Another Nine Minutes ... Gone

The *LOC loves to cook breakfast.  And I don't just mean a nice little pan of oatmeal.  He likes to whip up pancakes topped with heated syrup and good butter.

He loves to make omelets with chopped green peppers and onions, filled with mixed shredded cheese.  These he serves with whole wheat toast and raspberry jam. Ooooh, boy.

And he LOVES to fry bacon - lots of it.  His bacon turns out just right - dry, crispy and not too dark, not too light.  And flat!

One kitchen tool he prizes more than nearly any other is his bacon press.  For those who have never seen, much less used, one - it resembles an iron.  (See photo above.)  You set it on top of the bacon as it fries, and the weight prevents the bacon from shriveling up.  He also drains it and dries it on a paper towel.  Voila!

When the LOC places a slice of bacon on a plate, it is crispy, golden brown and flat, non-greasy and delicious.  In other words, perfect. Oh, dear - that is the problem. 
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The other day I read an article that said medical research indicates that for every piece of bacon a person eats, his or her life is shortened by nine minutes. What?

Oh, phooey.  As we get older there are so many things that are not quite as enjoyable as they once were.  I don't mean to be a Debbie-downer here, but it is true.  A nice walk used to simply mean wonderful things to see as I went along, and a good sense of fatigue when I got back home.

Now a brisk walk, in addition to those two things, also involves:
- being sure I have first visited the bathroom before I head out,
- making sure I am wearing a pair of shoes that gives me the best surface grip to avoid falling,
- that I am wearing both sunblock cream and a hat to protect my face from the sun, and
- being willing to hurt for the first three blocks until I hit my stride (which admittedly is nothing to brag about.)

In other words, simple pleasures are not so simple anymore.  So for crying out loud, couldn't they have left having a nice slice of bacon alone?

Apparently not.

So I did the math.

The LOC cooks breakfast an average of twice a week.  But we generally only have bacon during one of those meals.  However, he always serves me three perfectly cooked slices.

There goes 27 minutes I'll never get back.
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Calculating a half an hour lost per week, equates to approximately one day each year.  If the LOC and I persist in this ritual for thirty years, I may lose a month at the end of the gastronomical trail.

Well, life is a series of trade-offs as we all know from personal experience.  A month is nothing to sneeze at.  But neither is the prospect of thirty years without bacon!  Yeesh.
                                      
Guess we each have to make our own choice.  For me, for now at least, .... honey, pass the bacon.
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Hope you are using your time well and wisely.  Failing that, hope you are at least enjoying a good slice of bacon!  Until next time ... Marsha
(*Lovable Old Coot)

Progress Not Perfection

I am not sure why I am writing this little essay today, except that I feel compelled to do so.  I see so many people beating themselves up over what they perceive as their lack of progress in life, on the job, in relationships, or toward a life goal.  

For many years I counseled employees upon how to better succeed in their role in the company.  Sometimes the coaching was about how to obtain that promotion they had been longing for and other times it was about how to better operate under a boss who was less than the ideal, or any of a myriad of other issues.

I kept a framed poster on my office wall, with a picture similar to the one shown above, that read:  Success is not a destination, it is a journey.  I still believe that.

When working with people who wanted some help in making progress toward a goal, some of the questions I would pose were:

Why do you want this? (If it was a desired promotion, and the answer was simply "more money" - that usually meant we had a lot of work to do.)

What skills do you have that make you feel well-suited to this next role? (If the response was, "I don't have any idea" - we had a lot of work , etc. .....).

What have you done (on your "own time and own dime") in the past year to prepare yourself for this opportunity? (If s/he looked at me and said, "huh?" - we had a lot .....)

What approaches have you already tried to improve the working relationship? (If the answer was "nothing" - that did not bode well.)

It was my genuine joy to see them succeed, sometimes beyond their initial hopes or dreams.  However, there were times when they just could not seem to "make it happen"; they could not find a way to achieve their ideal employment situation.

When they would come back to me, in such circumstances, wondering why they had failed, I often pointed out (when it was true) that they had not failed; rather they had overlooked their own progress.

In life, just as in a career, the goal should be progress not perfection.  

Progress is not defined by "how am I doing compared to so-and-so."  Using this definition we will almost inevitably be disappointed and frustrated.  And there will usually be more than a dollop of envy and self-pity thrown in, too.

I defined progress by "how am I doing compared to where I was this time last year?"

Questions we may legitimately ask ourselves are:
Am I more effective in my role this year?

Have I shown growth in the areas of compassion, patience or generosity?

Am I doing my best to be a good role model where I have the opportunity to do so?

Our progress along the time/life continuum will always be less than ideal. And sometimes our honest answer to each of the questions above may be a regretful "no, not really." 

After all, we live in a fallen world.  But our situation can almost always be improved upon, depending upon whether we are willing and able to invest the energy and discipline to make it so.

Whether it is our spending habits about which we are concerned, our weight management struggles, or our dreams for ways in which we would like to participate in the world, progress is the goal.  

God never expected us to become "perfect" in this life, except as seen through the sacrifice of his son and the beauty of grace.  Even the verse in Mathew that says "Be perfect as your Father is perfect" - in the original Greek actually uses the root word "mature" meaning a fully mature person spiritually, not an infallible human being.
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Each one should test his own actions. Then he can take pride in himself, without comparing himself to somebody else ... Galatians 6:4 (NIV)
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Hope you are making good progress today and that you are not beating yourself up because you just aren't perfect.  Guess what, no one alive today is!  Until next time ... Marsha

It's Official - I'm Obsolete

It is a sad state of affairs when you learn you are obsolete via the nightly news.  But that is just what happened to me this week.

It seems the people who run the Monopoly game business also ran a survey to learn which board token should be "retired"; and it turned out to be the iron.    

It was replaced with a cat.

Oh, puh-leeze.  Just when was the last time a four-footed fur ball put a nice crease in your best slacks?  I mean, honestly ...

Of course, it wasn't really that much of a shock to the system.  I have long suspected that I am one of only three people left in America who still actually irons.  I would love to know who the other two are, incidentally.

I actually enjoy ironing.  Probably because I only do it when I feel like it, and I only have to do a few pieces at a time.

Back when you had to iron everything you wore, or go out the door looking like you just fell out of bed, things were different.  Of course, as it turns out, those who ran around looking wrinkled and woe-begotten were simply twenty five years ahead of their time.
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Oh, well. Such are the vagaries of life.  I plan to keep on ironing as long as I have the strength to set up the old board, and plug in the iron.  It relaxes me, and it gives me a wonderful sense of satisfaction when I am finished with a whole set of freshly pressed blouses, slacks and shirts.  They look nice and smell wonderful!

So if the trade off is satisfaction, a sense of completion, and a good olfactory experience vs. being obsolete in a society which indulges in what is called "planned obsolescence" every single day -  well, color me happy

I am content to be officially obsolete - my blouses still look better than they need to :)

True, I won't pass go and I won't collect two hundred dollars.  And I definitely don't plan to get a cat.  (Holly, would have a fit.)

But all in all, I am okay with it.   # # # # #
Hope your day was a good one and that your favorite board piece was not snatched and declared obsolete.  Or you either.  Until next time ... Marsha

A Little White Lie - Or Ivory or Ecru

Odd term, isn't it?  "White lie" - by which we generally mean an untruth which does not have moral, financial, or safety implications; but which may in the telling allow certain notions to remain undisturbed.  Or it may allow certain assumptions to go unchallenged.

Maisie asks her friend, "How do you like my new dress?", blissfully unaware that the dress is the wrong size, the wrong length, the wrong material, and the wrong cut.

But is Maisie's friend likely to tell her any of that?  Oh, no.  She will probably come up with something that evades the whole question, and respond with something like, "That color does such nice things for your skin."
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Last week I visited a community singing ensemble as an invited guest.  Everyone was friendly and very welcoming.  They reminded me a little of The Village People, minus the fetching costumes.  However, they began on time (always a plus for me, as I loathe being late for anything but a dental appointment) and they had all the necessary equipment at the ready.

Song sheets were crisply distributed to two dozen or so present.  Warm up exercises commenced.  The jolly leader tapped his baton on the side of the music stand ...and we were off.

Yes, indeed we were - off key, off tempo, off you-name-it.

Between songs they gaily asked me whether a) I had ever sung before, b) did I know any of their songs, and c) was I thinking of joining their group as a regular?  Answers:  a) Yes, b) some, and c) I was thinking about it.

After we whipped through a few familiar ditties, there was a brief coffee break from our warbling.

One fellow (of the approximate age of 103) sauntered up to me with a familiar manner and declared, "You are the second prettiest woman here."

Unfazed (or simply temporarily stunned from the workout I had just undergone) I shot back with a pleasant smile, "Oh, really.  And who is the prettiest?"

"I don't know, but I always allow for the possibility that there must be someone around, or soon will be, who fits the bill."

(I cannot make this stuff up.)
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Now to the heart of the matter.  The leader of these happy cohorts announced, with no little ceremony, that we were about to have an audition.  I had been specifically assured that this was a no-audition-required community singing group, or I would have stayed home; and thus I felt a sudden shortness of breath.  But, not to worry, he did not mean me.

Three members of the group were going to favor us with a number. (I think we might have been better served with a letter, but I was new, so I didn't say this.)  If their song was of appropriate quality, they would include it in the group's repertoire at the performance later that afternoon.  But they were not sure they were ready, and it was up to us to decide whether they were up to standards.

JL (Jolly Leader) reminded us solemnly that this was an audition, and not to be taken lightly.  It was important to give honest feedback.  This was no "gimme" - this was an honest-to-goodness audition.  There was to be no automatic praise, no false reassurances.  Whether the trio was to be deemed ready for the upcoming public performance depended solely upon our feedback.  (Good heavens, the pressure was already mounting, and I was just visiting.)

The three (two male and one female) approached the piano with a good show of humility and a dab of jaunty confidence and announced their selection.  I had never heard of it, which was just as well.  Less to compare by.

I'm not quite sure what key they were singing in, but it hardly mattered as they switched it several times, whether the pianist did or not.  Some of the song was sung in Italian and some in English, but who knows which was which. Verse, chorus, verse, chorus and a repeat on the chorus for a flourishing finish!

I can honestly say I had never heard anything quite like it.

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After the last notes had died, but not necessarily a natural death,  JL solicited our unvarnished feedback.  This was met with a somewhat strained silence, for about ten seconds, and then the floodgates opened.

"I think their tone is .... remarkable."

"The mood of the song is really uplifting."

"Such a happy song."

"They probably should stand a little further away from the piano, as it was a little difficult to hear them on some notes." (I couldn't have put it better myself.)
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I sat there in mild disbelief.  The trio broke out into broad smiles.  General nodding and thumbs up could be seen for two rows in either direction.

And then I began to smile, too.  This group sings for the sheer fun of it.  They don't give a hoot about staccato, obbligato, or adagio.

But they sing with gusto!  And good camaraderie.  And a genuine joy in each other's company.
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And you should have seen the beaming faces on our audience later that afternoon, as we crowded into the social hall of a retirement center to sing to the residents for over an hour.  They laughed and clapped without reservation; and yes, I do realize that not a few were probably stone deaf.  Didn't matter.  

My ears are still ringing with the applause.  (Or something.  :)  And a good time was had by all.

Oh, and did I happen to mention the name of the song the trio sang? It was "Escusa me" - loosely translated "excuse me."

Well, why not?  Where's the harm?  

As I said, I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried.  Fortunately, I don't have to, as it happened just as described.  At least that is my recollection of how it all went down.

And yep, I think I may go back.  They told me they really need good singers, such as myself.  Since neither my morals, my finances, nor my safety is at risk - I think I will give the color of their feedback the benefit of the doubt. White, ecru, or ivory - I'm just going to allow the notion to go unchallenged.
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Hope you are telling the gentle truth wherever it is required, and giving everyone else the benefit of the doubt.  I'm certainly trying to. Until next time ... Marsha

The Grabber - Tool or Weapon ?

The weather has been a little warmer this week, and we have had some breaks in the rain.  This means it is time to go out and begin to clean up all the pine tree debris that has landed during the last round of rain storms.  Pine cones, pine needles, and branches are an ever present chore waiting to be tackled.

The first few times the *LOC and I picked up pine cones, we both hobbled back into the house after a couple of hours of vigorous pine cone retrieval, as bent over as the hunchback of Notre Dame. The share price of ibuprofen products ticked up nicely that week, let me tell you.

But we cannot simply allow the things to pile up or soon we could not navigate the yard.  If you inadvertently step on one, well, you may end up sitting near it upon your own backside.  They roll when stepped upon creating a real hazard for the ankles.  At this point, my ankles have enough issues without aggravating them, thank you very much.

Fortunately, there is help at hand.  It is a wonderful little contraption called "the grabber".  It is yet further evidence that your local hardware store is the best establishment you can possibly frequent.  They have absolutely everything at the hardware store.  (With the exception of good deli sandwiches.) I could spend hours just wandering up and down the aisles, and sometimes do.

The grabber allows one to grasp a handle, which opens and closes, and is cleverly affixed to a three foot long pole, at the end of which is a set of pincer-like prongs operated by the handle at the top.  With this handy-dandy tool I can pick up pine cones without bending over very far. In fact, given that I am somewhat height challenged, I hardly have to bend at all.  

If I had to guess, I would imagine that this little gem is the best selling product around our little mountain hamlet, at least among the geriatric set.  Why this thing has undoubtedly saved its users untold tens of thousands of dollars in chiropractic treatments, liniments and ointment rubs, herniated discs and ruptured what nots.  The device is too marvelous for words; and I am sure the inventor must now be a jillionaire.  Deservedly so.

Once the little grabber was discovered, why picking up pine cones became quite pleasant.  Child's play, really.  That is until the *LOC got out of line and called me a party-pooper. What, you may logically ask, does picking up pine cones have to do with party pooper-ing?  Good question.  It is only in retrospect that I have sorted it out.
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The other afternoon, the LOC and I went out to companionably share yard duty.  While I was grabbing cone after cone in one area, he was industriously scooping up pine needles across the yard, as he listened to music on his headset.  They have these little paddles with teeth especially for this purpose (no, not on the headsets, silly, on the pine needle scoopers) because pine needles do not rake up well.  And clearly they cannot be grabbed. 

Every so often he would shout to me, across the yard, calling out some song or other that was currently playing, asking whether I remembered that one.  Generally I did, but occasionally I just nodded and kept grabbing, regardless of whether memory served.  Nightfall was coming and I still had forty thousand or so pine cones to pick up before dark.

Suddenly the *LOC shouts to me something about " Just wanna' have fun?" - grinning like a lunatic.  While I might under some circumstances agree, I really didn't think it was any of the neighbors' business and given his volume level I didn't see how they could possibly not hear him, so I ignored him.  A couple of minutes later he called out again along the same line.

I was by then getting ticked and paused to give him the stink eye.  I mean really, some people have no sense of time and place.  He looked puzzled, if not downright hurt.

I turned back to my grabbing, muttering to myself about foolish old men who cannot even do yard work without letting their thoughts wander in untoward directions, when he suddenly shouts out again, even louder this time, which I hardly thought possible.

I whirled around, prepared to step lively over to his vicinity and share an opinion or two with him, when he calls out, "Cindi Lauper -  girls just wanna have fun.  Remember that one?"

I was so irked that I was tempted to have an untoward thought or two myself, in terms of what purpose might the grabber serve other than just pinching pine cones.

But really, what was the point?  So I just shook my head in the negative and waved him off.  At that point, he shook his own head, and said, "Party pooper."  I think he thought he was muttering under his breath, but his headphones were turned up so loud, that he sounded more like he was trying to call down fire out of heaven.

Meanwhile, he was now raking with rhythm -feet moving, hips swaying, scoopers swishing - just having a fine old time over in his quadrant; whereas I was now thoroughly miffed at having been misjudged.

Smarting from the put down, I dragged my wheelbarrow over to his blind side, but overcame the temptation to acquaint him with my grabber in heretofore unknown ways. Instead I tossed the grabber onto the mere twenty thousand pine cones I had managed to grab, and stomped off to the kitchen. Let the remaining twenty thousand do their worst to whomever happened to be in the yard.
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Later, I could not help but sadly recall that wisdom laden line from Cool Hand Luke. "What we have here is a failure to communicate."
Ya think?  :)
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Hope your pine cones are staying on the limb, and that no one has risked life and limb trying to communicate with you today.  Until next time ... Marsha
(*Lovable Old Coot - in this case, clearly a misnomer.)

It Used To Be Funny ...

Perhaps my sense of humor has developed "old arthur" - goodness knows pretty much all the rest of me has arthritis.

Somehow, a number of things that I used to think were funny, are now just too true for belly laughs.  Besides, I try to avoid anything that might make my middle regions jiggle.  It is undignified, if not downright unsightly.

And stuff I previously thought was hilarious, lately strikes me as nearly pitiful - or as my dad used to say "Pity-itty-ful" !

Be that as it may - the following are a few observations on the challenges of the "maturity season" of life.  I cannot remember who first shared these with me.  That is another "maturity challenge".  I DO know that it is Tuesday.  That's about all I know today.

Laugh at your own risk ....
                                       
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• That gleam in your eyes is from the sun hitting your bifocals.

• Your little black book contains mostly names ending in M.D.

• You get winded playing chess or bingo.

• Your children begin to look middle aged.  Now how can that be?

• You know all the answers, but nobody asks you the questions.

• You actually look forward to a dull evening.

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Hope you are having a day filled with sunshine and smiles.  The *LOC and I are looking forward to a dull evening - maybe listening to some old Eddie Arnold tunes.  :)  Until next time ...Marsha
(*Lovable Old Coot)

Root Rot - Or A Better Story ?

"...the loneliness of it, the dead feeling of winter.  Something waits beneath it, the whole story doesn't show."  ~Andrew Wyeth

There it was, sitting on a small wooden stem, underneath all the dead foliage from last season's flowering.  A new bud, and it is only January.


Slowly, methodically, I pulled away more and more brown and brittle dead "stuff" and as I did I saw more and more little reddish buds perched on their stems.  They had color and life, even amidst all that cold, stiff, brown, vegetation.  They were simply awaiting their time to bloom.

My newly transplanted planted peonies, which were three to four feet tall by summer's end, with massive greenery and blossoms as big as dinner plates, had by mid-winter shrunk to puny looking brown sticks of about half their former height.  If you were to glance at them, you might reasonably conclude they were dead.

However, they are not dead (lifeless, finished, hopeless) but rather they are currently dormant (latent, invisible, yet to be manifested).
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I'll be honest with you, I mostly hate winter.  I don't like being cold. I dislike trekking about doing errands in the frigid rain.  My arthritis flares up and my spirits spiral down.

Last fall we planted tons of new shrubs and plants that looked wonderful and truly added to the natural beauty of our little half-acre.  And then came winter.  Nearly everything has shriveled up, wilted down, and gone to sleep.  They are not dead - just dormant.

But oh, do they look dreary.

You can imagine, then, my excitement yesterday when I went out to do a little mid-winter tending to the peony plants.  According to my gardening book peonies should not be cut back until all foliage has died off and the first frost of the winter is past.  Then, and only then, do you cut them back, and put mulch around their base.  Otherwise, you can get root rot and fungus!  

When I discovered bud after bud, colorful and full of promise, I was just as pleased as a proud parent when her offspring has done well, even in dreary circumstances.

As I headed back into the house, after stowing my tools, and gloves; I suddenly wondered whether the Father might be just as pleased when I show some promise of renewed commitment and contribution.  

Perhaps you have been dormant lately, cold and lifeless; and perhaps there is yet coming a time of fruitfulness.

How I want to avoid spiritual "root rot" - stay away from the nasty fungus of the soul that tempts me to think there is little point to any effort of mine.  

I was so pleased with those little red buds yesterday that I smiled for a long time, and thought a lot about how beautiful they will be in the coming months.  All that promise just waiting to unfold.

Does God wait for me to develop a small bud of patience, a little shoot of faith?  Is He so glad when He sees them that He smiles upon my life when I allow His timing to begin to manifest itself in fruitfulness?

Those buds cannot know how happy they made me yesterday.  They cannot perceive how often I smiled as I considered the pleasure they will soon bring.

Even so, in my ignorance and earthly blindness, I cannot know how often God looks upon my life, even in times of winter barrenness, and smiles as he sees a small new bud of faith and fruitfulness begin to take shape.  
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Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up. (Galatians 6:9 NIV)      

So friends, let's be on the lookout for root rot and fungus - as we look toward the fruitfulness of spring.  The whole story is not yet told. Until next time ...Marsha     

Planning - Part II

Planning is neither good nor bad in and of itself. We like to feel that we are in control of our lives and planning is one way to introduce an element of control over at least some portion of our daily activities.

There is, of course, a broad spectrum of opinions as to the value of planning.  On one end we have the "go with the flow" crowd, who would sooner have an unplanned root canal that to plan enough time into their daily schedule to brush and floss.

On the other end is the "if it isn't on the schedule, we don't have time for it" crowd.  People in this category often end up teaching things like corporate time management seminars. (She wrote sheepishly.)

I believe the healthiest folks are those who are able to move back and forth along the spectrum, sometimes planning carefully, and other times just letting events unfold.  How I envy such people. There are even times, these days, when I can break bread with them and appreciate their perspective; but it took many painful life-lessons before I was able to do this.

God sent me to the "Chastened Planners Remedial Camp" - more than once - before I finally relaxed my death grip upon trying to control outcomes.  It is not by happenstance, that Twelve Step programs often remind their participants that "becoming overly attached to a desired outcome" is just one slippery step away from a relapse into addictive behavior.  That is scary stuff.
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So what kinds of plans can get a person into hot water?  Since planning itself is neither positive nor negative, what is it that can occur within that process that pushes the planner into the dark side of the spectrum?

Here are a couple of thoughts that you should feel free toss right on over the fence, if they do not ring true.

Planning for a personal objective, without regard to the thoughts, feelings, or needs of others.  In other words, planning rooted in selfish ambition.

All a man's ways seem right to him, but the Lord weighs the heart.
Proverbs 21:2 (NIV)

The plans of the diligent lead to profit as surely as haste leads to poverty. (Proverbs 21:5 (NIV)

I do not think it is by accident that these two verses are found so close to each other.  Diligence that is also caring and generous leads to profitable productivity.  But a plan that is fed by something selfish in a person's heart, is weighed by God - and generally requires corrective action, for our own good and for the good of those who might otherwise be hurt by our actions.

King David had a plan to obtain Bathsheba.  He executed his plan (along with her husband) and she became his.  But the following outcomes were rife with broken hearts, loss and death.

A plan rooted in a selfish objective may be successful in the short term, but it will ultimately be doomed in God's grand design.

Planning that is based upon faulty information or a skewed premise.  

I recall the "dress for success" and "if it feels good do it" campaigns of the seventies and eighties.  If you looked good and felt good, then whatever you planned to do would turn out okay.  

Ask any of the beautiful actresses or handsome young actors, with wardrobes to die for and money to burn, whose bodies have been found after an overdose, how well that premise worked out for them.  They had a plan for stardom.  A desire to conquer the world. And sometimes they achieved it.

But the entire premise upon which they built their lives was sand, and eventually the house came tumbling down.
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Too little planning can result in chaos, but too much planning can result in heart failure.  A heart that has failed to recognize that God's plan is better than our plan, and that His timing is better than our timing.

If you are discouraged about a plan you have worked upon long and hard, and for which you are seeing little or no results, I encourage you to let go, even just a little.  Step back.  Take a deep breath.

God may be working out a solution that you have yet to recognize.  He is in the planning business and his plans include knowing the beginning from the end, an advantage we would do well to remember.

Some wit observed, "For a child of God it all works out all right in the end.  If it isn't working out, then it isn't the end yet."  I kind of like that.

Long ago someone suggested that instead of asking God to bless our plans, we would do better to figure out what God is already blessing ... and do that!  
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Hope your plans are going well today.  But if they are not, hope you can find a way to trust the all knowing Planner for as long as necessary.  It will be worth the wait. Until next time, Marsha

But What About Our Plaa-aa-aa-an ??? - Part I

Plan:  a scheme or program for making, doing, or arranging something; to have in mind as a project or purpose ( Webster's New World Dictionary-Third College Edition)
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Some of us like plans.  Some of us don't.  Some of us like plans, as long as they are our plans.  If it is someone else's plan, then we are not quite so taken with it.

For years the LOC* would say, "If it isn't in Marsha's planner, it isn't going to happen." (I am embarrassed to admit this was often true.)

He referred to my Franklin-Covey Planner.  Much like Mary's little lamb, everywhere that Marsha went, it followed her.  I not only made plans and followed them, I taught various aspects of planning in corporate seminars - project planning and execution, Gannt charts, milestones, benchmarks - you name it.  I was a planning guru.

Generally, I operated on the old axiom of "plan your work and work your plan."  It worked for me.  I could also be, well, how shall I put this, overly attached to the plan, once it was in motion. Once it had been edited, approved, and distributed via the corporate intranet, you were going to have to pry that puppy out of my cold-dead hand before I would let it go.  Flexibility has never been one of my strong suits.  The PowerPoint show would go on.

But despite all the graduate coursework and corporate class sessions in which I was involved, the most dramatic lesson I ever had about becoming too attached to a plan was taught to me by my nine-year old granddaughter, Brynn, earlier this year.

We had attended Brynn's older sister, Simone's, high school choir competition in San Diego that morning, and then we went to Sea World with dozens of other students and parents/grandparents/others for the rest of the day.  The awards ceremony was scheduled to take place around 9:00 p.m. that evening, after which the teen students would board buses to go home; and my daughter, younger granddaughter and I would drive home on our own.

It was a fun day.  But it was a long day.  It rained intermittently, and was by turns chilly, windy, and then inexplicably too warm from hour to hour.  We walked, we talked, we watched animals and fishes do funny things. We ate funny things too (although I think they were called funnel cakes) and we walked some more.

Finally, around 5:00 p.m. my daughter looked at me (I may have been flagging a little by then) and said, "It is still hours until the awards dinner.  If we stay until after that, we are not going to get home until way after midnight.  What do you think about just heading back now?"

Not wanting to be a drag on the party, I said something like, "I think that makes sense."  Inwardly, I wanted to weep with sheer gratitude, as my feet and back were killing me.  I had been trying to keep up with a much young crew for hours and I was pretty much done in.

Thus, it was decided and we steered out of the gargantuan parking lot, and headed up Highway 101 for Los Angeles.  About ten miles up the road, we heard sniffling coming from the regions of the back seat.  My daughter ignored it for several miles and finally said, "Brynn, are you upset that we are going home early?"

As the sniffles turned into piteous sobs, Brynn suddenly wailed, "But what about our plaaaaan?  This wasn't our plaaaaan!  We were going to stay until the dinner and drive home late.  This wasn't the plaaaaaaaaan."
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Isn't it scary when some of our younger family members suddenly remind us of ourselves? Don't get me wrong; Brynn is delightful, funny and whip-smart, and I enjoy her immensely.  But in that moment I didn't know whether to laugh out loud, each time she wailed the drawn out word p-l-a-a-a-n, or cry with her.

She knew the plan for the day.  She agreed with the plan.  She liked the plan.  She bought into the plan.  And now, someone had changed the plaaaan without her consent.  WOW!  She was not a happy camper.

Have you ever been there?  I have.
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As Christians we often make a plan, decide how we are going to implement it, and then pray over our plan and ask God to bless it.  Nothing especially wrong with that, other than that it is backwards.

There is nothing inherently wrong with putting my clothes on backwards.  I bought them and they are mine to wear any way I want. And I can tell myself that all day long; but when I wear them backwards, they do not fit me well.  They are awkward and uncomfortable and downright silly looking.

You might think, why would you do that?  Wear your clothes backwards.  Who does that anyway?

And I might reply that they are my clothes and I just felt like it.  But they still feel uncomfortable because they do not fit right - and they look silly - even when I do not admit it.

In other words, the ability to buy clothing, and the ownership of that same clothing, do not alter the original design and purpose of the clothing, do they?

We can make our plans, devise them well; but if they do not conform with the Divine Planner's purpose for our lives, those plans will be awkward, ill-fitting and ultimately may not turn out well.

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Now listen, you who say, "Today or tomorrow we will go to this or that city, spend a year there, carry on business and make money." Why, you do not even know what will happen tomorrow.  What is your life?  You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes."  (James 4:13-14 NIV)

I don't know about you, but there have been times when I have wailed at God, just like my nine year old granddaughter, "But that wasn't the plaaaan.  I had a plaaaan, and this wasn't it!  Now what am I supposed to do?"
                                                   # # # # # Question:  Have you ever made a plan, and you were convinced it was a good plan, and had the whole thing turn out wrong?  How did you react?  I have done that.  And next time I'll share some of that with you.
Next time:  A Change of Plans.  Now what do we do?  Serving on the "Chastened Planning Commmittee". (Part II)
(*Lovable Old Coot)

How Are "They" in Your Neighborhood ?

It is another chilly, cloudy November day here in Northern California. We have had a couple of rains, but not in the past week.  The LG (Landscape Guy) told me to ignore the intermittent rain, as it does not water the new plants deeply enough.  

Thus, I was outside watering, despite the season.  As I worked my way along a "hoped for hedge" a green SUV pulled into the drive and a lady got out and introduced herself as a new neighbor just down the road.  We have been here a year, but she has only been here a month - so she is really new and I welcomed her.

She asked how we like it here, and I said we are enjoying the rural life.  The neighborhood is friendly and quiet and just what we were hoping for.  She looked a little disconcerted and told me the reason she was stopping by:  had we been bothered by the barking dogs two doors down from us?

I honestly had to tell her that I had not heard them, except for one day, when I did recall they seemed to bark. She did not seem to be "looking for trouble" as she told me why it was such a problem for her - she works nights and sleeps days.  I could understand as my mom was a night nurse for fifteen years and getting enough sleep was a constant challenge for her.

Nevertheless, there was something in her approach that bothered me a little.  Instead of just going over and politely knocking and asking them if they could try to quiet their dogs down because of her "day sleeping" needs, she was going door to door trying to drum up a little cabal to approach them en mass.                  # # # # #

While there could be a number of legitimate reasons why this lady was using this particular approach; it did remind me of a story I heard many years ago.

A family driving their car through a rural neighborhood stopped to ask an old man sitting on his front porch what kind of neighborhood 

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it was.                 

"We are thinking about moving here, and we would like to know what the neighbors are like" they told him.

The old gentlemen stroked his chin thoughtfully and slowly asked them, "Well, what were the neighbors like where you came from?"

"Oh, they were awful. Lots of problems. We didn't enjoy living there at all."

"I must tell you that you would find they are pretty much like that around here, too."

Keenly disappointed the family drove on down the road.

The following week another family stopped at the same old man's porch and asked a similar question.  They, too, were considering moving to his neighborhood.

"Well" he said carefully, "what were the neighbors like where you came from?"

"Oh, they were wonderful.  We enjoyed living among them and we were sorry we had to move."

"I think I can confidently tell you that you will find the neighbors here to be very much the same" he said with a smile.
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The moral being that sometimes we find the very thing we expect to find.  Smart-alacks call it a "self-fulfilling prophecy."  I don't know about that; but I do know from experience that more often than not we get what we go looking for.
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The *LOC and I came here a year ago looking only for a friendly, quiet place to hang our hats.  I am happy to report that our hats have hung undisturbed for a year now, and I am very thankful.  We found just what we went looking for.

Hope no one is disturbing your peace and quiet today.  And that wherever you hang your hat, you have found what you are looking for.  Until next time ... Marsha
*Lovable Old Coot