There was a time in my life when I wasn’t squeamish. I could handle various sorts of slime and gore. My sophomore year in high school I watched a video on how to deliver a baby in an emergency and not once was there the suggestion to boil some water. The video must have been shot in the 60’s and was set in a dingy storeroom with a single, naked light bulb hanging from the ceiling. No doubt the inspiration for the setting of every 70’s hostage situation on television. I also dissected a fetal pig that year without the slightest guilt or gagging. We got an extra hundred points if we could extract the brain from the skull with out severing the spinal cord. I got that hundred points, but only because I had the stomach to mash the spinal cord back together and it held up to my biology teacher’s inspection. As a counselor at church camp, a girl in my cabin threw up all over herself, the wall, and the girl on the bottom bunk. I cleaned her up and all of her spew without flinching.
Those days are gone.
Something as small as a booger is enough to make my tummy turn. As a teacher, there is no escaping them. I’m constantly facing all manner of mucus. When I worked with Pre-K, the other teachers read my signals of panic and revulsion and would come and rescue me from a child whose brain matter was dangling from his nose. I have the classic “snot-nosed” child in my classroom, bat-in-the-cave and a layer or two of dry, filthy crusting regularly adorns his nostrils. Last week, I couldn’t stand to look at it any longer and attempted to get it cleared with 3 or 4 tissues to keep it from touching me. I was not successful, but suddenly the kid was aware that he had a booger in his nose. I went for more tissues asking, “Do you think you can blow it out?” Without a moment’s hesitation, he blows and not only did the bat exit the cave but an unreasonable amount of gelatinous substance followed it to freedom. Seriously, I didn’t know that much mucus could come through a single nostril.
And then there’s regurgitation. I can’t even watch it on film anymore. Even worse, I get nauseous at the sight of the puking happy faces you can put in emails and instant messages. In fact, I’m getting sick now as I compose this post. As if to emphasize His sense of humor, God gave me employment as a behavior coach for a child with the most sensitive gag reflex in the history of the world. One of his favorite foods was one that also caused him to puke most frequently: scrambled eggs--which, by the way, go against the scent-taste connection. I like good scrambled eggs, but the sulfur-smell makes ME want to hurl. There was a morning that he started gagging and I was determined to get him to the bathroom because I couldn’t handle watching him ralph all over his tray again. As I was attempting to get his helmet off, his entire breakfast landed in my hand. How my breakfast didn’t also re-appear is a mystery. After that, his barfing all over his tray wasn’t so unbearable for me.
The best or worst, depending on your point of view, tale of projectile vomit came from one of my teaching assistants who has a two year old son. Once he was holding his infant son over his head and cooing at him when the darling one wretched . . . right into daddy’s mouth. Pardon me. I don’t feel so good.
Friday, December 14, 2007
Saturday, November 17, 2007
Family Tree - Part II
Just because pieces start falling into place doesn’t mean the puzzle is complete. I can guarantee you, as could anyone who knows me well, I am still quite the puzzle. I can hardly hang on to my proverbial ducks (they’re neurotic and ADHD), much less get them in a row. I have struggled in writing this post. There is a lot I want to say about what I have learned in the past year. Here is the thing that has struck me the most in a most timely fashion: the Old Testament heroes were remembered for their faith, not their flaws. Is it new information? No. It’s been a matter of public record for centuries and stuff I knew, but I didn’t connect. The Hebrews “Hall of Faith”, a list of the hopelessly flawed whom God called faithful. I don’t know how I’ve missed it, but I’m so thankful I know it now. That I recognize the humanity of Abraham, Jacob, and David and can identify with them. My adopted cousins and uncles whose faith allowed God to carry out His plan. Don’t stop at 11:38, keep reading, “And all these, having gained approval through their faith, did not receive what was promised because God had provided something better for us so that apart from us they should not be made perfect.” (vs 39-40) Did you catch that? They weren’t perfect, nor would they be apart from us . . . you . . . me.
It’s a staggering thought.
In a world that seems determined to thrive on infamy, it is mind-blowing to realize there is a history of thriving on faithfulness. In an age when the sins of the parents are the excuses for our poor choices, there exists a record of a culture focused on the things their ancestors got right. They believed God and waited for a Savior they would not see. They experienced fear, shame, trials and frustration. Realizing that, really knowing it, makes me feel less lonely. I come from a long line of frailty. Every day people whose ducks weren’t quite in a row. However, their fears did not define them, their tribulations did not deter them. God calls them faithful. God called them His, but He had something even better in mind for us—one Lamb, one sacrifice, once for all time. Because of Him, my fears will not define me and my tribulations will not deter me, even if they sometimes overwhelm me. And God calls me faithful and He calls me His. My heritage is of foreigners, con men, shepherds, prostitutes, fishermen, thieves, priests, prophets and kings. My family tree is an accumulation of intricacy, a hybrid of transplants growing from a single Root.
It’s a staggering thought.
In a world that seems determined to thrive on infamy, it is mind-blowing to realize there is a history of thriving on faithfulness. In an age when the sins of the parents are the excuses for our poor choices, there exists a record of a culture focused on the things their ancestors got right. They believed God and waited for a Savior they would not see. They experienced fear, shame, trials and frustration. Realizing that, really knowing it, makes me feel less lonely. I come from a long line of frailty. Every day people whose ducks weren’t quite in a row. However, their fears did not define them, their tribulations did not deter them. God calls them faithful. God called them His, but He had something even better in mind for us—one Lamb, one sacrifice, once for all time. Because of Him, my fears will not define me and my tribulations will not deter me, even if they sometimes overwhelm me. And God calls me faithful and He calls me His. My heritage is of foreigners, con men, shepherds, prostitutes, fishermen, thieves, priests, prophets and kings. My family tree is an accumulation of intricacy, a hybrid of transplants growing from a single Root.
Friday, November 9, 2007
Monday, October 29, 2007
Tagged--The buck stops here, people!!!
Primarily because I don’t know 8 more people with blogs who’ve not already been tagged, I’m going to cheat and just quit.
1. I, too, am unable to give blood—for the exact same reason as Sarah, just substitute Scotland for Ireland.
2. I’m going to marry Gerard Butler, but he doesn’t know it yet. I have to break things off with Orlando Bloom first. There are actually 3 degrees of separation between me and Orlando Bloom. I was a childcare worker for a girl who moved to Hawaii and was an extra in the movie “Blue Crush” with Kate Bosworth who used to date Orlando Bloom . . . until I stole him from her. (I actually just saw that little girl in the movie when it was on cable yesterday!)
3. For a number of years in my childhood, my dad would often respond, “When we find your real daddy you can tell/ask him” to any question or complaint I had about my upbringing.
4. I murdered one of the class fish in 4th grade. Perhaps it was man-slaughter (fish-slaughter?), since I didn’t intend to kill it. I just wanted to see if I could thump it hard enough to make it touch the bottom of the fish tank. I think if I had put more of my arm into it rather than just rely on finger-strength alone, I’d have been successful. However, when the fish was discovered dead the next day, everyone would’ve known it was me.
5. I got the chicken pox when I was 21. That visit to the doctor was the second most humiliating doctor visit of my life.
6. The time I went to the doctor in Scotland for an ear ache and the doctor said, “Did you know you have an asymmetrical face? You’re face is crooked (I gave him a quizzical look in response to the question). Go look in the mirror and tell me if your face is supposed to look like that” was the first.
7. In 8th grade I wrote a love story about a guy I had a mad crush on. It revolved around his green eyes and was hence titled “Green Eyes: A Short Love Story”. I was really proud of it. The day after I wrote it, I ran into him in the hallway and discovered that his eyes were so dark a shade of brown they were almost black. He never knew about the story, but I was mortified just the same. I found it a few years ago and was mortified that I'd written it.
8. I love makeup. I LOVE it! I’m like a kid in a candy store at a place like Sephora. Funds are typically a problem, so I usually get something small (like lip-gloss) or just talk myself out of buying anything at all. If funds weren’t a problem it would probably take a room to hold it all, however it would probably expire before I could use it all. While I love makeup and sometimes wish I could be bolder in its application without looking like a clown, I don’t always like putting forth the effort to put it on. It’s pretty much the same story with hair products.
When did the word “melty” become a part of the American vernacular?
1. I, too, am unable to give blood—for the exact same reason as Sarah, just substitute Scotland for Ireland.
2. I’m going to marry Gerard Butler, but he doesn’t know it yet. I have to break things off with Orlando Bloom first. There are actually 3 degrees of separation between me and Orlando Bloom. I was a childcare worker for a girl who moved to Hawaii and was an extra in the movie “Blue Crush” with Kate Bosworth who used to date Orlando Bloom . . . until I stole him from her. (I actually just saw that little girl in the movie when it was on cable yesterday!)
3. For a number of years in my childhood, my dad would often respond, “When we find your real daddy you can tell/ask him” to any question or complaint I had about my upbringing.
4. I murdered one of the class fish in 4th grade. Perhaps it was man-slaughter (fish-slaughter?), since I didn’t intend to kill it. I just wanted to see if I could thump it hard enough to make it touch the bottom of the fish tank. I think if I had put more of my arm into it rather than just rely on finger-strength alone, I’d have been successful. However, when the fish was discovered dead the next day, everyone would’ve known it was me.
5. I got the chicken pox when I was 21. That visit to the doctor was the second most humiliating doctor visit of my life.
6. The time I went to the doctor in Scotland for an ear ache and the doctor said, “Did you know you have an asymmetrical face? You’re face is crooked (I gave him a quizzical look in response to the question). Go look in the mirror and tell me if your face is supposed to look like that” was the first.
7. In 8th grade I wrote a love story about a guy I had a mad crush on. It revolved around his green eyes and was hence titled “Green Eyes: A Short Love Story”. I was really proud of it. The day after I wrote it, I ran into him in the hallway and discovered that his eyes were so dark a shade of brown they were almost black. He never knew about the story, but I was mortified just the same. I found it a few years ago and was mortified that I'd written it.
8. I love makeup. I LOVE it! I’m like a kid in a candy store at a place like Sephora. Funds are typically a problem, so I usually get something small (like lip-gloss) or just talk myself out of buying anything at all. If funds weren’t a problem it would probably take a room to hold it all, however it would probably expire before I could use it all. While I love makeup and sometimes wish I could be bolder in its application without looking like a clown, I don’t always like putting forth the effort to put it on. It’s pretty much the same story with hair products.
When did the word “melty” become a part of the American vernacular?
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Things That Go Bump in the Night . . .
. . . or “clackety-clack” would be closer to the truth. That would be my brain. You’ve heard the term “one-track mind” and its reference to a person who has tunnel-vision, thinking of one thing only, unable to focus on anything else. I wonder what that’s like because I’m generally unable to focus on any one thing at all. My problem is I have a multi-track mind and only one train of thought. It sounds nice and compartmentalized, but my train likes to cover all the tracks . . . at once . . . and since no train can be on more than one track at a time—not even the one in my head—there’s a lot of track-jumping and derailment going on up there. Perhaps “CRASH! BOOM! SCREECH! BANG!” and all forms of onomatopoeia associated with a train-wreck would be absolutely accurate.
I can keep that train on the track during the day, when I’m working and have people depending on me. Well, most of the time. It’s at night when my mind races through every thought I’ve had that day that’s been waiting for that train, sweeping over me like a tidal wave, trying to make up for all the time spent running parallel but never intersecting and now that the day’s finally over can catch that train at the station and seizes upon the opportunity to drown it . . . hmmm . . . maybe I should have gone with the tsunami analogy. Anyway . . . I have a hard time finding rest at night and quieting my mind. All manner of thoughts rush through. On really tough nights, it feels like every thought I’ve EVER had returns for an encore. ~sigh~ Can you tell I’m writing this at night?
And now I’ve been tagged . . . ~double sigh~ . . . The only reason I’m writing this post is to buy myself some time as I complete “Family Tree Part 2” and because I didn’t get much sleep this last week, so it seemed inspired. Perhaps I’ll save some of these thoughts for the “random facts” in my “Tag” post. Who decided it was going to be 8 random facts anyway? Why not 5? Or 13? I could easily provide 80, but then no one would come back, knowing more than they’d ever wish to know about me. For now, I have a train to catch . . . or drive . . . something . . . whatever!!!
I can keep that train on the track during the day, when I’m working and have people depending on me. Well, most of the time. It’s at night when my mind races through every thought I’ve had that day that’s been waiting for that train, sweeping over me like a tidal wave, trying to make up for all the time spent running parallel but never intersecting and now that the day’s finally over can catch that train at the station and seizes upon the opportunity to drown it . . . hmmm . . . maybe I should have gone with the tsunami analogy. Anyway . . . I have a hard time finding rest at night and quieting my mind. All manner of thoughts rush through. On really tough nights, it feels like every thought I’ve EVER had returns for an encore. ~sigh~ Can you tell I’m writing this at night?
And now I’ve been tagged . . . ~double sigh~ . . . The only reason I’m writing this post is to buy myself some time as I complete “Family Tree Part 2” and because I didn’t get much sleep this last week, so it seemed inspired. Perhaps I’ll save some of these thoughts for the “random facts” in my “Tag” post. Who decided it was going to be 8 random facts anyway? Why not 5? Or 13? I could easily provide 80, but then no one would come back, knowing more than they’d ever wish to know about me. For now, I have a train to catch . . . or drive . . . something . . . whatever!!!
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Family Tree - Part 1
Ever since I returned from Scotland, I’ve noticed that everyone I meet has Scottish roots. It doesn’t matter who I talk to, the second they hear that I lived in Scotland it’s, “My family is Scottish! My mom’s dad’s cousin’s husband’s dog’s veterinarian came over on the ship back in 1880!” Apparently there was only one ship that ever came to the US from Scotland and it was full of vets. It used to annoy me when people would say that. My last name is a common, Scottish surname, we have our own tartan (plaid) and everything, but I couldn’t tell you who came over on that boat in 1880 and I think the people who could have long departed this world. Why does it matter anyway?
It’s important, though, for people to know their heritage. For me, lately, it’s become even more important to know my spiritual heritage. I grew up going to church. I heard all the Old Testament Bible stories: Noah, Abraham, Joseph and the coat of many colors, Moses and the plagues, David the shepherd boy, David and Goliath, David the king . . . there was some smatterings of prophets throughout, but I never really knew or felt connected to them. I knew they were real people. I knew they were important people in their generations. Another time, another place, not all that relevant to me unless it was Bible Bowl season. And there was my time in AIM and on the mission field. Most of my adult study has focused on the New Testament. There in Hebrews, the “Hall of Faith”. The spiritual giants of all time—“men of whom the world was not worthy” (Heb 11:38). That’s about when the anxiety set in—What am I doing? I don’t belong here!—and I’d check out. What has plagued me most recently is the realization that for the last decade, I have read books and watched movies over and over, analyzing them and gleaning the truths of life from them. I love getting lost in a good story. I love seeing something new the second or twenty-second time around. I love observing and identifying with the complexity of characters and their relationships. The one thing I neglected to pursue with equal or greater intensity was the study of the Bible, the ultimate of stories, characters wrought in chaos of complexity and who actually walked this earth, THE truth . . . the thing I needed most.
A couple of years ago I had decided that I needed to get serious with my spiritual walk . . . again. I thought the best way to get back on track was to get back into regular Bible study. I went to the Bible-mart and picked up a couple of books by Jim McGuiggan, “Genesis and Us” and “The God Who Commands the Impossible”. I started with “Genesis and Us” for obvious reasons, endeavoring to understand just how relevant Genesis is to us. It was pretty amazing. I began to feel connected to this time and place so long ago. Suddenly, Abraham wasn’t such a distant figure of heroism. Jacob was not the “good guy” in his own story. And Judah the man hardly behaved like the child of the Holy One. It took me a year to complete “Genesis and Us”. (Not because it was a particularly voluminous work, rather I’m a voluminous procrastinator who gets easily distracted.) I began to feel a renewal in my heart. It’s amazing how perspective can have so great an influence on our thoughts; a little tweaking and pieces of the puzzle start falling into place.
Don't worry, there is a point to this. Stay tuned . . .
It’s important, though, for people to know their heritage. For me, lately, it’s become even more important to know my spiritual heritage. I grew up going to church. I heard all the Old Testament Bible stories: Noah, Abraham, Joseph and the coat of many colors, Moses and the plagues, David the shepherd boy, David and Goliath, David the king . . . there was some smatterings of prophets throughout, but I never really knew or felt connected to them. I knew they were real people. I knew they were important people in their generations. Another time, another place, not all that relevant to me unless it was Bible Bowl season. And there was my time in AIM and on the mission field. Most of my adult study has focused on the New Testament. There in Hebrews, the “Hall of Faith”. The spiritual giants of all time—“men of whom the world was not worthy” (Heb 11:38). That’s about when the anxiety set in—What am I doing? I don’t belong here!—and I’d check out. What has plagued me most recently is the realization that for the last decade, I have read books and watched movies over and over, analyzing them and gleaning the truths of life from them. I love getting lost in a good story. I love seeing something new the second or twenty-second time around. I love observing and identifying with the complexity of characters and their relationships. The one thing I neglected to pursue with equal or greater intensity was the study of the Bible, the ultimate of stories, characters wrought in chaos of complexity and who actually walked this earth, THE truth . . . the thing I needed most.
A couple of years ago I had decided that I needed to get serious with my spiritual walk . . . again. I thought the best way to get back on track was to get back into regular Bible study. I went to the Bible-mart and picked up a couple of books by Jim McGuiggan, “Genesis and Us” and “The God Who Commands the Impossible”. I started with “Genesis and Us” for obvious reasons, endeavoring to understand just how relevant Genesis is to us. It was pretty amazing. I began to feel connected to this time and place so long ago. Suddenly, Abraham wasn’t such a distant figure of heroism. Jacob was not the “good guy” in his own story. And Judah the man hardly behaved like the child of the Holy One. It took me a year to complete “Genesis and Us”. (Not because it was a particularly voluminous work, rather I’m a voluminous procrastinator who gets easily distracted.) I began to feel a renewal in my heart. It’s amazing how perspective can have so great an influence on our thoughts; a little tweaking and pieces of the puzzle start falling into place.
Don't worry, there is a point to this. Stay tuned . . .
Sunday, October 14, 2007
That "WHOLE Other Blog"
One of my all-time favorite TV shows is “Home Improvement” which follows the escapades of Tim “The Toolman” Taylor and his family. There are a lot of shows that I watched in my formative years that I thought were so fantastic and cutting edge at the time, only to watch them as an adult and think, “This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen!” (Yes, I meant to just plagiarize myself and is it really plagiarism if it’s your own words? I think that’s called de ja vu . . . or being redundant.) For example, anything that starred David Hasselhoff. Where is Max Headroom today? Or Automan, for that matter? Or Manimal? (OK, so those go further back . . . elephant memory, remember?)
And then there are the shows that are timeless: Magnum P.I. . . . and . . . do I really need to continue? Although, I must give The Wonder Years its due. Home Improvement is also proving to be timeless to me as I catch its reruns on Nick at Night lately. I love Tim’s regurgitation of Wilson’s pearls of wisdom in “Neanderthal” man-speak and his complete misquotations of history’s great philosophers, and their names. It’s still hilarious all these years later.
Personally, I think the writing is the key to a good show. I don’t know that Eric Bana would have made Knight Rider worth watching today. Let me rephrase that: I don’t know that Eric Bana would have made Knight Rider worth sitting and listening to the dialogue today. (By the same token, however, nobody but Tom Selleck could be Thomas Magnum. Hmm . . . tricky.) Some of the shows of the 70’s, 80’s, and 90’s have the worst dialogue in the history of screen. It wallows in the shallow sludge that is the romance dialogue of James Bond movies. ~shudder~ No wonder Bond will never be in a long-term relationship.
But there are plenty of fantastic to choose from. Allow me to present to you my picks for the best shows on TV—ever! (The top 4 are my absolutes, the rest are in no particular order.)
#1 Magnum P.I.
#2 Arrested Development
#3 Scrubs
#4 24
#5 Dead Like Me
#6 Home Improvement
#7 The Wonder Years
#8 Hart to Hart (yes, you read that right)
#9 Hunter
#10 Sledgehammer
What are yours?
And then there are the shows that are timeless: Magnum P.I. . . . and . . . do I really need to continue? Although, I must give The Wonder Years its due. Home Improvement is also proving to be timeless to me as I catch its reruns on Nick at Night lately. I love Tim’s regurgitation of Wilson’s pearls of wisdom in “Neanderthal” man-speak and his complete misquotations of history’s great philosophers, and their names. It’s still hilarious all these years later.
Personally, I think the writing is the key to a good show. I don’t know that Eric Bana would have made Knight Rider worth watching today. Let me rephrase that: I don’t know that Eric Bana would have made Knight Rider worth sitting and listening to the dialogue today. (By the same token, however, nobody but Tom Selleck could be Thomas Magnum. Hmm . . . tricky.) Some of the shows of the 70’s, 80’s, and 90’s have the worst dialogue in the history of screen. It wallows in the shallow sludge that is the romance dialogue of James Bond movies. ~shudder~ No wonder Bond will never be in a long-term relationship.
But there are plenty of fantastic to choose from. Allow me to present to you my picks for the best shows on TV—ever! (The top 4 are my absolutes, the rest are in no particular order.)
#1 Magnum P.I.
#2 Arrested Development
#3 Scrubs
#4 24
#5 Dead Like Me
#6 Home Improvement
#7 The Wonder Years
#8 Hart to Hart (yes, you read that right)
#9 Hunter
#10 Sledgehammer
What are yours?
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