naturally

My favorite park is going through a renovation, and I'm not sure I like it. It is the closest park to our house so we have gone there for many reasons over the years.

Walking the dog on the trails through the woods has invigorated my spirit as well as the dog's. It has given my husband and I a place to talk as we see and feel the beauty of creation embracing us. The coolness of the woods on a hot summer day is a welcome relief. Gazing upward at the canopy of leaves overhead, I have wondered how many others have gone to that particular stretch of woods to unburden themselves, and whether or not the leaf covering can become a prayer covering, too.

When I began running a few years back, the trails welcomed me to try something I thought would be too difficult. I discovered instead that I enjoyed running on the mulch better than the road and as long as I could steer clear of the tree roots that are often painted so as not to trip the unsuspecting runner, I too could navigate the trails. My dog liked this plan even better since he needs the exercise even more than I do and like me--never tires of the being in the woods.

When the boys were younger we had birthday parties under park shelters. Since all three boys have September birthdays, we would designate a Sunday afternoon in the month of September as the day for the Shores Brother Boys Birthday Bash and would invite all of their friends to eat lunch and have cake. The parties would inevitably transform into some kind of pick-up soccer game after we sang to honor our sons and celebrate their lives.

One year my sisters came to visit and needed a place to camp nearby. The campground at this park was the obvious choice. It is the place for the outdoor senior pictures at our local high school to be taken. It is where I have seen our neighbor who enjoys fishing in the park's lake. It is where we have sat on a blanket in the summer listening to bluegrass concerts. It is our park.

Recently, a new entrance to the park has cut through the trees and paved its way over the grass. Sidewalks to make everything accessible to everyone are being poured, replacing a natural surface with concrete. Though these changes will allow for less traffic congestion during cross country meets, I selfishly think about how I will have to live with this renovation year-round with the regret of someone who doesn't love the color of the walls after they have already been painted. And as wrong as it is of me to want my park to remain the same, I know it is only fair that others be allowed the opportunity to experience it. Once the sawdust settles, so to speak, I will not worry so much about the changes, focusing instead on the twists and turns of the trails that remain in their natural condition--a place where I can go to pour out my heart as the canopy of leaves lift my prayers up to God.

words

Last evening I played the game Apples to Apples in which a card with a word on it is placed in the center of the table as each player lays down a card that will in some way represent that word. The person whose turn it is then chooses the card he or she likes the best. If the card has the word "cold" on it, the person may choose "icebergs" as the best answer if it is one of the choices, but could choose any card from "genetic engineering" to "Mark Twain, " if those are the cards offered by the other players. It may make perfect sense or it may not. It is open to the interpretation of the person making the choice.

What is considered fun in a game, however, is not always so much fun in the real world. A misunderstanding resulting from words not carefully chosen can lead to years of separation in families. A word intended to be funny but not taken that way by the recipient can lead to dismissal from a job. The power of life and death is in the tongue, according to a biblical proverb. Shakespeare said that the pen is mightier than the sword.

The image a person creates has as much to do with the words that person chooses to use than with his or her actions. If I tell you that I love you with anger flashing in my eyes and a tone that betrays the beauty these words are meant to bring, even if I'm doing something nice for you, the message is not one of love but of something else. If I, however, tell you that I love you as I look into your eyes and speak with sincerity, even though I do not come bearing gifts, the message has a greater chance of being believed. We trust with our hearts and our minds. We believe the words that make us feel a certain way. If we've been lied to, we develop a discernment for sorting out the dishonest words that do not carry the same weight as those told in truthfulness. It is a learned art to know if a word spoken or written is what it claims to be.

What gets confusing is when someone speaks in a sweet tone with a pleasant expression but the words are not at all kind or pleasing. The Southern expression, "Bless your heart," often fits this description. It sounds nice but just under the surface is the kind of mockery, gentle or otherwise, that I would rather do without. "I just hate that for you," is another phrase that usually means the opposite as the person saying it realizes that she has somehow avoided the fate you are now left to deal with.

Words of gossip can take on lives of their own as the excitement of something said in secret is transmitted to another willing participant. Though these messages can be somewhat interesting, I find they often fall far short of communication as a whole as I am left wondering--in what tone of voice was this message originally given?--what was the context of these words and what exact words were spoken?--who is the source?--and where do the allegiances of those involved lie? I then have to ask myself whether or not this message is believable. How do I know it is true? Who is going to prove it to me? What implications are there to believing a message told in secret? Will the repeating of that message by other "informed" individuals begin to shape a belief I did not previously have? And if so, will that new belief have any resemblance to the truth?

Can we ever really know what is in another's heart or mind? Aren't we left to depend on each other to express how it is we really feel? We have to rely on words and interpretations that have been formed through years of learning to trust and to believe. We can blame and accuse or we can give each other the benefit of the doubt. We can jump to conclusions and then share our limited and questionable findings with the next unsuspecting person. Or we can patiently seek out the person we are being told to see in a different light because of the way our minds have been shaped by the interpretations of others, and put an end to the endless speculation by merely asking, "So what do you think?"

listening

As a writer and a woman of faith, I spend a considerable amount of time taking into consideration the possible conclusions one may draw while reading my words and looking at my life. Even if there is understanding, there may not be agreement. Each one of us has a unique perspective at times requiring a certain measure of reconciliation to achieve peace with one another. This, however, does not always happen.

Without a word spoken, I can sometimes sense tension forming like ice on the edge of a pond in winter. A voice raises an octave as lips tighten. Even if a smile is attempted, the eyes betray the expression, revealing true feelings. It is then a waiting game. Will the person admit to the bad feelings and look for ways to settle the differences, or will he or she withdraw from communication altogether?

As an observer of people, I find it fascinating to watch a drama between two people who are at odds with one another unfold. To see one walk past the other without as much as a backward glance establishes the purposeful isolating action. To then witness the painful expression as eye contact is deliberately made, makes me wish I could run over yelling, "Time out" and get the two people to talk, even if they can only agree to disagree. But this doesn't happen because I don't have the ability to control people. Not even God wants to do that. He leads us and guides us. He speaks to the hearts and minds of those who will listen. To those who will not listen, he very quietly waits, as though there is a door separating that person from himself. It may be a matter of time before the person lets him in. He will wait as long as it takes.

I find it interesting when I hear that someone believes God has called her to accomplish a certain mission. I find it even more interesting when the mission God has me on is in direct opposition. Is God speaking to either of us and in this case, which one? Wouldn't it seem that the one with the most peaceful solution would be the one actually hearing from God? Maybe we all define peace differently.

So, wanting to live a life worthy of the calling of God, I wait. I wait for those who harbor anger and bitterness in their hearts to hear God's tender voice on the other side of that door. I wait for those who want to pretend there are no problems even though their eyes betray them. I wait for a new revelation of God's love that can be made known and understood. I wait for a greater opportunity to serve. I wait, knowing that there are no easy answers. All I know is that winter does not last forever. There will come a springtime and a thawing of all that is frozen. As streams of living water are eventually released to flow, my prayer is that we can step into that stream of life together, having heard his call and willing to be reconciled for the greater good.

But first we must listen. Is that knocking that I hear?



  

sharing space

Sitting next to someone at an all-day arts and crafts show can give one a glimpse through the window of a person's soul.

Yesterday a woman who seemed perfectly nice set up the two tables behind my table. I told her where I sat, the half-way point between her two tables, with the hope that she would choose to sit behind the table where she would bump into no one. She chose to bump into me instead. It promised to be a very long day.

As she sat on her wooden stool, she commented on how uncomfortable this would be by the end of the day. I agreed. I used to have a stool with a cushion that still left me with screaming back pain hours later because I could not lean back. Even though she had placed herself exactly in my way, which threatened my ability to remain charitable considerably, I decided that I needed to share with her a more adequate chair owned by a friend who would not be joining us for the show. After retrieving the chair for her, she immediately decided to change her seating location and I was relieved I had bothered to help.

No longer using her wooden stool, she allowed me to set it behind her other table across from an empty table and next to a stool left behind from a regular vendor who also would not be joining us. When a man in need of something to sit on asked if he could use her now available wooden stool, she looked at him as though he had just asked if he could take ownership of her car or maybe move into her spare bedroom. Her answer was an unequivocal NO! It was HER stool that she brought from home. Of course no one could use it but her, even though she would no longer need it until she took it home with her at the end of the day.

Having just given her someone else's chair to use, one that was HIS, I marveled at her answer. Quickly I motioned to the other stool and invited the man to take it. The woman sat comfortably in her newly found, much more comfortable chair with a back on it that was NOT HERS!

As the day wore on we interacted little as she tried to sell her wares and I mine. At one point she started up a discussion with me about my "primitive" style of art. Every time she spoke the word "primitive" she spit it out with such disdain I wondered how she could even bring herself to breathe the same air as I did. She smiled sweetly with her face but her words did not reflect that kindness.

Later when she accidently knocked another woman's glass sign off her table sending it to shatter on the concrete floor, I showed her where the brooms are kept with the hope that she could redeem herself by offering to clean up the mess she made, but I noticed it was the woman who had suffered the loss doing the cleaning. I hope the woman in question apologized. I'm not sure that she did.

About an hour before the show was supposed to end, this woman was already packed and ready to go home. I could have reported her to the coordinator since leaving early is an offense that can get a person left off the list for the next show since that sort of thing is not permitted, but I chose not to. I just said good-bye and went back to my work.

I don't think this woman set out to remind me of the parable in which the man whose debt was forgiven turned around and demanded repayment of the next man's debt, but she did. She received that which was not hers but could not extend that kindness to another in need. She could not offer blessings toward me for fear that it would somehow diminish her own creativity, and she would not take responsibility for her wrong doing in the accidental breaking of the sign. Love can cover over a multitude of sin. When we choose not to love, the emptiness of sin lingers and its sadness remains.

Though we may be tempted to think she is not a decent person, she is no different from any of us if we choose to live an unexamined life--one in which we do not consider the needs of those around us. We become her when we choose to be competitive instead of developing a heart of gratitude with generosity spilling over naturally. And in her defense, I do not know if she has lived a life in which her few possessions were taken from her or if she has suffered other abuses that have formed her character.

There is only One who rises above the pettiness which we all can succumb to. One who forgives us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us. One who not only gives us a place to sit, but inspires us to be creative and empowers us to repent. When we allow the Spirit to take us over, we are freed from even the perceived ownership of our very lives. We become his hands and feet, learning to love another more than ourselves, always aware that we can choose to curse rather than to bless. There is no guarantee we will do the right thing at the right time. But we will still be loved.

I hate jello

Every year my parents make their pilgrimage from their home in rural Michigan down to their Mecca--their winter home in Florida. On the way, they stop at the Cleveland Clinic for medical evaluations, eventually making their way to North Carolina where they take us out to dinner a couple of times before proceeding further south.

They have to close up their home on the farm since they will not be returning until spring, so my mother always cleans out her refrigerator and brings all opened food along for the journey. If she can get us to take some of it off her hands she will lighten her load and make room for more once she gets set-up again in her other house. Her goal is to market the food items to us so we will want them.

For reasons I cannot imagine, she always tries to sneak several boxes of jello in with the crackers, walnuts, sometimes cereal, once in awhile apples, and this time a honey bear with honey leaking out into the bag it is fortunately packed in. Not a fan of her low sodium, low fat choices, we are limited as to what we will accept as viable food offerings for our pantry. And yet, there it remained . . . the jello.

I tell her, like I do each time, "I hate jello." She says to feed it to the boys. I remind her that they do not like it either. She wonders why I have deprived them of this essential food. I tell her it is because I don't like it. She reminds me that I ate it as a child. I tell her I ate it because I had to. She points out that mixing jello with cottage cheese and Cool Whip will do the trick. I tell her we don't eat those foods either. She slowly puts the jello boxes back into her car.

Maybe it was growing up in the '60's and '70's, but jello seemed to figure prominently into every family gathering, church picnic, and school event. If there was a party of any kind, there would be jello. If a kid got hot lunch at school, there would be jello. If someone went to the hospital and the opportunity to eat in the cafeteria arose, there would be jello. It was the go-to-quick-fix for a busy mother. Clear jello, jello with fruit cocktail in it, jello mixed with cottage cheese and Cool Whip. Jello was the staple of everyone's diet. Its bright, primary colors would beckon to me as I would have to decide between the jello or the pudding. I would choose the pudding any chance I got.

I stopped eating jello when I stopped drinking Kool-Aid. I started to read books like Diet for a Small Planet and stopped eating red meat for a number of years as well. Nutrition started to matter to me as well as making ethical choices. I could not determine what health benefit could be obtained from eating jello. My mother said it was for our hair and nails. My hair and nails were fine. I wonder what health benefits could be derived from the processed, canned fruit in the sugary syrup that would often go into the jello, or the myriad of other artificial food products of the day, like Velveeta, but I digress.

Jello, with its vibrant artificial dyes, makes a great paint for preschool children. The candy-like aroma will enhance the artwork that will hang on the outside of the refrigerator as the yogurt, the "jello" for this generation of children will be ready for snack-time when the artist gets hungry. Greek yogurt that is high in protein with no artificial ingredients is my favorite snack of choice these days. It goes well with raw almonds or granola. Cool Whip not required.

rule breaker

Waking up later than I should have and feeling rather worn out, I decided to pull it together anyway for a Friday at the preschool. Getting a substitute is often more difficult than going to work, I reasoned, and I felt a whole lot better than I had the day before when I not only felt like I was going to throw up, but eventually did.

Walking down the hall toward the kitchen with my bleach bottles in hand, I was confronted by a coworker who asked why I was there. I had not drank enough coffee by that time to comprehend even the most basic of questions so I simply stated that I was there to work. She crossed her fingers at me as though I were some sort of vampire as I continued on with the task at hand. I always fill two bleach bottles about a quarter of the way full so we can spray toys, the changing table and anything else that needs to be kept germ-free, at least in theory.

Reaching the kitchen I heard others making comments about how surprised they were to see me at work and wondered why I was not observing the 24-hour rule, a rule that states that one is not to come to school until 24 hours have passed after one has exhibited signs of illness. I heard myself say out loud, "I didn't think this rule applied to me." I still have no idea why I said that.

My "illness" seemed to be no more than a fast-moving virus that created havoc with my digestive system for awhile until it tired of its game and moved on. It gave me a day off from eating, while I tried to remember how many years it had been since I had even gotten sick since I am not prone to this sort of thing. I remembered a food poisoning incident that left me begging for God's mercy while clinging to the coolness of the bathroom floor tile in the middle of the night years ago. I also remember getting the flu immediately after getting a flu shot one year, something I have refused to do ever since even though a well-meaning doctor insisted there is no correlation.

What seemed to confuse me more than anything else was why no one was asking me how I was doing. "How are you feeling, Mary Ellen?" was what I was expecting to hear. "We were concerned about you when you left work early," I thought they would say. But instead I felt like I would be held responsible for the next person making a quick retreat to the bathroom to do what I had done in the stall closest to the window the day before. If there was a sudden outbreak of sickness, it would be all my fault. Me--the instigator of disease, the culprit of a flu epidemic.

So in an effort to maintain order and not condone my lawless attitude, I was sent home to "rest." All peace would then be restored until the children would show up with their runny noses, persistent coughs and pale faces that indicate less than the picture of health as their parents hurriedly drop them off insisting that they are fine. A few parents over the years who have trusted me enough to be their confidant have admitted to me that their little darling actually threw up in the car on the way to school but were feeling so much better now that . . . well, the 24-hour rule just didn't have to apply to them, did it?

red

It seems we have a natural proclivity toward making comparisons with one another. Why we think we can measure what someone else has gone through with the same standards we use for ourselves is a mystery. Each one of us is different.

This concept has become abundantly clear during my recent unpleasantness with the dreaded root canal. It does not take me long to realize that in a conversation involving dental procedures, there are many interpretations for what-is-not-a-big-deal all the way to what-is-the-worst-pain-ever. And I tend to find my tales of woe heading for the worst pain ever category far more than others.

So I did some research and found out that there is scientific proof for my sensitivity to dental pain! It is because the mutation that provided me with red hair is the gift that keeps on giving and with it comes a different way of caring for my teeth.

Knowing what I know now about how a redhead requires more pain killers to mute the obvious pain of dental work explains a lot about how terrible my experiences at the dentist were when I was a child. I remember being given more than one shot to numb the pain which seemed to annoy the dentist who was already impatient that I was most likely crying. Not that emotional little redheaded girl with all of the cavities again, he may have thought. But yes, there I was, scared to death, knowing I had eaten too much candy and awaiting the pain that came along with it.

As my gums started to recede, exposing nerves that could not be touched with sharp, pokey sticks used by dentists, nitrous oxide became the answer to my problems. It allowed my chalk-like teeth to be filled and filled, and I would be warned again that coffee would stain them and I would smile and nod knowing good and well that I would never be giving it up. I had been warned as a teenager that because of my open bite, braces were recommended (I only have two teeth that actually come together for chewing) or else by the time I was 40 I would be eating my dinner through a straw. This of course never happened.

The day came when nitrous was not enough. It was as though I had become immune to its effects and it was too dangerous to give me more. So I was sent to a dentist who used pill sedation as his method of pain relief for those of us who needed it. This worked quite well at first. I would take one pill at home and the second one at the dentist office about an hour later. I would go into some kind of "twilight" zone and reemerge with cleaned, fixed teeth. After doing this about twice, I woke up in the middle of the procedure while the dentist desperately tried to administer more pain medication. Alas, I had become immune to it as well.

All that remained was IV sedation which consists of being strapped into a chair that becomes more of a bed with all of the seriousness of surgery. This dentist assured me that as long as I did not start shooting up street drugs like heroin, I would not develop an immunity. So far he has been correct.

Developing an infection in my crowned tooth as one root lay dying (incidentally, one of the teeth that I use for chewing) became an emergency situation as it needed immediate attention to relieve what I believe to be perhaps the worst pain I have ever been in, or at least second, after a breast infection that . . . I will spare the details. I knew that I would be able to endure as whatever it is in the IV started flowing through my bloodstream giving me a warm feeling that increased until the room began to spin and I would take another journey to a place where there is no tooth pain. I would then be escorted from the dentist's chair, helped into a vehicle and awaken in my bed hours later having no idea how I ever got there. I then would get into these conversations with people who do not require more than a simple shot for their dental needs and wonder if they think I am being overly needy, too dramatic, or something other than normal when I admit that my procedure is far more involved and way more costly.

But what can I do about it? I have red hair.