The Truth : Taking Responsibility

| This above all: to thine own self be true,
| And it must follow, as the night the day,
| Thou canst not then be false to any man.

- Polonius, in Hamlet, Act I Scene iii (William Shakespeare) 

I've been having discussions with a few people lately about how important it is to be honest about even the little things, to maintain personal integrity. The practice of honesty with oneself (and then inevitably with others) is one that, in today's society, is slowly going the way of the whooping crane. 

It is high time to revive it. 

During the last four and a half years, I've been living a lifestyle that demands rigorous honesty - first with the self, then with God and with others.

That forces me to be realistic with myself about a great many things I might otherwise have shoved under the carpet and lived in denial about. It fertilizes my conscience. It demands that I own up to my mistakes - even to (and especially to) my children. It makes me examine the motivations behind my own behaviors that still at times baffle me.

I've discovered that as I embrace this personal honesty, I have less tolerance for being snowed, no matter who's doing it. It's like I have this "BS meter" that points not only within but also outward. It pings all over the place when I hear people talk whose power has gone to their heads - notably politicians, high-ranking officials in businesses or organizations, and the like. 

However, the loudest pinging goes on when I am not being true to my moral compass, when I allow myself to be led astray or I start rationalizing my behavior to myself. That's a good sign. The loudest pinging used to be when I noticed someone else being dishonest. I still notice, but it's tempered with the knowledge that it could just as easily be me compromising my principles to satisfy some ulterior motive.  I know. I've done it.

Insisting on honesty doesn't mean I'm not tactful when I notice something askew in someone else's behavior. It doesn't mean I "let it all hang out" and justify my lambasting someone by saying that I'm being honest. Nor does it mean that I keep silent when silence is not called for. It means that I look at my own reactions and check my own integrity first. It means that I understand that I am human. Fallible.  And that it is okay to make mistakes - as long as I recognize them, and that I learn from them. 

Telling myself the truth is the first step in me taking responsibility for my part in whatever situation has become unlivable. It doesn't allow me the luxury of blaming another person entirely for the state of a relationship or a situation.

When I do need to confront someone, I remind myself to do so in meekness and kindness, with consideration for that person's feelings. It's the way I want to be treated whenever I mess up.

Wouldn't you?

Reviving an old tradition

There are many things about my childhood I would just as soon forget; I've talked about those memories from time to time, and I won't talk about them in this post. 

There was one tradition I observed when I was growing up, however, that has stayed with me all of my life. I'm not even sure if it's still done anymore in the area in which I grew up, but it was so meaningful that it stayed with me.

Two days a year, Mother's Day and Father's Day, people wore a carnation boutonniere or corsage to church so as to "honor" their parents. If the parent was still living, the flower would be red; if not, it would be white. I remember my parents kept a collection of plastic corsages in the top drawer between the fridge and the sink, right beside the tea towels. Every year, they'd dust them off and each person would be given a flower of the appropriate color to wear on either the second Sunday of May or the third Sunday of June. 

They used plastic flowers, because it was too expensive to use real ones.

When I married and moved to my husband's province, the locals had never heard of this custom. They thought it rather sweet, but strange as well. 

I did it anyway. 

Several years ago, the church we attended started handing out carnations to all the mothers in the church on Mother's Day. It was May 1989, and I was pregnant with our first child. Since our denomination believes that life begins at conception, I stood in line to get a flower. "No," I was told. "You're not a mother." 

Hurt and bewildered, I found my seat again. I never forgot the sting of that remark; even though I have forgiven it, and even forget who said it, the experience made me resolve never to treat a first-time pregnant mom like that ... ever.  

But I digress. As the church handed out the flowers to moms anyway, I got away from wearing a flower on that Sunday morning and instead, I made a corsage out of the one I was given at the morning service to wear that evening. 

Nowadays, for various reasons, Mother's Day is very painful for me, but I thought I could at least remember my dad. And since my kids don't go to church - for their own reasons - I thought I would honor their father as well, because - well - he's an awesome dad!

They have that in common, in different ways, but they also share a love of woodworking and especially of music. My dad sang bass (yes, I know the song) - and such a full, rich voice he had - and my husband sings baritone, almost the same thing but not quite. 

So tomorrow morning, and possibly tomorrow evening, I plan to wear a little something to commemorate my own father and my children's father. For posterity though, I thought I'd stage a symbolic photo as an extra tribute :

A lapel corsage
Two tiny roses - white (for Dad) and red (for Hubby)
surrounded by baby's breath (for purity of heart)
and rose leaves (for persevering love)
and sitting squarely on Middle C.

Happy Father's Day ... to both of you. 

An Almost Everything Week

So I guess those of you who read this blog know that my daughter dislocated her kneecap on November 30, 2012, and that she's been attending physiotherapy while being monitored by an orthopedic surgeon.

When she went to see him in January after five weeks off work, the knee hadn't come along as quickly in healing as the specialist had thought. We asked why he didn't order an MRI. "These soft-tissue injuries generally settle on their own," he replied. "In all my years of doing this, I've only seen one situation where the patellar dislocation was hiding a deeper issue in the underlying ligaments, and the patient needed surgery to correct it. Besides, we only have one MRI machine for the whole Island. When you see me again in three weeks," he turned to her and spoke directly, "if you are not smiling when you do, I'll order the MRI." 

On February 5, she wasn't smiling. He ordered the MRI. "When the hospital calls you with a date, ask to be put on the cancellation list," he advised her.  "In the wintertime, with people in the country not wanting to chance the road when there are 'a few flakes' and the forecast is nasty; it shouldn't take long."

It took a few days to get the paperwork in place. She called the hospital herself after waiting almost a week. "Oh yes," they said. Your date is June 19th." 

(Gulp). She immediately asked to be put on the cancellation list. They obliged! 

Then we began noticing how often we had storms on the weekend this year. When it wasn't the weekend, it was a civic holiday. We prayed. "A storm, just a little one, to discourage someone from making the trip? Please?" (Was this me, the one who HATES winter, praying for a STORM??) Yet, we'd seen her hobble from room to room. We knew she was going to need surgery. We knew in our guts, "The sooner the better." That was this past Monday - the civic holiday when it was storming and the Island shut down for hours.

"Kingdom of Cold" courtesy of Evgeni Dinev at
www.FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Two days later, (this past Wednesday) with freezing rain and snow forecast for later in the day, she and her father went for a few errands. She got a temporary handicapped permit so that it would be easier for us to park and get in and out of places while she was recuperating. She paid her insurance premiums for her work's health care plan. 

Then, when they got back home, there was a message waiting on the voice mail. "This is radiology calling. Can you come in for 3 pm?" Her heart sank; it had been left over an hour prior to her return. 

Forty-five minutes later, the phone rang. "Are you still interested in that 3 pm appointment?"

OH yeah. With bells on! 

She managed quite well, and soon afterward we were laughing and joking over how quick it all was and how the promised storm held off until we were home!

I also started deepening my understanding of how ironic and quirky God's sense of humor is - using the things I hate most about winter to our benefit, and after all the complaining I'd been doing this year about the cold! Oh, He's a witty One. ;)

Anyway, the next morning, Thursday, she called the surgeon's office. "Can I get an appointment? I just got my MRI yesterday afternoon." They booked one for March 8. Wow - about 2 weeks, not bad!

Yesterday morning, Friday, she got yet another call. "This is Dr. ____'s office. We have the results of your MRI. The doctor wants to see you as soon as possible. Can you come in today at 11:15 to discuss?" 

A quick exam to confirm the MRI findings was all that he needed ... and so he told her what the results were. Without getting all technical, when she dislocated her kneecap, (this happened three times after the initial injury, all within a week and a half of it!) three ligaments were stretched permanently and were now too lax, making the knee unstable and more prone to dislocating again. Those ligaments, every time she re-injured, got frayed against the back of her kneecap, which runs along a vertical trench-like groove, like a taut rope fraying against a length of wood. 

This needed to be repaired by shortening the now too-long ligaments and securing with screws. 

Surgery.

"While I'm in there, I'd like to shift the focal point of your knee because it's off-center," he told her. This involves operating on the tendon that goes from the bottom of the kneecap to the top of the shin-bone, separating it from the shin-bone and re-attaching it more toward the center of her stance. What this will do is correct that knock-knee problem she's had since she was a baby and prevent her from hurting it again. 

Once all her (and our) questions were answered, he wrote the requisition for surgery. Right on the requisition, he wrote, "Place on cancellation list." 

Before she even got a surgery date.

Of course, they'll send her information in the mail with her "if not before" date and instructions for pre-surgery... yes. But usually she'd have to wait for that information and THEN call to be put on the cancellation list. 

We got the impression he was trying to bump her to the front of the line. Just an impression, you understand. Perhaps he was feeling a little guilty that he'd waited so long? that she was the one exception in the last 20 years that he hadn't counted on?  Perhaps.

We're just so glad that the wheels are moving, that this will be over sooner rather than later, and that things can get back to normal and she might even be better than before she hurt herself! 

Was it only a month ago that someone (who shall remain nameless) turned to me at the kitchen table and said that he was not convinced that God cared about us? 

Hmmm.

That same person turned to me last night and said, "You know, I think I'll start a gratitude journal. I forget so easily."

*happy sigh....*

Song in the Night

"All Your breakers and Your waves have rolled over me." - Ps. 42:7

That's what fear - that's what panic - that's what depression - looks like.  It's overwhelming, suffocating, destructive.  

King David struggled with these feelings on a regular basis.  He spent a lot of his youth running from the wrath of a royal madman obsessed with not losing his kingdom - to the point of living in caves even.  Even after he came to power, there were times when his life was horrible.  One of his sons raped his daughter, another killed the son who did it, and a third son tried to lead a coup take his kingdom away from him by force.  Talk about stress!  

Photo (via Google Images) :
http://allworldbest.blogspot.com/2011/12/ocean-waves.html

Read any of the psalms written by him (some weren't) and they will usually talk about the tumult he experienced inside.  Most were prayers.  Of those, most started out with some version of "God? Where ARE You??"  Then a whole litany of complaints - David didn't hold anything back. No "speaking in faith" for him! at least, not the way that folks today think of it. He was honest.  Brutally honest! Near the end, though, he would usually speak to his soul and tell it to remember God's goodness, to remember all the wonderful things He'd done for His people, to take heart from this, to remember to be grateful and to praise Him.  Over and over again we can see him struggling to believe in what were sometimes horrific circumstances - betrayal, loneliness, despondency, and waiting for God to do something when it seemed like the heavens were made of bronze. 

I quoted Psalm 42:7 at the beginning of this post.  Verse 8 says this:  "The Lord will command His lovingkindness in the daytime - and in the night His song will be with me, a prayer to the God of my life." The "song in the night" has come to me so many times as I have wrestled with God in the wee hours of the morning, wondering why this or that situation had to happen, whether things will ever be better, if I'll ever see the light of day in my heart again.  Everyone has times like that.  The "song" might have minor chords in it - at first - it's okay. The important thing, I believe, is to lift up whatever thoughts I have to God.  No matter what they are.  The important thing is that I talk to Him.  Even if I doubt.

David goes on to say that he would continue to be honest with God, to ask Him why He has forsaken him - and then after this outburst of emotion, he begins to ask himself why he is so disquieted.  He encourages himself to hope, to trust, to rest in God.  

The rest can't come for me unless and until I am honest with Him.  When my heart is heavy with grief or fear or depression, the singing isn't possible until the fists go into the pillow, until the shoulders heave with sobs, and the knowledge comes - usually afterward - that even at those times, He is holding me and letting me be who I am, feel what I feel, and that loves me in spite of it all.  

That kind of song is worth more than all the ones borne of denial and duty.  It is the song of Love.  

Gratitude Times

There are so many things for which I am grateful.  Throughout my life, even in the worst times, there have been havens, safe places to which I could retreat, if not in the moment, then afterward.  There have been gifts given to me - irreplaceable ones - that have enriched my life. There have been people who have touched me in ways not even they know, people I am grateful to have known or that I am grateful to have come to know.  With these things in mind, here is a random list, more or less in chronological order.  

• good memories of laughter and song
• the soothing and awe-inspiring power of nature
• the outlet of music
• animal friends who listen and love unconditionally
• a certain Salvation Army minister named Gordon
• a certain Sunday School teacher by the name of Jean
• GOD for rescuing me and for picking me for my hubby
• two hand-made quilts we still have (wedding presents) - one, a double wedding ring and the other a friendship quilt with family history written all over it - they have kept us warm through many a cold winter night
• those who believed in my hubby and me when it seemed the whole world was against us
• someone who left a bag of clothing on our doorstep once; we never knew who it was - it was just what we needed
• long-time friends with whom we could be ourselves from the beginning with no fear of judgment or criticism
• new friends with whom we can be ourselves with no fear of judgment or criticism
• children who don't hate us
• rewarding work which I enjoy
• the inner healing I've known at various stages in my life - growing exponentially the last couple of years, and
• the opportunities I've had to help others by sharing parts of that journey.

Lots of times I do forget - in the cold sweat of circumstance - how much I really have to be thankful for.  I'm glad a few people reminded me today.

Whose applause?

I firmly believe in giving credit where it is due.  If I appreciate what someone has said or done, I try to make sure that he or she knows that I appreciate it.  The words "thank you" mean so much when they come from the heart.  Which is why I say it whenever I can.  

Individually.  Privately.  

Public praise - applause for example - is a different matter.  As a rule, I cringe at giving it and cringe even more at receiving it. Especially in church.

Don't get me wrong.  When I go to a performance (say, a play or a concert) and it's well done, I show my appreciation heartily with applause.  

But that's just it.  It's a performance.  That's what applause is for; one performs for the pleasure and approval of other people.  (Of course it helps if the performer enjoys it too.)  

When it comes to what I do for God, however, it's NOT a "performance."  It's NOT a "job."  (How I shudder inside when I hear after I've been on the worship team on a Sunday, "you did a good job up there."  If it was a job ... I would have quit long ago.)  I consider what I do for Him a ministry TO Him.

It's NOT an "act."  

If I really wanted accolades or applause from people, I'd go into show business - emphasis on "show."  

I've noticed a dangerous trend in the western church: that of applauding people, and in particular children and youth, for participating in a service.  The message it might give them is that holding an office in the church is all about people-pleasing.  

It's not.  

My first reaction when a congregation is encouraged to clap for someone who has prayed, spoken, or sung ... is disappointment, because in my opinion, the applause of people diminishes "the eternal reward" he or she might receive by making "the immediate reward" the focus of his or her attention.  

I know that God has gifted me with the ability to sing; I sing to Him and for Him.  He is my "Audience of One." That's all that matters for me.  My desire for other people - if I think about them at all when I sing - is that they focus on Him, on how great and wonderful HE is.  When the limelight is on me, it is off Him - and that I don't want.  

True, I like to be appreciated.  Some of the more meaningful moments for me in ministry have been those where an individual has come to me after a service and said how the words to something I sang gave them strength and hope, or allowed them to feel God's presence.  Those have been precious times.  

But to take credit for something He gave me in the first place - this I can't bring myself to do.  Of course, I've learned to smile and say "Thank you," when someone compliments me.  But inside, I try to let that go in one ear and out the other (that way I don't get a swelled head) - and at least pass on the adulation to God - privately - as soon as possible.

Just like anyone else, I like to be thanked and praised.  But for me, it all boils down to whose applause I value most: theirs, or His.