I’m trying to figure out if it’s to my advantage or to my disadvantage to surround myself with people who are smarter than me. Michael is light-years more intelligent than I am. (One more supporting fact for the claim that “Opposites attract!”)
Since my children are genetically half Michael’s, it stands to reason that they’re smarter than me, too.
And then there’s Audie, the guy I work with. (more…)
A couple of days ago I was eating lunch at a table in our cafeteria with several people, including an older friend named Dan. Now Dan is usually good for a story or two, and on this day he did not disappoint.
He told us about his great-grandfather, who lived back in Civil War days. The old gent “had a long, snowy white beard that he always kept neatly trimmed,” Dan said. “Every day he would sip a fifth of whiskey. He didn’t drink it; he sipped it. Everybody always said that whiskey would kill him. And it did–at the age of 102.”
I peer into the looking-glass
and for a fleeting moment
glimpse your mind’s-eye.
A dusty china teacup,
frail,
cracked,
stained by the dregs.
Hold it to the window
and see how thin it is.
Note its delicacy,
worn from years of use.
Watch the sunbeam reflect
off the thin, silver rim
where you put your mouth.
Handle it gently,
but know this:
I am not yet broken.
Michael and I recently spent a week at cleftRock Retreat Center in Rockcastle County, Kentucky. It’s a lovely spot, and I highly recommend it. We had a very relaxing week resting, working on our laptops, reading, and enjoying the beauties of nature.
Ah, nature.
Our first day at cleftRock was like something from “The Secret Garden.” Squirrels chased one another in the trees. Lizards scuttled about in the flowerbed outside our door. The birds warbled happily overhead. As I sat outside the cabin praying, a graceful doe strolled through our back yard a mere five yards away. (Have you noticed that does on the printed page are always “graceful?”) At the lodge, I rescued a gorgeous male bluebird trapped in the fireplace, and he didn’t even struggle in my hand, but blinked his tiny bright eyes at me as if I were a trusted friend.
There ended the idyll. (more…)
Not long ago a friend gave me a necklace with a small St. Anthony medal. St. Anthony is known for, among other things, helping people find lost objects. A couple of weeks later the chain broke.
You can finish the story.
Not too awfully long ago, I went to the first baby shower I’d attended in a while. The invitation promised that this one, mysteriously, would have a cowboy theme. Guests were encouraged to wear cowboy attire.
OK. I was game. I didn’t quite understand it, but it sounded like fun. So on the afternoon of the big event I donned my jeans, boots, bandana and a straw cowboy hat and took off. (more…)
A conversation that took place in my office this past week:
DENISE: (to Audie) Today’s Tamara’s birthday! I brought her some flowers and some mint. (as Tamara enters) Hi! (pointing to a tiny boquet of home-grown flowers) Here’s a birthday boquet for you! (pointing to a bunch of mint leaves) And here’s some birthday mint for your tea!
TAMARA: Oh, my! Thank you! (pause, turning on the computer) Well, we had a good time last night. We ate at the Mexican restaurant.
DENISE: For your birthday?
TAMARA: Yes.
DENISE: Oh, I see. You had to have your birthday dinner last night because you’re going to the track meet tonight, right?
TAMARA: We had my birthday dinner last night because yesterday was my birthday.
Now considering the fact that Tamara and I have worked together for 12 years or so, this would have been rather embarrassing were it not for the fact that she can never remember the date of my birth or even the month. Lesson learned: If you’re going to be forgetful, hang out with someone more forgetful than yourself!
Recently I was walking across our campus and saw that the teacher for our K-grade 2 faculty/staff children had the kids out doing foot races. Everyone was running gleefully except for one little fellow who was having a meltdown. He sat on a rock, the hood of his neon-orange raincoat pulled over his downcast head.
“It’s not fair!” he wailed. “I always lose! In every race, I always lose!”
One of his small buddies approached to offer support. He stooped slightly to get down on his friend’s level. “When I run really fast my brain hurts!” he offered. I have no idea how that was supposed to help, but bless his little heart, he tried.
Aren’t little kids the greatest?
Don’t you just hate it when you do something that makes you feel about a half-inch tall?
I work in our school’s print shop. One of our pet peeves is people who knock on the door. They’re not supposed to knock. They’re supposed to come in and then one of the kindly print shop workers will assist them. You see, when they knock we have to stop whatever we’re doing and go answer the door. We may be at the computer. We might be on the phone. We could be in the back of the shop, running the labeling machine (in which case we wouldn’t even hear the knock at the door.)
We used to have a particular employee who always–always–knocked, even though we’d told her countless times that she didn’t have to do that. And one of our former kindly print shop workers would tell her, “You don’t knock on the door at WalMart, do you? Just come in!” But the next time she came calling we’d hear that tap-tap-tap once more.
It seems to me that this week we’ve had an unusually high number of rapping knuckles at our door. So today, there I sat, alone at my desk when it happened again. Knock, knock. “Oh, bother,” thought I. “Now what?” It was a gentle tapping. Knock, knock, knock. “Who’s knocking? You know, I shouldn’t get up and answer it. If they want in badly enough, they’ll just have to open the door!” Knock, knock. Knock, knock. Persistent little devil, wasn’t he/she? “Oh, all right. I’ll get it!”
I opened the door and there stood “Molly,” our one-armed student. Her lone arm was holding a load of books and in her only hand was the note she was trying to deliver to my co-worker. I’m not even sure how she’d been knocking.
But Molly wasn’t irritated. She smiled brightly, as she always does. I meekly took her note and smiled back. That’s all you can do when you’re about a half-inch tall.
Monday evening I went with a group of friends to see a passion play at a church in a nearby town. They did a wonderful job, and it was quite moving. As the Roman soldiers drove the spikes into Jesus’ feet and wrists and lifted the cross into place, my only thought was a truth I’ve known all my life that still at times seems utterly surreal.
God sent us His Son and we crucified Him.
Lord, have mercy on us all. Agnus Dei, qui tolis peccata mundi, miserere nobis.
