The Scope of Things or Heavens to Murgatroid!

Had a splendid day yesterday. Today? Not so much. I will be really glad to have the tests on the 30th and find out what is making me so dad-blasted miserable. EGD or esophagogastroduodenoscopy. (Thank you, Lord, for Dr. Google.) That's what I will be doing on the 30th. They are going to knock me out, put a tube down my throat and into my the first part of my GI tract. W00t! Don't be jealous now, it's a sin! Wait! So is sarcasm. Dang. Anyway, this will give the doctor a way to to see what is going on and hopefully diagnose me and give me the tools to manage the problem.

Meanwhile I am learning some great lessons. I am learning to be patient. I am learning that I have limitations and am, after all, merely mortal. Each day I am grateful for the smallest of things. I can't control the seasons or change the number of days allotted to me by worrying. May sound like trivial stuff, but it's the glue of life well lived; gratitude and knowing your limitations. How do folks survive without resting their hopes in a Sovereign God? I used to believe that I was in control. I used to think a lot of silly things.

Years past I was the woman you wanted to know if you had a mountain you needed moving in an hour. Determined, strong and willing to defy the odds. Age and decrepitude have given me a different set of skills. Adapting to the truth of how things are without giving up hope of what they can become. It's a dance best done with flat shoes and the flexibility to let God hold you fast and dip as He sees fit. It also requires solid foundations.

Speaking of foundations.... ladies, are you old enough to remember when under garments were called "foundations" and you went in to be fitted by an expert? I do. It was traumatizing. All those measurements had to be done without benefit of clothes. Now days you can watch television and see more of a woman's body than any corsetiere needed to see. I remind myself of my grandmother, waxing nostalgic for even the traumas of my younger years. It's unavoidable. You end up being the person you laughed at the most when you were a kid. For me that's my grandma. My grandmother would call us by starting with the name of the grandchild that came just after you were born. "Marie! er Linda! Peggy! Laurie........ uh...you get in here!" Sometimes she even mixed up the sexes. "Steven? Really Grandma? I look like Steve? It's Rosemarie!" Her response was always, "You know what I meant." I was especially fond of "Go in the uhh uhh.. um... and the uh uhh... whatchamacallit for me."

Living with my grandmother was fun. Grandma had narcolepsy. Sometimes as she cycled through the names of the grandchildren wanting to call me in to do a chore, her head would slowly get lower and lower until her chins rested on her chest and she began to snore. As a youngster I was compliant and would sit dutifully waiting until her head would come back up and she would finish her sentence. As I got older I would see her nap attacks as my "get out of chores" free card. I know, it's terrible to take advantage of someone who is ill. Grandpa liked it too. Grandma wanted to watch Mitch Miller each night and Grandpa wanted to watch cartoons. Actually, he pretended he wanted to let his grand kids happy by letting us watch cartoons, but he watched them when we weren't around. Grandma would fuss about watching Mitch and we all know that life can be unbearable when the matriarch of the family doesn't get her way. We would gather around and wait for the big event. After a few minutes of singing stupid songs, we would watch Grandma instead of the bouncing ball. Quietly we would wait for it.... wait for it... and then soft as a snow flake settling on the ground her chins would be tucked soundly on her collarbone. We would stifle a giggle and wait for Grandpa to catch on. When he thought the coast was clear Grandpa would change the channel. With any kind of luck we'd be watching "Quick Draw McGraw" and his little side kick, "Baba Louie" getting into misadventures. Or my favorite, Snagglepuss. "Exit stage left!"

Is it the 30th yet?

1 Corinthians 1:9

God is faithful, by whom you were called into the fellowship of his Son, Jesus Christ our Lord.

Spiritual Aphasia aka Senseless Theology

I was recently asked why I read theology and follow theological debates. "It's all just words and opinions." Words. Words on a paper, words on a blog. Words that travel invisibly through our airwaves and our minds. What would our inner monologue consist of without words? Harsh words, gentle words, untrue words, and solid you-can-die-behind them words. They have secret lives in the depths of our souls. They overflow in torrents of grief and joy. They seep out of our character flaws, wearing down the weak convictions that hold them back until they contaminate all those around us. All of us are stained within and without by the raw sewage of unkind words. Our souls are in jeopardy for want of The Word. Jesus Christ. The Gospel. The Good News. Words matter. Doctrine matters. Theology Matters. What you win them with is what you win them to. I study theology because I was lost too long in a world that scrambles truth with its own ideas and preferences. I was fed a diet of tosse

Super Church a song for the Emergent-sy

In the early 70s I was in a youth choir at my church. Our youth pastor was a musician and his way of connecting with us as a group was through the choir and music. Somehow there was an affiliation between him and The Continental Singers, New Hope and Jeremiah People. He was worked with Moishe Rosen of Jews for Jesus too, I think. Are any of these names familiar to you? Though I remember the church fondly I was a profoundly lost and troubled young woman during my years there. That and time have muddled the memories quite a bit. Today I was digging through some old paperwork and one of the books to the musical we did. It's Getting Late For the Great Planet Earth, a folk rock oratorio by Cam Floria. Yes, that's right. Cam Floria put Hal Lindsey to music. There's a lot to laugh about and some to groan about but as I was looking through the songs and remembering, I found this little ditty and I only wish I could sing it for you. Just remember that this is circa 1972 and even th

What if.....

...what if I just need a place to let some words spill out? What if they spill out in bouquets of bright colors and pleasing scents but their frames are made of snakes and lies? Will you the reader be able to tell? Will it matter? When words smell like lilacs and honeysuckle do you care what lies beneath them? Perfumed syllables cover the stench of hope's decay. A violet or two will fool most surface dwellers, allowing them to pass by quickly and unaware. Is that what words are supposed to do? What if my aesthetics with words are similar to Morticia Addams' with flowers? What happens when luscious blooms are discarded? When the ragged silhouette of thorns is all that remains will you still see the beauty? Perhaps we'll find out.

rambling rosemarie

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