Fiberoptic tinsel twinkles rainbows in our Christmas tree, bedecked with ornaments, each a special memory from Christmases past. I'm already making lists for this Christmas ~ the menu, gifts for each guest, centerpieces, the short devotional to honor Jesus, the reason for the season, and the carol we'll sing together.
Webster's defines a carol as a song of joy or mirth, a popular song or ballad of religious joy. "Oh come to us, abide with us, our Lord, Emmanuel." "He rules the world with truth and grace." These are just a few carol lyrics that make true peace dance in my soul.
Since I'm into Christmas, I went to see A Christmas Carol yesterday thinking I would not have much in common with grouchy old Ebenezer Scrooge. But an unexpected moment brought my handkerchief out to dry my cheeks. During the spectre of Christmas present, old Ebenezer lost himself for a moment and joined the children dancing in a circle. His white nightgown flapped and his long nightcap flopped as he skipped and pranced. Then he eagerly lined up with the other wildly chattering children to receive a small gift. He held the tiny, shiny red box close to his heart as though it were a treasure. Then when he returned to his viewing spot at the edge of the festive scene, he noticed a small girl sitting alone. She had not gotten up to get a present. Slowly, tentatively, Ebenezer gave her his shiny red box. His face registered sadness for his loss until he saw how happy it made the girl. As he returned to invisibility on the outskirts of subsequent scenes, he remembered this joy of giving, which contributed to his grand generosity of spirit at the end of the play.
Since I've had joy in giving for as long as I remember, I didn't expect to identify with Scrooge. But I have to admit, my heart is not all that childlike any more. I seem to be dragging a sack of sadness and responsibility as big and bulgy as Santa's bag of toys. Would I lose myself in undignified dance? Would I squeal in unintelligible delight? Would I line up eagerly to get a gift, or would I hang back pretending it didn't matter? Would a simple gift thrill me? Would I give away my only treasure?
My tears during this scene surprised me enough to ponder these questions of cynicism, hope, sophistication, simplicity, keeping, and giving. If I were musically inclined, I'd write a carol about a little girl shyly giving the humbuggy parts of her heart to Jesus and then closing her eyes and holding out her hands to receive whatever He might put there. Lo and behold, He puts His own hands in hers. The best gift of all.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Who Ya Gonna Call?
I first encountered the "community stylus" at a Walgreens pharmacy counter. I prefer swiping my credit card through the brown magic box, then signing a paper receipt with my own pen. But that day when the pharmacist pointed to the little Etch-A-Sketch screen on which only their stylus would write, I thought eeuuww. Every hand that has signed with this stylus belonged to a sick person. What is Walgreens thinking???
Now the community stylus is everywhere. Okay, I'm used to it now, and it's no big deal. Except these days every newspaper contains at least one article about flu AND H1N1 flu. Newscasters yammer on about flu pandemic. Most grocery stores provide antibacterial wipes for the handle of your cart, though I've yet to use one. We commonly see people wearing surgical masks in stores. I have no idea if it's because they don't want to infect others or don't want to become infected themselves. But seeing a mask on the person who precedes me through the checkout line makes me wonder if after using the same stylus, I will be moaning like the Ghostbusters, "I've been slimed." Then, who ya gonna call?
Now the community stylus is everywhere. Okay, I'm used to it now, and it's no big deal. Except these days every newspaper contains at least one article about flu AND H1N1 flu. Newscasters yammer on about flu pandemic. Most grocery stores provide antibacterial wipes for the handle of your cart, though I've yet to use one. We commonly see people wearing surgical masks in stores. I have no idea if it's because they don't want to infect others or don't want to become infected themselves. But seeing a mask on the person who precedes me through the checkout line makes me wonder if after using the same stylus, I will be moaning like the Ghostbusters, "I've been slimed." Then, who ya gonna call?
Friday, November 6, 2009
Things I Learned When I Was Supposed To Be Learning Something Else
Tonight our book group met to discuss The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society by Shaffer and Barrows. Five of the six of us found the book delightful; one thought it was "feevty-feevty," a reference to a past read, The Geography of Bliss. Our book tonight was a series of 1946 letters that wove a story into accounts of the German occupation of the island of Guernsey during World War II. We met for almost three hours, but our book discussion occupied probably only half an hour.
Our first tangent was actually related to the book. One of our members had researched and written a paper on the German POWs who picked fruit at farms in Michigan after the war. The farmer she interviewed spoke German to the POWs who worked for him and corresponded with them after they were sent back to Europe. She told stories of how devastated and poor and hungry Europeans were for years after the war ended. She said rationing in England didn't end until the sixties.
One thread in the book was love of literature, so I suppose our meanderings into The Iliad, The Odyssey, Charles Lamb, The Gift, Nicholson Baker, Richard the Third, Barbara Pym, Beowulf, Seamus Heaney, James Joyce, (and authors and books and reviews I can't begin to remember) were just more threads woven around that theme. Seamus Heaney and James Joyce came up because one of our members is spending five months in Ireland, where we all thought we should also visit on our group trip to Guernsey, which now seems like a pretty attractive destination. Someone quoted someone as saying Ireland is narrow and deep, and the U.S. is broad and shallow. The shallowness is our relative lack of history, but also the naivete of not having experienced the devastation and poverty and hunger following world war on our soil.
Oh, and tonight I also learned that there are mythology geeks; Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles were named after Renaissance artists because their creators were artists; e-mail is for old people, which four of us apparently are, because we don't send text messages; none of us would read a book on a Kindle; you can make your dog lie down by pointing at him and saying "pow"; one recipe for food-allergic children resembles potato-peel pie; and salt-and-pepper potato chips are the new "in" snack. Okay, maybe our meeting wasn't as hilarious as the Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society meetings were, but it was certainly as engaging and eclectic.
Our first tangent was actually related to the book. One of our members had researched and written a paper on the German POWs who picked fruit at farms in Michigan after the war. The farmer she interviewed spoke German to the POWs who worked for him and corresponded with them after they were sent back to Europe. She told stories of how devastated and poor and hungry Europeans were for years after the war ended. She said rationing in England didn't end until the sixties.
One thread in the book was love of literature, so I suppose our meanderings into The Iliad, The Odyssey, Charles Lamb, The Gift, Nicholson Baker, Richard the Third, Barbara Pym, Beowulf, Seamus Heaney, James Joyce, (and authors and books and reviews I can't begin to remember) were just more threads woven around that theme. Seamus Heaney and James Joyce came up because one of our members is spending five months in Ireland, where we all thought we should also visit on our group trip to Guernsey, which now seems like a pretty attractive destination. Someone quoted someone as saying Ireland is narrow and deep, and the U.S. is broad and shallow. The shallowness is our relative lack of history, but also the naivete of not having experienced the devastation and poverty and hunger following world war on our soil.
Oh, and tonight I also learned that there are mythology geeks; Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles were named after Renaissance artists because their creators were artists; e-mail is for old people, which four of us apparently are, because we don't send text messages; none of us would read a book on a Kindle; you can make your dog lie down by pointing at him and saying "pow"; one recipe for food-allergic children resembles potato-peel pie; and salt-and-pepper potato chips are the new "in" snack. Okay, maybe our meeting wasn't as hilarious as the Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society meetings were, but it was certainly as engaging and eclectic.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Who Pays?
When my husband has to undergo three root canals on the same tooth because the endodontist missed getting all the root during the first TWO root canals, who pays? Knowing we don't have dental insurance, he did not charge us for the second two procedures, but my poor husband still had to go through two extra ordeals. This doctor showed integrity toward us, but I wonder: How often across America, when patients have insurance, does a triple play due to doctor error generate triple insurance claims?
Last Friday my dad got prepped for surgery, then waited at the hospital for three hours before the cardiac surgeon came in to announce postponement of the surgery due to a urinary infection. Funny, his nurse had told my mom on the phone two days earlier that Dad might not have to go to the hospital Friday since the presurgery urinalysis showed infection. Too bad no one told us not to show up. My sister took off work to be there. I took off work to be there. Mom got Dad up and ready and to the hospital at the crack of dawn Friday. A dear, patient O.R. nurse got Dad all duded out in front and back hospital gowns, inserted an IV, shuttled him to the washroom any number of times, and made smalltalk with the four of us as we waited ... and waited ... and waited. After the doctor made his two-minute appearance to tell us what he had known two DAYS before, the nurse took out the IV, shuttled Dad to the washroom some more, got him back into his street clothes, and sent us off.
So who pays for this fiasco? The American taxpayer through Medicare? With all the current talk of health care reform, and the complex roles of insurance carriers, I don't even know who might bill whom for what in this scenario. But I do know who I could bill for our time and my sister's and my lost income ~ but only AFTER he eventually successfully performs my precious dad's surgery. (Perhaps this surgeon will act with integrity too; but since he didn't apologize to us, I doubt he understands the problem was a communication gap in his own office.)
But then I wonder if it's fair to expect doctors to be perfect. For decades, we bristled under the societal expectation to bow down to doctors as gods. Now they are human, and many take time to explain things to us, including the thinking behind their care strategies. We do seem to still operate in a culture that says a doctor's time is more important than a patient's time; hopefully, that can change too. But I love this "new humanity" and don't want to suggest we expect doctors to be superhuman again. Yet ~ who pays when a doctor does make a mistake?
In my personal scenarios above, the consequences to the patients were not grave. For that, we are all grateful. My husband's endodontist did the right thing; he ate the costs of the second and third root canals. We'll see what bills come for my dad's fiasco. Situations like this make me wish for a time when insurance companies do not stand between providers and customers. This would give doctors and patients opportunities to act honestly and rightly with each other ~ a free market. Sure would be simpler to figure out who pays.
Last Friday my dad got prepped for surgery, then waited at the hospital for three hours before the cardiac surgeon came in to announce postponement of the surgery due to a urinary infection. Funny, his nurse had told my mom on the phone two days earlier that Dad might not have to go to the hospital Friday since the presurgery urinalysis showed infection. Too bad no one told us not to show up. My sister took off work to be there. I took off work to be there. Mom got Dad up and ready and to the hospital at the crack of dawn Friday. A dear, patient O.R. nurse got Dad all duded out in front and back hospital gowns, inserted an IV, shuttled him to the washroom any number of times, and made smalltalk with the four of us as we waited ... and waited ... and waited. After the doctor made his two-minute appearance to tell us what he had known two DAYS before, the nurse took out the IV, shuttled Dad to the washroom some more, got him back into his street clothes, and sent us off.
So who pays for this fiasco? The American taxpayer through Medicare? With all the current talk of health care reform, and the complex roles of insurance carriers, I don't even know who might bill whom for what in this scenario. But I do know who I could bill for our time and my sister's and my lost income ~ but only AFTER he eventually successfully performs my precious dad's surgery. (Perhaps this surgeon will act with integrity too; but since he didn't apologize to us, I doubt he understands the problem was a communication gap in his own office.)
But then I wonder if it's fair to expect doctors to be perfect. For decades, we bristled under the societal expectation to bow down to doctors as gods. Now they are human, and many take time to explain things to us, including the thinking behind their care strategies. We do seem to still operate in a culture that says a doctor's time is more important than a patient's time; hopefully, that can change too. But I love this "new humanity" and don't want to suggest we expect doctors to be superhuman again. Yet ~ who pays when a doctor does make a mistake?
In my personal scenarios above, the consequences to the patients were not grave. For that, we are all grateful. My husband's endodontist did the right thing; he ate the costs of the second and third root canals. We'll see what bills come for my dad's fiasco. Situations like this make me wish for a time when insurance companies do not stand between providers and customers. This would give doctors and patients opportunities to act honestly and rightly with each other ~ a free market. Sure would be simpler to figure out who pays.
Friday, October 9, 2009
Late Bloomers
A single scalloped yellow pansy amid a sea of spiky, spent, brown coneflower heads cheers me on this chilly autumn day. So does the lone cherry-red sweet pea that has somehow sprung from dry, tan vines to climb the trellis in summer's last hurrah. Feisty red geraniums raise victorious fists above the garden's browning greens. After weeks of winding down, one more rose has decided this is the year. Late bloomers are bright, wonder-filled surprises of life.
Yesterday I made perfect creme brulee quickly and easily. Ten years ago, at a sidewalk table on the Ile de Re when Robert and I tasted our first creme brulee, we couldn't even imagine how it was made. My path to yesterday's victory included passive times of anticipated failure and active times of real failure~rich, sweet scrambled eggs~a class, and just-okay results. Yesterday's triumph was a lovely surprise.
Fifteen years ago I wrote strictly nonfiction and could not imagine writing a story. Truly, I couldn't imagine myself imagining anything. To bring nonfiction concepts home to readers, I needed to learn how to tell true stories though, so I decided to practice by making up a story. One thing led to another, and last year I published my first women's fiction novel, with the sequel in progress. Never would I have predicted that blossom in October's breeze.
Last weekend I gave a workshop at our church's women's retreat. I don't do public speaking. It scares me. I'm most comfortable talking to my dog and have mixed success talking with my husband and everyone else. My topic was to be: If Only They Would Change. What do we do when another person's sinful at-worst, uncooperative at-best, behaviors hold us hostage? How do we step into the promise of Jesus to set us free? I didn't think I had answers or a delivery dynamic enough to impact anyone. But I sensed the Lord wanted me to say yes, even though I couldn't imagine talking for a whole hour. From the moment I agreed to speak, God changed my heart and sweetly brought me material and helped me put words together on paper. Paper I do. Podiums I don't. So I thought this would be a peace-to-panic process. I worship an amazing God.
Whipping up creme brulee? Playfully crafting fiction? Feeling peace at the podium? in my repertoire? Ephesians 3:20 gives glory to "... him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to his power that is at work within us ..." In these three examples, I love that God didn't wait for me to imagine the flowers; He grew seeds I didn't even know were there and now here they are, blooming in the autumn of my life.
I've often said I can't draw, and I can't paint. And I can't. But I just had my first drawing lesson a few weeks ago. Standing on the stepping-stone path through the garden ... tipping the watering can forward ...
Yesterday I made perfect creme brulee quickly and easily. Ten years ago, at a sidewalk table on the Ile de Re when Robert and I tasted our first creme brulee, we couldn't even imagine how it was made. My path to yesterday's victory included passive times of anticipated failure and active times of real failure~rich, sweet scrambled eggs~a class, and just-okay results. Yesterday's triumph was a lovely surprise.
Fifteen years ago I wrote strictly nonfiction and could not imagine writing a story. Truly, I couldn't imagine myself imagining anything. To bring nonfiction concepts home to readers, I needed to learn how to tell true stories though, so I decided to practice by making up a story. One thing led to another, and last year I published my first women's fiction novel, with the sequel in progress. Never would I have predicted that blossom in October's breeze.
Last weekend I gave a workshop at our church's women's retreat. I don't do public speaking. It scares me. I'm most comfortable talking to my dog and have mixed success talking with my husband and everyone else. My topic was to be: If Only They Would Change. What do we do when another person's sinful at-worst, uncooperative at-best, behaviors hold us hostage? How do we step into the promise of Jesus to set us free? I didn't think I had answers or a delivery dynamic enough to impact anyone. But I sensed the Lord wanted me to say yes, even though I couldn't imagine talking for a whole hour. From the moment I agreed to speak, God changed my heart and sweetly brought me material and helped me put words together on paper. Paper I do. Podiums I don't. So I thought this would be a peace-to-panic process. I worship an amazing God.
Whipping up creme brulee? Playfully crafting fiction? Feeling peace at the podium? in my repertoire? Ephesians 3:20 gives glory to "... him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to his power that is at work within us ..." In these three examples, I love that God didn't wait for me to imagine the flowers; He grew seeds I didn't even know were there and now here they are, blooming in the autumn of my life.
I've often said I can't draw, and I can't paint. And I can't. But I just had my first drawing lesson a few weeks ago. Standing on the stepping-stone path through the garden ... tipping the watering can forward ...
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Quiche Cooking Goodbye?
How many decades has it been since I made quiche? Three? Four? Well, yesterday I made spinach quiche, which is the creamy quiche I remember, and a Mediterranean quiche, new to me. It has cheese but no cream ~ rather, tomato paste, fresh tomatoes, anchovies, and Kalamata olives. It's brick-red in color, studded with olive halves in a flowerlike pattern.
Since I don't eat wheat, I made my quiche in a buttered dish with no pastry crust. Julia tells me when you do that, it's now called a gratin, not a quiche. Another thing I learned in this process is how to seed and juice a tomato. All my life, I've painstakingly scraped each section free of its seeds and watery pulp. Not Julia. She slices the peeled tomato horizontally, palms a half and squeezes with her hand. Splat ~ the stuff shoots right out. How simple is that?
Quiche was to be the swan song of my month of celebrating Julia Child's Mastering the Art of French Cooking. However, I just learned that Barnes and Noble has just shipped my backordered French Chef 2 DVDs. Oh-oh. I will need a break to quiche these four-hour, forty-utensil recipes goodbye. My waistline needs time to quiche the cream and butter inches goodbye. And I need time to practice my newly learned skills. But I'll have further culinary adventures with Julia in the future.
Since I don't eat wheat, I made my quiche in a buttered dish with no pastry crust. Julia tells me when you do that, it's now called a gratin, not a quiche. Another thing I learned in this process is how to seed and juice a tomato. All my life, I've painstakingly scraped each section free of its seeds and watery pulp. Not Julia. She slices the peeled tomato horizontally, palms a half and squeezes with her hand. Splat ~ the stuff shoots right out. How simple is that?
Quiche was to be the swan song of my month of celebrating Julia Child's Mastering the Art of French Cooking. However, I just learned that Barnes and Noble has just shipped my backordered French Chef 2 DVDs. Oh-oh. I will need a break to quiche these four-hour, forty-utensil recipes goodbye. My waistline needs time to quiche the cream and butter inches goodbye. And I need time to practice my newly learned skills. But I'll have further culinary adventures with Julia in the future.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Omelette Ta-Da! Voila! and La-Di-Dah!
Finally, an omelette a la Julia that ended up on my plate, not on the stove. It was nicely folded like a little silk evening purse; and it tasted really fresh and fluffy and moist. Ta-da! My trick? One egg instead of two and a fearless jerk upward at the end.
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