thus his distress<br />
at his own foolishness,<br />
thus his sleepless night,<br />
thus the mixture of doubt and hope<br />
in his anguished question,<br />
<i>Daniel, did he rescue you?<br />
<br />
<br />
</i>4 The lions<br />
<br />
What was this scorching ball of light<br />
thrown down so suddenly,<br />
causing them to scatter to the peripheries?<br />
What terror drove out hunger,<br />
shut their jaws?<br />
Or did the glory so overwhelm them<br />
that God’s dumbstruck beasts<br />
simply went to sleep?</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
5 The people<br />
<br />
Forced by royal decree<br />
to add the God of Daniel<br />
to the Persian pantheon,<br />
how did the citizens respond?<br />
Did anything eternal happen<br />
in the homes and streets<br />
of downtown Babylon?<br />
Perhaps a ray of light entered <br />
the collective consciousness?<br />
Did the foreign deity ever<br />
become more than Daniel’s God?<br />
Or did he only add another hue<br />
to their already rainbow spirituality?<br />
Does conversion by coercion<br />
ever work?<o:p></o:p></span></p><br /><p></p>Nancy Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12660294694426043259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4834234576639473297.post-25389728037307763382022-05-19T08:23:00.005-07:002022-05-19T08:29:59.718-07:00Pacifist Poet<p><span style="font-size: medium;">William Stafford, sweet poet,<br />said that one in every ten poems<br />he wrote was good enough for publication.<br />That encourages me<br />‘cause I write a lot of bad poems.<br />But, like Stafford, I’m a pacifist.<br />I don’t kill any of my poems.<br />For the nine poor poems<br />I find a comfortable spot,<br />lay them down, and let them sleep.<br />You get to read the tenth poem.<br />Lucky you.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj040nAHj_sWo7-0Jxu-yBfj63QN2Kyh9YONMVMa8bbCn6v2CB7ys-nkzFob6hWdNn6uEXZFky4acvlCDGYq5e0l5h_lM-1AflhZeYSCu2amtYann3Xbc-wdvx1pqCviaXkli_Rhlc-9GoetGr8K0j44nAgYre3i4TuSfo-Zrcu5VkBCsP5UUT2Dp2eiw/s800/Peace_to_Ukraine-wings-Eddie_Lobanovskiy.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj040nAHj_sWo7-0Jxu-yBfj63QN2Kyh9YONMVMa8bbCn6v2CB7ys-nkzFob6hWdNn6uEXZFky4acvlCDGYq5e0l5h_lM-1AflhZeYSCu2amtYann3Xbc-wdvx1pqCviaXkli_Rhlc-9GoetGr8K0j44nAgYre3i4TuSfo-Zrcu5VkBCsP5UUT2Dp2eiw/s320/Peace_to_Ukraine-wings-Eddie_Lobanovskiy.png" width="320" /></a></div><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> Eddie Lobanovsky</span><br /><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>Nancy Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12660294694426043259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4834234576639473297.post-81124736016516708162022-05-10T09:33:00.001-07:002022-05-10T09:33:39.296-07:00Poems from the book of Colossians<p><span style="font-size: medium;"> Last year I adopted the spiritual discipline of meditating, praying, and writing poetry through the books of the Bible. I'm building up quite a collection. I'm not sure how good the poetry is, but the practice is causing me to read Scripture in a new way.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I begin each early morning time with the prayer from Proverbs 119:18: "Open my eyes that I might see wonderful things from your word." After reading and spending time listening in silence, I converse with God about the portion I read. That's the poetry part. Simply conversing with God.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Recently I spend several weeks in the book of Colossians, Paul's treatise on the doctrine of Christ. Here are a few of the poems (likely to be edited and polished in the future).</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br />Hold Fast</b><br /><i>Colossians 1:17, "...in him all things hold together."<br /><br />Jesus is the gravity<br />that keeps our feet on the ground.<br />He's the centripetal force,<br />the reason we don't fly<br />off into space, lost forever.<br />He's the magnet<br />that binds us to faith, hope, and love.<br />He's the compass<br />that heads us down<br />the true path.<br />He's our superglue;<br />we need never come apart.<br />Someday all things<br />will join in him,<br />a vast and holy reconciliation.<br />In the meantime,<br />Jesus is what keeps<br />you and me<br />together.</i></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><br /></i></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Unselfish</b><br /><i>Colossians 1:24, "...I fill up my flesh what is lacking in regard to Christ's afflictions...."<br /></i><i><br />Christ suffered<br />for our sakes,<br />but he didn't keep<br />it all for himself.<br />The bucket of miseries<br />is not yet full.<br />We get to add to it.<br />We get to fill it<br />because Jesus knew<br />we'd want to suffer<br />for his sake.<br />So as we carry the good news<br />to all people, we weep,<br />we laugh, we bleed,<br />we bind our wounds.<br />We serve with joy.<br /></i><br /><br /><b>Well Dressed</b><br /><i>Colossians 3:12, ..clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness, and patience."<br /></i><br /><i>They many not be the latest fashion,<br />but your new clothes fit perfectly.<br />You've never looked better.<br /></i><br /><br /><b>"Masters...</b><br /><i>Colossians 4:1<br /></i><br />"... <i>Provide your slaves</i><br /><i>with what is right and just."</i><br /><i>Free them.</i><br /><br /><br /><b style="font-style: italic;">Remember My Chains</b><br /><i>Colossians 4:18<br /><br />When you pray<br />include those in prison<br />paying for the harm<br />they've done to others<br />and to themselves.<br />Include those<br />unjustly imprisoned<br />for faith, race, or human error.<br />Imprisonment has a way<br />of dismembering people,<br />ripping them from family,<br />values, and life's normalities.<br />Re-member them<br />in vision and petition.<br />Re-member all the broken ones--<br />refugees, victims of war or rape,<br />neighbors beaten down<br />by domestic violence,<br />loved ones battling cancer or addiction,<br />those suffering rejection and divorce.<br />The lonely.<br />People have so many ways<br />of being enchained and broken,<br />of being torn and dismembered.<br />Your task is to remember them.<br />Remember them everyday.</i></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><i style="font-size: large;"> </i></p>Nancy Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12660294694426043259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4834234576639473297.post-9933459460331056112022-04-25T08:34:00.003-07:002022-04-25T08:34:56.281-07:00I'm good with languages
<div class="separator"><div class="separator" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEircV_xipbsjUU0WL-4yUmFvXFEfx_WL4NH0fB5tKcaQ4RcUAtB0olhhimPMo58tSy0UuEXFnHCwp0LEu0u_l8xp4QseuZE5bPjHUBvHGHxx-YPdiwPA0BKoMhhq4ax_HCPCGadDrV0ibCWq3ST7LswH_I8sqqaFb9zeUsi3P82FB2GYg-Hf5zAy2Kk4w/w400-h300/IMG_2413.jpg" width="400" /></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><b style="font-size: large;"><br /></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br style="font-size: large;" /><span style="font-size: medium;">This morning on the path to the beach<br />the wind whistled through the scrub brush<br />and I answered back in the vernacular.<br />The ocean, unusually talkative,<br />threw waves and words on the shore.<br />I understood her perfectly.<br />Two sea gulls bandied a joke back and forth<br />in their dialect. I got it. Laughed out loud.<br />And while the rising sun chose to be silent,<br />I knew what he meant to say.<br /></span><br /></div>
Nancy Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12660294694426043259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4834234576639473297.post-3676939493978823702022-04-16T06:42:00.000-07:002022-04-16T06:42:51.884-07:00Poems of Passion Week, Saturday<p> <b><span style="font-size: medium;">Questions for the Father</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">Jesus called you Father<br />
even more than he called you Lord God Almighty.<br />
<i>Daddy,</i> he whispered in those early morning conversations,<br />
surrounded by silence, waiting for the dawn.<br />
<br />
He told us stories about you—<br />
a sorrowful father missing his lost son, waiting, waiting,<br />
a woman losing her money,<br />
a shepherd losing a lamb.<br />
He told us how you searched for the lost<br />
and how you turned happy, so happy,<br />
at the return of what you held dear.<br />
<br />
Even with these stories, it seems presumptuous<br />
to attribute human emotions<br />
to the Creator of the universe,<br />
the Lord of Hosts, the Name above all names.<br />
Sad? Angry? Happy? Aren’t you above all that?<br />
So I approach you tentatively, on tip-toe<br />
with my wonderings.<br />
<br />
Were you with him in the garden that night?<br />
When your son begged for mercy,<br />
for release from the coming horror,<br />
did it cost you to tell him <i>No</i>?<br />
Even knowing the end of that dark story<br />
(a story you wrote), did his tears move you?<br />
Did you feel the dread with him?<br />
<br />
Did a shudder run through the universe<br />
when your son was betrayed, denied justice,<br />
degraded, abused, and crucified?<br />
<br />
Did you actually abandon him?<br />
What did that cost you?<br />
<br />
I’m a clumsy, bumbling pseudo-therapist<br />
asking you, <i>And how did that make you feel?</i><br />
Forgive my presumption.<br />
But I really do wonder,<br />
my Father.</span><o:p></o:p></p>Nancy Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12660294694426043259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4834234576639473297.post-30642575301844196022022-04-15T11:57:00.002-07:002022-04-15T11:58:42.111-07:00Poems of Passion Week, Good Friday<p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Cowards<br /></b><i>Luke 23</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">Like beach volleyball<br />
played with a live coal,<br />
Pilate and Herod<br />
toss him back and forth.<br />
His innocence scorches.<br />
As the crowd grows<br />
angry and restless,<br />
they drop the coal.<br />
The crowd wins.<br />
Jesus loses.<br />
(The whole world wins.)<a name="_Hlk100297306"><br />
<br />
</a></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>The Politician’s
Question <br />
</b><i>John 18:28-40<br />
<br />
What is truth?<br />
</i>the politician asks,<i><br />
</i>not sticking<i><br />
</i>around for an answer.<i><br />
</i>The question hangs<i><br />
</i>in the air while<i><br />
</i>the man born<i><br />
</i>to be king awaits<i><br />
</i>his coronation<i><br />
</i>in silence.<i><o:p></o:p></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a name="_Hlk100297306"><span style="font-size: medium;">
<b>Why?</b><br />
<i>Mark 15<br />
<br />
</i>Along with T.S. Eliot,<br />
I also wonder<br />
why we call<br />
that Friday<br />
Good.<o:p></o:p></span></a></p>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk100297306;"></span>
</span><p class="MsoNormal"><a name="_Hlk100297258"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
<br />
<b>Last Breath<br />
</b><i>Luke 23:46<br />
<br />
</i>With a loud voice<br />
Jesus committed his spirit<br />
to God and breathed his last,<br />
we’re told. Last breath<br />
from the One who was there<br />
when God breathed life<br />
into the human race.<br />
Blew revival on a pile of bones,<br />
embodied the Spirit wind<br />
that enlivened a people for God.<br />
But this breath was not really<br />
his last. It would only lead<br />
to a new and living way<br />
for people to breathe.<br />
The last breath would become<br />
the first in God’s strange <br />
biology.</span><o:p></o:p></a></p>Nancy Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12660294694426043259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4834234576639473297.post-29704964218055377752022-04-14T17:13:00.001-07:002022-04-15T11:59:10.337-07:00Poems of Passion Week, Thursday<p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>No Way<br /></b></span><i style="font-size: large;">Luke 22</i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">Lord, there is no way I can make good poetry from this story.<b><br />
</b>No way I can journey with Judas, you as my merchandise.<b><br />
</b>I can’t sit at the table with your disciples, drink your blood, eat your
body, even in metaphor.<b><br />
</b>I also love to pray in gardens, but this bloody sweat makes no sense.<b><br />
</b>I’m angry at the kiss of death and the rough seizure with you refusing
resistance, at the mockery and the insults.<b><br />
</b>And I’m dumbfounded when you look at me, just as you looked at Peter.<b><br />
</b>Forgive me.<b><o:p></o:p></b></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i>I Am He</i> <br />
</b><i><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">John 18:1-27<br />
<br />
</span>I am he</i> is the seismic center.<i><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><br />
</span></i>It spreads in expanding rings.<i><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><br />
</span></i>The bodies fall outward,<i><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><br />
</span></i>circle a setting sun.<i><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><br />
</span></i>Torches, lanterns, weapons, <i><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><br />
</span></i>a bloody face, arrest <i><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><br />
</span></i>and betrayals spin,<i><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><br />
</span></i>but the center holds. <i><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><br />
</span></i>Even so, night deepens.<i><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><br />
</span></i>Even so, this unbearable cold.<i><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></p>Nancy Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12660294694426043259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4834234576639473297.post-56960548551054750302022-04-06T08:25:00.003-07:002022-04-07T10:41:37.573-07:00Poems of Passion Week, day 3--a preview<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgTBgQx1sBv2mgqH0y3-JiBjnNiIbpmbrgVlNk9NJIXOb9VyyOFQp5lmom-vDcLYjRcDYrNJkzhfAP-PKQend54urzNbbFEXfrH_Qbl5d95gTpjCGelhtXojqO3xJaktzNsXj1zgJ8HPLTeQDtmn9i9F33VW0XWSkEJzu1kAaC_2WlGqaxDQSH6OnuHw/s267/download.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="189" data-original-width="267" height="189" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgTBgQx1sBv2mgqH0y3-JiBjnNiIbpmbrgVlNk9NJIXOb9VyyOFQp5lmom-vDcLYjRcDYrNJkzhfAP-PKQend54urzNbbFEXfrH_Qbl5d95gTpjCGelhtXojqO3xJaktzNsXj1zgJ8HPLTeQDtmn9i9F33VW0XWSkEJzu1kAaC_2WlGqaxDQSH6OnuHw/s1600/download.jpg" width="267" /></a></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><br /></b></span></div></b></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">The Anointing <br />
</b><i><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">John 12:1-19<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">Judas seems to be<br />
the only sane human<br />
in this scene.<br />
The wastefulness<br />
of Mary’s impulsive gesture<br />
—in the midst of third world<br />
poverty, political unrest,<br />
and untold suffering—<br />
demands an angry response,<br />
whatever the ulterior motives.<br />
The only act more<br />
extravagant than Mary’s<br />
anointing is Jesus’<br />
acceptance<br />
of its appropriateness.<br />
Surely this time<br />
love has gone too far.</span><o:p></o:p></p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"></b></span>Nancy Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12660294694426043259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4834234576639473297.post-71178353835023271452022-04-05T06:36:00.005-07:002022-04-07T10:42:00.148-07:00Poems of Passion Week, day 2--a preview<p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Small Things<br /></b><i>Luke 21:1-4</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">He sees<br />
the smallest movement—<br />
a cup of coffee,<br />
a single coin,<br />
washing dishes<br />
and sweeping floors,<br />
a word in the silence<br />
offered in love<br />
by an undivided heart.<br />
Unnoticed by humans,<br />
angels sing.<br />
He sees.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><o:p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></o:p></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkt40WSlE4bzAMr59soByKQIlePOdETTM0WEZCuTiN9fFnp1tKeZb4VBOhiB9BCpQq6zuXKw-j1wJ20XfLrI9OjApASo2vJHK0q_qFNEg8gPgLAYONfWXFU2GlTFfe03A-hlQa8RciDDbxbTquk9LBkkecJaycCEPSZvxqPb0RmuTs0QP1jPR_kr-E1Q/s600/WomanSweeping.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkt40WSlE4bzAMr59soByKQIlePOdETTM0WEZCuTiN9fFnp1tKeZb4VBOhiB9BCpQq6zuXKw-j1wJ20XfLrI9OjApASo2vJHK0q_qFNEg8gPgLAYONfWXFU2GlTFfe03A-hlQa8RciDDbxbTquk9LBkkecJaycCEPSZvxqPb0RmuTs0QP1jPR_kr-E1Q/s320/WomanSweeping.png" width="320" /></a></span></b></div><p></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>The Time Will Come<br /></b><i>Luke 21:5-37</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">--when my degrees, publications, and progress reports will dissolve into
air<i><br />
</i>--when the nose of the apostle will grow long<i><br />
</i>--when pandemics, tsunamis, tribal migrations, and the extinction of the
bald eagle will crash the media networks<i><br />
</i>--when we will be brought before the House judicial committee and accused
of crimes against humanity.<i><br />
<br />
</i>Don’t be afraid, he tells us illogically.<i><br />
</i>Get ready.<i><br />
</i>Redemption is coming.</span><i><o:p></o:p></i></p>Nancy Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12660294694426043259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4834234576639473297.post-31302058057052698892022-03-12T13:30:00.000-08:002022-03-12T13:30:02.856-08:00Suck it up...<p><span style="font-size: medium;">is an ugly little phrase,<br />but not without merit.<br />I water my African violets<br />three times a week.<br />I pour the water into the dish<br />the pot sits in, never directly<br />into the soil.<br />Then, three times a week,<br />they suck it up.<br />It's what makes them bloom.</span></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjjk-X5UmcH_MjCX-qK2se_lEhBOpIgEQj2nVq_z_fUImBiwUlb7j5PRsHURaBN8jAwDHi2I-MxGEGhBxpCZK_fjVWWqZkB4P4M2EEi0wUirolPltnhEryZ3OmDDe508ya4LshiA65-f7Szj2KFuwA0bDXmTOmsG2-2xERElj0GLr55YNLirXx-UQO2vw=s640" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjjk-X5UmcH_MjCX-qK2se_lEhBOpIgEQj2nVq_z_fUImBiwUlb7j5PRsHURaBN8jAwDHi2I-MxGEGhBxpCZK_fjVWWqZkB4P4M2EEi0wUirolPltnhEryZ3OmDDe508ya4LshiA65-f7Szj2KFuwA0bDXmTOmsG2-2xERElj0GLr55YNLirXx-UQO2vw=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>Nancy Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12660294694426043259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4834234576639473297.post-39784253457225467132022-02-01T10:00:00.001-08:002022-03-04T09:28:39.428-08:00A Quaker considers war<p> </p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>No Survivors</b><br />
<i>Joshua 10:40<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[endif]--></i><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">In terrible obedience<br />
Joshua subdued the land—<br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>hill country<br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>the Negev<br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>western foothills<br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>mountain slopes—<br />
together with their kings.<br />
The target, by holy command—<br />
any being that breathed.<br />
No beast, no baby escaped<br />
the brutal blitz.<br />
A challenge, yes, but<br />
not too hard for a band<br />
of soldiers seasoned to kill,<br />
not nearly as hard<br />
as God’s latter command<br />
to warriors of a new regime—<i> <br />
love your enemies.</i><br />
<br />
This time, Lord,<br />
you go too far.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> <br /><br /></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Old Testament War Revised<br />
<br />
</b>As a sophomore<br />
our daughter made the coveted<br />
cheerleading squad.<br />
Some of the chants underscored<br />
the brutality of high school sports.<br />
One afternoon, I watched<br />
as the girls waved their pom-poms,<br />
danced, leaped, and led<br />
the crowd in<br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i>Kill kill<br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Hate hate<br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Murder murder<br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Mutilate<br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Go, Team!<br />
</i>I was glad when the school<br />
year ended.<br /><br /></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>A Reasonable Approach to War</b><br />
<br />
If some worthy person in a far off country<br />
is willing to die for his/her country and/or faith,<br />
then the least I can do<br />
is be willing to kill him/her<br />
for the sake of my country and/or faith.</span><o:p></o:p></p><br /><p></p>Nancy Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12660294694426043259noreply@blogger.com1