You Can Call Me Gwen

On a treadmill at the gym.

Dear Diary,

Walking this cool morning in Oklahoma City, I was thinking over a recent conversation with my Leetle Brudder (who lives in a kinder clime) about how I manage to do my walking when the Oklahoma weather turns hot and humid.

On a treadmill at the gym.

That's how I manage to walk.

And I hate it.

I said to my brother, "For our family, walking on a treadmill is right up there with sitting in a recliner; we just can't easily spend our energy or time without PRODUCING something".

This morning, as I walked and remembered that statement, it occurred to me that these are attitudes ingrained in us in our childhoods, not by words, but by the way my parents lived.

You don't "waste energy" or "kick back" much when you have nine children and very limited resources.

But, as I thought about my aversion to the treadmill and the recliner, indeed, my judgmental attitude about both of those things, this portion of 2 Corinthians 10 came to mind:

     "...take every thought captive to obey Christ..."

Have I ever thought about taking all my little ingrained (or invited!) aversions and preferences captive to obey Christ?

Have my aversions to some things and my preferences for others ever been the little 'g' gods that I've served instead of obeying Christ?

I have to walk on a treadmill and sit in a recliner because of my physical brokenness.

Wouldn't it be nice if I did those things in a spirit of peace?

Would the treadmill and the recliner help me more if I took my aversions (going nowhere! stillness!) and preferences (productivity! action!) captive to obey Christ?

Let's find out.

Don't Text While Mowing

 

Dear Diary,

This morning I went out at the strike of 8:00 to mow the yards and I discovered that the mower was out of gas.

There are two gas cans in the garage and one of them contains a gas/oil mix for something other than the mower.

 

 

Although it has been a long time since some poor son of ours used the wrong gas can to fill the mower, I remember the consequences of that particular error and I feel my muscles tighten and my heart beat fast at just the thought of making it myself.

So.

I texted Prince Charming:

    "Big gas can for the mower?"

No answer.

I wondered why he wasn't responding, as he had sent me a text just moments earlier, so I sent a teasing text.

    "Answer now."

No answer.

    "NOW"

No answer.

I pulled out the large gas can, which I suspected was the mower gas, and discovered this:

 

 

I filled the mower and mowed both our big yards.

I watered the plants and flowers.

I pulled some weeds.

I came inside and took a shower.

I ate breakfast.

Still no answer.

So I sent another text.

    "Don't worry about the mower gas questions. I used the small can. Apparently it was the wrong one, because half way through doing the back yard the mower blew apart. Thankfully, none of the pieces hit me, but one did go on the roof.  I got out the big ladder and was going up to get it, but I got too close to that crepe myrtle where that big mockingbird has her nest. She dive-bombed me and it scared me so badly I lost my footing and fell. Nothing broke, but it knocked me senseless and Hannah called an ambulance. By the time we got to the hospital, I was coming around. The EMT asked me what had happened and I told him the whole story. He just held me in his arms and said..."

The Prince replied.

    "What?????"

And I finished the story.

    "Oh, you precious, beautiful woman. I would have answered your text."

It was only a split second before his response came.

    "I've always told you that you deserved better."

And now you know why I call him Prince Charming.

It matters.

Dear Diary,

This morning, after getting all my supplies loaded up and my work clothes on, I realized that it would probably be a kindness to my niece/client (who has three young children and a baby) if I didn't show up for work as early as I had planned, so I threw on a jacket (in May!?) and set out for a brisk and pared down version of one of my walks on the mean streets.

As I walked, I began talking to God, offering prayers of thanksgiving for legs that still work, a new day, the rain we've had, my family members, and for all manner of good things.

But, just so you know the whole truth, Diary, when my path took me onto the busy street and I began to feel agitated by the roar of the cars rushing by, my thanksgiving faltered in a very quick and noticeable way.

I thank God, who is constantly having to rescue me, that instead of cursing the noise and bustle of it, He prompted me to give thanks for my city and for the goodness of such things as a sanitary sewer system, paved, lighted and maintained roads, the sidewalk I was using, clean water, emergency alert systems, and curbside trash and recycle service.

Thinking with purposeful gratitude about my city caused my mind to turn, again, to the story of Nehemiah and the rebuilding of Jerusalem; a piece of history which we have been studying on Sundays,and on which I have been meditating for many weeks.

Those thoughts, in turn, became prayers that the Prince and I would take our places in the city, that we would mend and defend our section of the wall, wherever it is, and bring honor to God.

Two hours later, I was covered in bits of wallpaper backing and joint compound dust, teetering on a ladder and wielding a brush full of sealant for damaged walls which I was desperately trying to keep out of my hair.

I was listening to the sweet chatter of my client's five-year-old and promising her that she could use the roller and 'paint on some glue' once I'd worked my way down the wall to her level.

I stopped, once I'd gotten there, to take a photo - the third in a series showing the process of redoing the room - and it suddenly struck me.

I was, quite literally, repairing a wall in my city...

 

 

...and I knew that it mattered.

 

 

 

 

Related articles

The Real Reason I'm Exhausted After a Long Walk

It's Been Five Days

I like to read.

The Real Reason I'm Exhausted After a Long Walk

 

Dear Diary,

I had an unusual walk on the mean streets yesterday.

Well, I wasn't actually on the mean streets much, I spent most of my five miles in some nearby neighborhoods. 

I had some of my typical experiences; I found four pennies and another pair of flattened eyeglasses, and I saw a couple of things I wondered about.

For instance, how does a cleaning sponge wind up on the side of a major thoroughfare...

 

 

...and what is the story behind these broken crayons that were laying in the side street?

 

 

Why did they make me feel kind of sad?

When I found a nickel on the street yesterday, I had to wonder again why I find quarters and nickels very rarely, but find pennies and/or dimes nearly every time I walk.

 

 

There were some typical happy moments, too; as when I once again passed the names and dates which my neighbors - who are not kids - etched into our freshly repaired street last winter.

 

I like to think of the two of them deciding to leave their mark in the street and I always wonder if they did it openly or furtively.

Maybe it is more fun to imagine than to know.

I also took some action on a thought I have had many times when passing a lovingly landscaped yard.

I took photographs of anything that inspired or blessed me and am having some prints made to turn into postcards.

Maybe those strangers will enjoy getting a note letting them know the fruits of their labors are being appreciated by others.

 

 

But, Diary, what happened that made the walk unusual is kind of hard to tell you about.

You know my rule about kicking home any balls or round objects I find in the street when I'm close to home; just something I do to act like a kid again.

You also know that the ball has to be rated at least 3F : it has to be flattened, forsaken, filthy, forlorn, and/or forgotten (I wouldn't want to break any child's heart).

Unfortunately - or not, depending upon how you look at it - I found a 4F ball yesterday when I was a full two miles from home.

 

 

I don't know what got into me.

I thought, "What the heck. I'll just kick this baby all the way home."

Gosh, Diary, I felt really awkward when I was on the busier streets and old Flatty would lopsidedly meander into the middle of the road and all those nice drivers would slow down or stop to let the crazy old lady get her play toy.

Then something worse - or not, depending on your perspective - happened: I found another 3F.

It was a tennis ball, whose photo I didn't capture, because by now Flatty was behaving like a toddler, going this way and that no matter how I tried to direct him.

Well, I added Tennie to the family and let me tell you, Flatty and he never went in the same direction even once.

I was swerving all over the road and leaving my dignity behind me in bits and pieces.

After a mile or so - free, now, of all pride - I knew myself to be completely dedicated to seeing these two safely home, and I found myself going further and further out of my way to keep them rounded up.

As we all got tired, we took smaller and smaller steps, Flatty and Tennie started keeping together more and more, and we all seemed to be getting along better and better.

I was worried as we approached the main thoroughfare.

How was I going to get us all safely across without breaking the No Hands rule?

I silently formulated a plan to send Tennie across first: he was younger and had more bounce left in him, so I reasonably figured that he could make it onto the easement on the opposite side and wait there for Flatty and I to follow.

He didn't make it.

He got about three quarters of the way across and just stopped.

I watched with horror as he was hit by a car and dragged a good ten yards up the road.

Flatty and I crossed safely, if not altogether gracefully, a few moments later.

It took me some time to get Tennie out of the street then, and he was badly hurt; his fur coat hanging in shreds from every part of him.

As we were now so close to our own street, and home, I urged them both on and we rounded the corner onto our block.

Flatty must have been a little shook up, because he rounded the corner and went all the way to the far side of our street.

Tennie, mortally wounded and feeling he couldn't go on, rounded the corner, saw his chance to escape his misery, and offed himself; slipping quietly through the grate into the storm sewer.

I was stunned and unable to move for a moment.

When I pulled myself together, I crossed the street to Flatty and the two of us silently made our way home; moving very slowly now, exhausted and sorrowful.

Today Flatty lives with the other Round Objects I've Kicked Home in the drawer of the wicker plant stand on the front porch. 

Unlike the others, I doubt he will be played with and enjoyed by the grandshoots; he's too obviously flawed for them.

He has a special place in my heart, though.

He lived a whole life inside my head on the mean streets of Oklahoma City.

And so did Tennie.

God rest his soul.

 

 

Something happened on the way.

 

Dear Diary,

I went to the fabric store this weekend to buy a few things I needed to make the drapes for my Daughter-in-Love.

The drapes are coming out just as we pictured them, and I hope to hang them tomorrow when I am  there priming the ceiling and the walls I just textured.

 

 

But, golly gee, the trip to the fabric store was anything but what I pictured.

I wasn't two steps inside the store before an old friend spotted me and gave a genuine shout of joy.

I recognized her, but I was shocked at her appearance.

There were flames shooting out of her head.

Inside the space of three minutes, I got at least three hugs and a jump start on a conversation about creative endeavors that nearly left me breathless.

She spoke to me about quilting and told me she is making quilts, preparing to become a quilt contest judge, and knows my friend in the Modern Quilt Guild.

She spoke to me about "The Artist's Way" and told me she is going through the book for the fifth (?) time, reads all of Julia Cameron's books, and is faithful to do the reading and the assignments every day.

She spoke to me about writing and told me she is attending local writer's club meetings, has been writing poetry, and is a member of a poetry group where members read their work and recieve critiques.

She spoke to me about fiber arts and mentioned - with a sort of breathless excitement - that there is a local fiber arts group.

She spoke to me about the way she has set up her home to facilitate creative thinking and doing; "corners" for reading, for sewing, for writing, for thinking.

Yes, her hair was definitely on fire.

And I wanted the flames to leap their boundaries and set my own bean ablaze.

Dear Diary, she told me that she reads what I write to you, so maybe she will see this and be glad to know she was an inspiration.

 

        I met an old friend at the store,

        And she spoke like she ne'er had before,

                Her hair was on fire,

                (A thing I admire),

        So I said, "Tell me more! Tell me more!"

 

Then again, if she sees this, she may also be sorry.

She invited me to the poetry group.

Failing

Dear Diary,
Last Monday I spent my ENTIRE sewing day making a Christmas dress for Ping. I even altered a doll clothes pattern and cut out a matching dress for her doll. Perhaps if I hadn't been wrestling with things that used to be as easy as breathing to me (laying out actual patterns and following sewing instructions), I would have noticed BEFORE it was nearly done that what I was actually working on was an Epic Failure. Yes, Dear Diary, Epic. Failure.
Now, I don't want you to think I'm exaggerating (you know I never, ever, ever, EVER do that). I had witnesses. Even my Beeg Seester couldn't find a way to say it was okay. She suggested removing the collar. I did. It didn't help. I decided to alter the sleeves. Um, no, that didn't save it either. In the end, I decided that the fabric I'd chosen and the pattern I was using just weren't ever going to be on friendly terms. So, when Me Darlin' Mither asked me a few days later what I had finally decided to do with the dress, I said, "I wadded it all up and shoved it in a drawer".
But, now that I've gotten enough space between myself and the experience, I can see that there is no salvation (at my hands) for any of it, and today I am trying to work up the nerve to - gasp! - throw it all away. I'm glad you can't talk, Dear Diary, because you might tell me to at least re-use the fabric. But, Diary, I just can't do that. I am not that strong. Really. I'm not.
In fact, Dear Diary, I've been leaning pretty heavily on these wonderful words from a recent sermon:

"Failure is always an event, never a person."

Today is sewing day, Dear Diary.
I'm really hoping it is uneventful.

My Dream World

Dear Diary,

I've been sick. I've been sick for about a hundred years and four days. I'm still sick; but now I'm well enough to lay here with this iPad and tell you all about it.

Don't worry, Dear Diary, I'm not missing work. This is the week I took off work to play with my Seester-in-law. She drove all the way from Arizona to come and play. I hear she is having a good time at my Beeg Seester's house, but she was supposed to stay here.

She would have stayed in our guest room. The one with the en suite I have been working so hard to re-finish for ever-so-long. You know; the bathroom-that-never-ends. I had a lot of trouble with that bathroom, but I kept after it because I was very excited about this visit-I'm-not-currently-having with my Seester-in-law.

In fact, I had just installed the floor trim, and was finishing up the room with some decorative touches when my stomach first began making serious objections to being occupied.

Dear Diary, I have eaten so many Popsicles in the six days and two viruses since then, that I could build a model home using the sticks. And, Diary, I don't mean a model size home; I mean a model home.

I would not put any bathrooms in my model home, though, Diary, and I'll tell you why.

I have laid the floor trim in that guest bathroom IN EVERY, SINGLE, FEVERED AND DELIRIOUS DREAM I have had in the last six loooooong days and nights in this bed.

And, Dear Diary, it's never gone well even once.

I'm just too weak to do it again.

I'm sorry.

But, I am.

Million Dollar Mistakes

 

Dear Diary,

            At work I collect the copays from our patients and enter them into the computer system. Sometimes they pay with cash, sometimes they write a check, and sometimes they pay with a credit card. When they use a credit card I have to manually enter several pieces of information, along with the payment amount.

            Did you know that if you enter a $35.00 payment and forget to move the cursor to a different box before you enter the credit card approval number, you will soon be printing off a receipt for...let's say...maybe... $35,467,933?

            And if you don't notice your error immediately, you will just hand the receipt over to the patient with a smile and a thankyouverymuch.  And wouldn't that be one lucky patient standing there holding proof that he/she had a pretty sweet credit balance with your clinic?

            Now, if you stay on top of things, you'll be manually entering your receipts on a daily spread sheet that's separate from the system tally, and you'll be checking for a nice balance throughout the day.  If you're having a really good day, you'll do this in time to notice this massive discrepancy while the patient is still in the waiting room, and you'll be able to call them up to the desk and sweetly ask for the receipt back in exchange for a more, um, accurate one.   

            If it's a really, really, good day, you'll have a little bit of fun, because the patient will have a lovely sense of humor and be quite playful about the whole thing.

            I've had some of those really, really, good days.

            There is a balance in the universe.

            Good night, Dear Diary.

            Tomorrow will be another day.        

Collapse

 

Dear Diary,

        I was disppointed to find out that although it was plugged into the charger, my phone was dead this morning and, therefore, did not wake me up in time for my workout.  I guess it matters that the charger was not plugged into the wall.

        When I realized I did not have enough time to work out, but still had more time than I needed to get ready for work, I immediately chucked my frustration and began to anticipate actually sitting down to drink my morning coffee while it was still hot.  "When life gives you lemons, make lemonade" and all that.

         On my way to the kitchen to make some fresh coffee, I decided to tidy up the family room, arrange the sofa pillows, and replace the throw over the back of the divan. You know that six-foot, folding craft table which I'd parked behind the sofa recently?  The one holding the tray full of little, eensy, tiny pieces of felt I'd cut, along with various shears, pincushions, and threads? It also held the glass jars with dowels in them, the little lid full of wooden beads for making tiny dolls, the two boxes of embroidery thread, the fabric bowl full of specialty threads, all my felt, and a whole-big-bunch of loose and very small paper patterns. Well, it was shoved up so close to the sofa that I had to move it back a few inches to be able to replace the throw.

         The thing about that table is...well...I never could get that second leg brace in place properly when I set it up.  This morning when I scooted it, the legs on that end collapsed. It is fun to watch children slide down a slide at the playground.  It was not so much fun to watch every single thing on that table slide down to one end and then off onto the floor this morning.

        I did not work out or have hot coffee this morning, Dear Diary. 

        But I've had a good day anyway.

Talk to you tomorrow,

Lemonade Lover