Shalom

One would think you could daydream through a sermon based on the commandment, “Thou shalt not steal”. What more can a pastor say about that? Stealing’s not been a problem for me since I took Ricky’s dare to blow on the wax harmonica in the candy aisle at the TG&Y and my mother heard it, rushed to the scene of the crime, and made me confess to the store clerk. If I don’t have to count taking more than my share of whatever delicious food is in the house, I’m not aware of a personal problem with thievery.

Until our pastor gets a hold of that commandment and broadens it to mean this:

Don’t take away another person’s shalom, shalom being defined as, “the way things ought to be.” What a universe of possible applications and interpretations is opened up by that one statement.

“The way things ought to be”. So simple. So infinite. It applies to anything and everything. Who hasn’t thought this, cried for this, wondered about this, longed for this?

I take my two dogs for a walk almost every day. I carry plastic bags to pick up their business. I do this because I want to keep up appearances; I’m just sure someone is peering out their window watching me. I do this also because my husband has modeled this citizenry. I have never done it for any other reason.

Until I heard about “shalom”, the way things ought to be. A higher cause, a nobler reason, something to aspire to, a way to please the God who has given me a garden to tend, the privilege of influence, the ability to impact for good or ill this world I inhabit.

The Day of Small Things

Whenever it snows, I’m transfixed by its transforming power. Many of the houses that surround the school where I teach bear the marks of rental property; like the school, the lawns are half-heartedly attended. Trash litters the patchy grass. But covered in snow, all is beautiful.

At home, as I lay on my couch and watched the snow fall for hours, I kept hearing this refrain:

“White as snow, white as snow, though my sins were as scarlet, Lord I know, Lord I know, that I’m free and forgiven.” What a wonderful simile.

The next day was bright and sunny. Bundled up in layers, I ventured out for a long walk in the snow and this time was struck by something else: that the four plus inches of snow so luxuriously gracing everything - so very substantial a snowfall by Memphis standards - was in reality the end result of tiny individual snowflakes falling one at a time.

Which made me think of this verse in Zechariah, 4:10, “For who has had a poor opinion of the day of small things? For they will be glad when they see the weighted measuring-line in the hand of Zerubbabel.” The message here seems to be that big things are made of little things, little things that seem of no importance, things to be ignored, neglected, despised.

And yet everything is made of little things, without which nothing would be anything, so every little thing matters.

So maybe that’s why I decided to pull out the new yarn and needles I’d bought a few weeks ago and begin a knitting project unlike any I’ve ever attempted. Tiny needles, very lightweight yarn, little stitches requiring careful attention. My hands hurt from the contortion of using four needles. I have to keep holding the work up to my eyes, check for dropped stitches. I feel like a clumsy oaf, particularly when my last project was made with needles literally 10 times bigger than these.

But I like it. The progress is slow, but the results very pleasing, and I need this reminder that everything is made from small things.

My Mother, Once Again

My mother can laugh and make me laugh like almost no one else. I still remember finding my mother in her bedroom watching I Love Lucy, laughing so hard she could hardly breathe, tears streaming down her face, holding her stomach, literally rolling on the bed in hysterics. It was the episode where Lucy and Ethel are in Hollywood and Lucy's been gawking at William Holden when he decides to give her the same treatment just as she puts a big forkful of spaghetti into her mouth.

Side-splitting laughter is a gift and a privilege, and I'm so grateful to have had that door opened to me early by my mother. I have an instant affinity with any person who can laugh like that, and, I can't help it: I feel sorry for people who never seem to be able to give themselves over so fully.

Our conversations in this her eightieth year have tended more towards her anxieties, complaints, and daily menu plans, so it was delightful to call her the other morning and hear this story:

She'd gone to see her "intern", her name for her internal medicine doctor, who had told her she might have a blockage in her "corduroyed" artery, which made me smile and file away with the other medical terms she botches like "radio-ologist". Later she called it her "cahterahted" artery, and was upset when I told her that, no, I don't think there's a medicine you take to just clean it out. When she had lung cancer, she insisted on telling her oncologist that on Oprah Doctor Oz says "now there's a laser and you can just zap it".

But that wasn't side-splitting, and I probably can't tell this story to be that funny. Maybe it was funny to me because of our history, because when my mother laughs I laugh, because I'm ever-ready for a good laugh, because I'd not had one in a long time. Here goes and I'll try to recapture her telling of it:

"Terry, It was just awful at Dr. Enzer's. He had me in there talking for 3 hours! " (I questioned that. My mother is very prone to hyperbole, but she held fast, saying, "Well, in and out, but it was definitely 3 hours!)

"Anyway, they put me in that cold room and gave me a gown like they always do, but it was different. It had all these snaps and I couldn't figure out how they worked. At first, I must have been trying to put my head through the sleeve which of course I couldn't. Finally, with just one arm in one of the sleeves, I finally gave up, didn't snap a single snap and just sat there trying to hold the ends together so I wasn't hanging out everywhere. Then I got cold on that shoulder that was outside the gown, so I got my scarf and draped it over that side.

I can just see my mother with her ample bosom, hunched over, trying to keep the gown closed, her stockinged feet and skinny legs dangling off the table, with one sleeve sticking out, her black fuzzy scarf only half-covering her naked shoulder.

Between fits of laughter I ask her, "What did Dr. Enzer say about that scarf when he came in?"

"Oh, he just took it off and threw it over to the side."

"But that wasn't all. Have you heard about those long silk underwear? June gave me a pair and they're wonderful! But they didn't really fit my waist, so I'd cut the band in about six places."

"And you had those on with that gown?"

"Yes, with that band all cut up." By now she was laughing at herself as hard as I was.

"I know I looked like some kind of character. But he's used to me. Remember that time I couldn't tinkle, so I scooped some water out of the toilet for my urine sample?"

I remembered. And laughed again.

Day 100 as a City School Teacher

Most of my blogging efforts have gone to another blog chronicling my first year as a school teacher. The posts are mostly short and not very introspective, written more for my own benefit so that I can remember this amazing year, but today I had the time to write a bit more in depth and I include the link here for anyone interested.

The Part That Won't Be Taken Away

Between bites of pizza, we were talking about Charlie getting skin cancer cut off his face. "He's not going to have any face left if they keep on."

Charlie, 80, had told me of growing up on an Arkansas farm, riding on the back of a tractor every summer long - barebacked, hatless, and sunscreen-free.

Martha pointed to the bump on her nose where she'd had a spot removed. "Now they can do a skin graft. It would look better, but I don't care. There was a time when it mattered, but not anymore," she said with her usual dignified grace. The golf course had its way with Martha's skin, she who must have once been a stunning beauty.

Our prayer list included a family who put their healthy 22 month old baby to bed one night and buried him days later: bacterial meningitus. The other twin keeps asking where he is.

A child, a spouse, a parent, savings, a job, our reputation, romance, vigor, beauty, health, friendship, any person or thing we value - all are in the category of "can be taken away". Sometimes it happens slowly, even imperceptibly. Other times it's sudden and shocking.

__________________________________

The older sister liked getting things done; she took pride in opening her home to friends, feeding them well. Efficient, capable, and resourceful, she enjoyed the satisfaction of doing things the right way.

Not so with the younger sister. She only pretended to be interested when her sister rattled on about some new way to cook beans, that she'd almost saved enough money for new curtains. The younger sister did her chores as she should, but absentmindedly, wondering how her sister could be satisfied with such a life.

Both sisters were in agreement, however, about their new friend. How blessed they were to have grown so close. All the town was talking about him, trying to get next to him, but he was coming to THEIR home for dinner.

But they weren't prepared for as many guests as he brought with them. Martha ran next door to borrow some more plates and some bread, promising to repay the next day. She said a quick prayer that there would be enough food, that the stew would still taste good after she stretched it with some water.

When she returned, she saw her sister where she'd left her, sitting there doing nothing, acting like a guest instead of a hostess. Her irritation spilled out with, "Jesus! While Mary sits there listening to you, I'm left to get all this work done by myself. Tell her to help me."

He turned the tables on Martha, declaring her priorities wrong and her sister's right. He did it gently, though. "Martha, Martha, you're much too distracted and bothered. But really, there's only one thing that matters and Mary has learned what that is. And that won't be taken from her."

Wishing It Weren't So

Years of being under-insured coupled with a propensity for self-delusion paved the way for me to ignore high cholesterol levels for the past 18 years. Now, nicely insured, I just went to the doctor for a full physical and, as I expected, am in good health all except for that one thing. Ready to address this, fears of ending up as a slobbering stroke victim clear in my mind, I eagerly popped the first Crestor into my mouth two nights ago.

Uncharacteristically, I woke in the night, experiencing strange feelings in my legs, but decided to persevere. Went for our annual Turkey Trot, was active most of the day and evening with Thanksgiving and then bowling, and though was aware of muscle discomfort, it didn't get me down. "I've got to do this!" I said valiantly as I dosed myself again last night around 9:00. By 12:00 I was whimpering for my husband to hold me, rub my back, my legs. It wasn't unbearable, but I definitely don't want to live out my days feeling like I have the flu. And I can't picture myself doing well at work this way.

The internet is happy to supply the hapless searcher with reasons both for and against taking statins to lower cholesterol. On a previous google search, I had greedily read about the cholesterol myth and the evil pharmaceutical companies and at that time concluded my problem was my sweet tooth. Having corrected that, a common-sense dietary change from any perspective, I was hopeful that my cholesterol numbers would have improved. The triglycerides were in normal range for the first time since I've had this problem, but the other numbers were as bad or worse than before. So much for the theory that it's the fault of sugar.

So, here I am on this Thanksgiving holiday, thankful for so much, and yet in a quandry - desiring to be a good steward of my body, but truly confused as to how far I go to work on two numbers from a lab result, numbers that may or may not indicate future problems. Do I try to develop a hankering for red wine every night? Do I subject myself to burping fish oil or others to garlic breath? Do I rationalize that the high numbers are genetic in the absence of heart disease? Do I suffer through with this statin in hopes the side-effects will wear off? Do I try a different one? A different dosage? Is it all much ado about nothing?

And I'm now so full from that bowl of oatmeal that I don't even want turkey and dressing leftovers.

A Memory

We’d been walking up the mountain for about an hour, a steep, uninspiring climb up a gravel road. Our initial enthusiasm for this week-long backpacking trip was already waning because we were so hot; the summer thus far had been one of the hottest on record. We’d looked forward to the cool of the mountains, but North Carolina was just as hot as Memphis, TN. I was seriously regretful. And hot. And thirsty.

Several times we had to yell, “Truck!” and move to the side to let one pass, then curse the exhaust, the dust. My mouth was totally dry; the heat was making me feel sick, and this was just the first hour of our first day of hiking.

But then, to our collective joy and surprise, upon rounding a bend, we saw that one of the trucks had lost some watermelons, which were lying there freshly split open and ready for us to pounce upon. Which we did with all the enthusiasm of children on Christmas morn. I have never been so thirsty or had my thirst quenched so exquisitely. That was 30 years ago, but I can still visualize the scene, recall the sheer pleasure of diving into those watermelon pieces, of being so thoroughly satisfied and refreshed.

That memory came to me this morning in church as our pastor taught from the scriptures. How thirsty I am each week; how I long to drink long draughts of pure, clean water. How glad I am that our pastor’s teaching is sound, rooted in the sacred writings. How grateful I am that for one hour I can sing along with my fellow travellers songs of hope, of praise. That together we affirm our need for, our reliance on, our trust in and our love for the One we call Beautiful. Jesus.