I’ve decided to do something different tonight. Instead of blogging all night–I’m going to try sleeping. Novel idea. I know.
Sigh
If only I’d learn that little trick.
Sidetracked Accomplishments
Last night, I read the following suggestion in a book:
“Make gift tags out of used birthday and Christmas cards that you have saved.” I thought, “Huh–that’s a good idea. I think I have some cards.” I pulled out a shoebox of old (high school) graduation cards and got to work.
My finished product was this:
When I graduated from high school five years ago, I invited my guests to write me notes on colored paper. I intended to scrapbook them together with the photos from the party. Five years later, the pictures, notes, and graduation cards were still sitting in a shoebox on my shelf. That is, until last night. I intended to make some gift tags (and in my defense, I did get half a dozen or so made)–but the real accomplishment of the night was beginning and completing my high school graduation scrapbook.
It isn’t amazing. The archival quality police would be appalled by my use of leftover printed paper that had only been printed on one side (I folded it in half so the printed side faced inward and pasted my “scraps” to the “clean side”). They’d probably also get worked up over how I used corrugated cardboard from work, covered with paper, as the album’s cover. I thought about buying some metal rings to hold it all together, but decided I’d rather finish the whole thing in the same night–so I used some of my Raggedy Anne “hair” that I hadn’t thrown away yet to tie the album closed.
It won’t win any awards, but I’m willing to bet that I’ll derive a lot more pleasure out of this simplistic little album than I would have the alternative–shuffling the shoebox around from one place to another, always waiting for the perfect time to do the album justice, and eventually, tossing it in the trash as a hopeless case. It’s nice to be artistic and fancy and perfectionist sometimes–but it’s a whole lot nicer to just get stuff done.
Last night at the bar
I debated with myself for a while before finally deciding to go to Scrumpy Jacks last night to see a coworker perform.
Ash sings all the time at work–generally parodies on the name of another coworker–and I was curious to hear him in “real time”. He had posters up at work for the last couple of weeks–and he also actually asked me to show up. “It won’t be death metal or anything,” he says “just me and an acoustic guitar. Just your average bar music.”
What I haven’t mentioned yet is that:
- I don’t go to bars
- I don’t drink alcohol “solo” (without a meal)
- I don’t hang out with coworkers outside of the “office”
- I don’t go to concerts (in general)
- I don’t go out on Saturday nights
That’s an awful lot of don’ts. So perhaps you can understand my inner debate.
Scrumpy Jacks isn’t exactly a bar–it’s a restaurant that closes the kitchen at 10 pm and keeps its bar open ’til one while they have live music. Still, for all intents and purposes, it’s a bar–and there’s little chance that I’ll be sitting down to a meal with the music starting at 9:30.
I’ve never, in all my years (hardy har, don’t I make myself sound old?) of working, spent time with coworkers outside of the workplace. I like to keep personal time sacred. I have no desire to be one of those people whose life revolves around work and coworkers and what I’m doing with either. I especially have little desire to join the “after work at the bars” crowd.
I’m not really a music person. I listen to music on occasion. I enjoy classical music, and seek to appreciate it. I enjoy jazz. I enjoy singing to oldies. Mostly I like worship music, something I can dance to. With the exception of an orchestral performance or something of the like, I don’t go places for the sole purposes of listening to music.
And I have church in the morning and am exhausted already from a long work week.
So what do I do? I change into a conservative tank top and sweater, slip on loafers, and drive across town to Scrumpy Jacks. I order a Sierra Mist for $1.86 and tip $5–I do know that bartenders aren’t generally that fond of non-drinkers, and that it’s a good idea to keep a bartender on your side. I hope that a big tip helps. I slide into a chair in the little corner area, say hello to a coworker, and listen to the music.
It was pretty good. Ash sings well, plays well, has a good “stage presence” in general. I enjoyed the music–with the exception of the occasional vulgarity and the couple of token anti-America, anti-Bush, anti-war songs. I was only there from ten to eleven–so nobody had gotten too drunk, the bar wasn’t that full.
It turned out to be fairly innocuous. I drank 20 ounces of Sierra Mist, listened to some music, and spoke maybe 20 words to a coworker. I was thankful that I’d slipped almost completely under the radar. Whew! A night of doing my don’ts and I escape without notice–Well, almost.
Ash had just finished a song when I left, so he was filling time while preparing for the next song, and my leaving was apparently ample material for time-fill. He’s chattering about me over the mic while I’m walking out, and for the most part, I’m ignoring him. Then on my way out the door, he declares “You’re a better checker than me, Rebekah.” I couldn’t help but turn around and agree. “Yes. I am,” I emphatically half-yell across the restaurant before taking my leave. So much for slipping completely under the radar.
Well, that’s might exciting night at the bar. Not too exciting, actually. But I think it’s enough of that sort of excitement to last me for a very long time. So, in case you’re looking for me some Saturday night, you’re not likely to find me in a bar.
“You should keep your mouth shut”
I saw some young friends playing in their driveway this morning and went over to show off my Raggedy Ann outfit. H and C were excited about the outfit–and eager to tell me that C had a whole collection of Raggedy Ann dolls. Then, looking at me one more time, C announced “You should keep your mouth shut.”
I was a bit taken aback–I’ve never had a preschooler talk to me that way before, especially not one so obviously in a good mood. Her next words reassured me, though “‘Cause Raggedy Ann doesn’t open her mouth.” Oh, okay. I can understand that.
I explained that it was really difficult to keep my mouth shut. (I’m sure many of you can testify to that fact. LOL!) After all, I have to talk to people and eat and drink and all sorts of things. C continued to watch me during my entire explanation, and once I had finished, declared “You have a nice smile.”
I was, once again, taken aback–I’ve never had a preschooler talk to me that way before, especially not one so obviously in her right mind. I guess she could have been talking about the painted on black marks, but even so, it was a very nice compliment.
Thanks, C dear, you pretty much made my day.
Disaster Averted by SuperStar’s Brilliance
Rebekah Menter would have gone to work dressed immodestly, or at least ridiculously, had not a fortunate fumble on the part of SuperStar averted the danger.
Rebekah woke up fully prepared to wear very tight stretch pants with very brief shorts over top as part of her costume for “Superhero day” at work. Both items had been laid out on her futon–along with a pair of pants for “if I want to change”. Fortunately, the other pair of pants were on top of the pile and in her early morning grogginess, Rebekah put them on instead of the aforementioned tight and brief articles. She discovered that the other pants worked well for her purposes.
“SuperStar saved the day,” Rebekah declares. “If it weren’t for her I could have been the laughingstock of all campus–and might have had a horrible blot on my conscience.”
SuperStar was seen throughout the day at and around Harper Dining Services. She filled in for a missing employee on the grill during lunch–feeding hundreds of hungry Thespians grilled chicken sandwiches. During the afternoon, she was sighted at Housing, conversing with second floor staff. “It was so funny,” a housing employee claims. “She came in and I just had to take a picture.”
Although unable to prevent a young Thespian from tripping and unwilling to kill an unseen rat, SuperStar did show her heroics by rescuing a Dining Services student employee who was being held hostage by a coworker. SuperStar used her typical method of bad-guy elimination–making a star fall from the sky onto the bad-guy’s head. Jeff, the student employee, had mixed feelings about the rescue. “I could have been killed!” he said. “And SuperStar’s face is scary.”
SuperStar remained in the Harper serving area throughout the dinner period, greeting her admirers and posing for pictures. When she occasionally disappeared, her loyal fans begged for her return.
In an exclusive interview, SuperStar told bekahcubed: “The attention was gratifying. I enjoyed it very much. But somebody called me “SuperMama”. Do I really look that old?”
The Cost of Allergies
Someone once said that you can determine a person’s priorities by looking at their checkbook register. If you looked at mine (and if I were a little better a keeping my checkbook register up to date), you would discover that “managing allergies” is definitely on my priority list. I spend at least $75 a month on medications used to control allergies.
But the cost of allergies is really much greater than a simple glance at my checkbook might reveal. That sort of calculation doesn’t take into account the cost of air conditioning my home and car (even when the outside temperature may be comfortable). It doesn’t take into account the cost of washing my sheets in hot water (as opposed to cold water). It doesn’t take into account the extra loads of laundry required by more frequent washing of drapes and throws and pillows. It doesn’t take into account the cost of using a dryer for all my laundry (instead of hanging it on a line.) It doesn’t take into account the extra cost of purchasing more effective furnace filters–and purchasing them more often. It doesn’t take into account the extra cost of bleach and of vacuum cleaner bags for less allergenic cleaning.
And those are only the financial costs of allergies. Once you start thinking about quality of life, the equation builds. Allergies mean that I have to take medication three times a day–and at just the right times in order to avoid the worst symptoms. Allergies mean that I have to shower and wash my hair before bed every night so that I don’t “track allergens” into my bed and sleep with them all night. Allergies mean that I need to be hyper-vigilant about cleaning my house (When was the last time you dusted your mini-blinds?). Allergies mean I have to consider what sort of exposure I’ll have before venturing outside for a walk, a game, a dip in the pool.
Then there are the miscellaneous, little things that start to add up after a while. The allergic blepharitis that keeps me from wearing eye makeup. The bronchospasm that often limits me to walking for aerobic exercise (and rules out “spur of the moment” exercising). The crinkle of the allergen-proof mattress and pillow covers.
I know that there are plenty of diseases out there that cause lots of problems. Allergies are certainly one of the least–especially my type of allergies, which are by no means life-threatening. But even so, considering the cost of allergies (even just “environmental” allergies like my own), don’t you think it might be worthwhile to invest something into searching out a way to prevent or cure allergies?
This post was thought up and written on June 25–that’s why I dated it as June 25. However, I got sidetracked and didn’t actually “post” it to the internet until early on June 26. Sorry!
You are a conqueror!
Girls have a great longing to be wanted, to be desired, to be seen as valuable. Guys have great longings too. They want to be conquerors, to be protectors, to be providers. Both sets of longings affect their owners’ relationships with the opposite sex. When women are single for a prolonged amount of time (even if that’s only six weeks since they first got interested in guys!), they start wondering if maybe they’re unwanted, undesirable, worthless. Guys, when they’re single, start thinking that maybe they’re weak, powerless, ineffective, impotent.
We recognize this in women–and we have a hundred books and a hundred speakers to tell the women that it isn’t so. “You are valuable.” we tell our single women. “You are desirable not because some boy somewhere decided that he could get something from you, but because the King of the Universe wanted you so badly He gave everything for you.” Walk into any Christian bookstore and you can find plenty of resources for single women dealing with this topic.
The other side of the equation is a bit murkier. We don’t really say much to the single men. “Don’t lust.” “Don’t sleep around.” “Be a man–do what’s best for her.” Instead of encouraging the men, often we end up discouraging them. Our unspoken words sound more like, “You’re right, you aren’t really a man. You haven’t even got your own impulses figured out–how can you even think about marrying? You’re not a man–you don’t want to protect her.”
Maybe I’ve even been guilty. My younger brothers tease Anna and I about getting them some brothers-in-law and I say “That’s not my job.” I don’t clarify that it’s not necessarily the guy’s job either. So maybe the impression I’m leaving is that it’s the guys’ job to find themselves wives. If they can’t find themselves a wife–I guess they just aren’t doing their job.
Weak. Powerless. Ineffective. Impotent. Bad Provider. Bad Protector. Conquered. How often do we tell them that’s what they are? We rag on them for their lust–while we openly discuss “hot guys” and the relative merits of Colin Firth vs. Hugh Grant (okay it’s official: I’m getting old!). We play our little games of “You’ve got to protect me”–from the other Christian boys. We tease them with their powerlessness against PC culture–“Hitting you isn’t abuse. You’re a white male!” “Get yourself a date” we tell them, as if that’s all there is to it.
Why don’t we tell them what they really need to hear? Why don’t we say something constructive? Why don’t we tell them what God thinks of them?
Why is it that we’ve been so sensitive to the women’s feelings of being unloved, unwanted, undesirable, worthless–and we’ve been so insensitive to the men’s inner longings? Instead of affirming them in their manhood–we continue to tear them down.
Well, I’ve got news. You, single man, are a conqueror. You are a champion for truth, for righteousness. You are not a captive to your lusts, a bondservant to your base desires. You are a beacon of integrity. You are strong. You are effective.
You’re not a bad provider because you’ve failed to “PWN” yourself a wife. Rather, you’re a good provider. I’ve seen how you paid for someone’s lunch when she didn’t have any cash handy. I’ve seen how you denied yourself to move someone on that hot afternoon after you’d been working all week. I’ve seen how you volunteered for the sound ministry, the children’s church ministry, Royal Rangers, and ushering. You’re a good provider.
You haven’t failed at protecting–I’ve seen you walk that girl to her car when the night was dark. I’ve been the girl you walked to the car. Thanks for not worrying about what people would think. Thanks for not trying to be PC. Thanks for standing firm and protecting–even when the world would leave us helpless. Thanks for being men and lifting the body up in prayer. You may not have a “family” you’re protecting–but you’ve protected us–and I thank you.
It’s not your job to find yourself a wife–that’s God’s job. I’m sorry I ever implied otherwise. I’m sorry I held on to my “feminist ideals” at the expense of your self-worth–thanks for serving me anyway. I’m sorry I tried to manipulate you into doing whatever I wanted, that I acted as if your heart wasn’t worthwhile. I’m sorry that I spoke lies to you about who you are. I’m sorry I stayed silent even when I knew the truth.
Please forgive me for staying silent. I can’t stay silent any longer. Because the truth is that you are a conqueror. You are powerful and effective. You are needed. You’re not less because you’re single. You haven’t failed because you’re single. You don’t need to hurry up and get a move on. You’re doing just fine. Actually, you’re doing more than fine. You’re doing a great job. We need you. Keep up the good work.
What is a picture worth to you?
“They” say that a picture is worth a thousand words. I think that it all depends on who you ask. For my part, a picture is worth only as much as the words used to describe it.
Take movies. Probably one of the most “picture” driven media, right? I don’t get them. I don’t ever get them. That is, unless they’re subtitled. Unless I can read the words on the screen, I won’t be able to follow the visual action taking place on the screen. It will pass by me unnoticed. The words on the screen are the anchor that allows me to follow the action.
Picture books? I can do with them or without them. I enjoy having pictures–but they are definitely secondary to the words. I read Dr. Seuss and don’t even notice his drawings unless the text points out a specific detail for me to search for. Books that are entirely pictures, with no text at all, are torturous. Even in books for which the pictures are presumably the primary draw–like a book of home decorating ideas–I read the text first. I like the pictures, I study them carefully–but only after reading the text. Sometimes I agree and sometimes I disagree with the text, but I can’t not read it.
I force myself, when visiting museums, to look at exhibits first before reading the information–just as a mental exercise. It’s tough. Even if I’m looking at a painting or a quilt, my first instinct is to read the caption. Then I try to see the quilt or painting through the author’s eyes, or the artist’s eyes, or whatever. I love art. I love gazing at it. I can sit and stare at a piece of art for hours. I stand back for perspective, I get in close so that I can see individual brushstrokes or stitches. I look at it from this angle or that. But I must read the “comments”.
Once upon a time, I envisioned a blog that would include pictures on almost every post. Many others do it. It’s not that hard. It’s easy to take a picture, easy to download it online. But I’ve discovered that from my point of view, the picture is only an accessory to the story–not the story itself. The picture is only as important as how it contributes to the text. So, a lot of times, I discover that including a picture is pointless.
I love pictures. I love taking them. I love looking at them. I love cataloguing them (yes, even that!). But the stories, the text, that goes with them is my first love. My favorite artifact is a letter, a notebook, a scrawled poem, or passed note. The photo may be interesting, but it’s even more interesting to see what my great-grandma saw as important about the photo. The exact location where the photo was taken. That it was the last photo of Joshua with my grandpa before Grandpa died. Anna may have been cute in that photo playing with her new shoes–but the important thing is the story–how Grandma insisted that she go to the special shoe store and get specially fitted for her first shoes–heaven forbid Anna learn to walk in homemade booties!
A picture may be worth a thousand words to you; but for me, pictures are only an accessory to the truly valuable text.
Remember Timothy? Apparently I’m allergic.
I went in for my allergy testing today and, after getting a whole rash of allergens (no pun intended!) inserted along my arms, discovered that I was allergic to…timothy, among other things.
It reminds me of Grandpa’s story about how Cotton (Grandma and Grandpa’s dog) got her name changed. A farmer a couple of farms down noticed that his dog was getting mangy–but it didn’t improve after treatment. So the vet started poking around–“Does your dog play around in the corn fields?” “Why yes, but he’s been doing that since he was a puppy.” “Hmmm… What does your dog sleep on?” “He sleeps on wheat stray in the barn–but he’s been doing that for forever too.” “What about other animals? Does he spend time with other dogs?” “He spends time with Charles’ dog all the time–they practically grew up together.” Then the farmer pauses, “But, come to think of it, Cotton’s been down at Charles’ a lot lately.” “Ah-hah!” the doctor says, “Your dog’s allergic to cotton!” So they changed Cotton’s name to Polyester and the other dog’s been just fine since.
I told Timothy about my newly discovered allergy–and he looked at me with horror. “What if I was allergic to timothy?” It’s a good question, and one that bears asking. What does a man do if he discovers that he is allergic to…himself? Would changing his name be sufficient? I don’t know.
Just as a precaution, I advise future parents to check the lists of top allergens before naming their little ones. Sure “Hormodendrum” sounds like a great name for your little girl–but you never know who might be allergic.
A Real-Time Parable
I was working next to a special-needs coworker when he scraped his knuckle on a pan. He noticed that it was bleeding, and was very worried. I got him a band-aid, put it on his knuckle, and gave him a finger cot to cover the finger with so the band-aid wouldn’t get wet and fall off. He couldn’t figure out how to roll the finger cot over the Band-aid–so I helped him with that too. He was like a child, upset by the sight of his own blood, even from an insignificant scrape, and helpless to deal with it on his own.
Today, as I was rolling on my coworker’s finger cot, I was reminded of a statement Jesus made. He said, “Whatever you do to the very least of these My brothers, you have done it unto Me.” Today I got to experience the blessing of someone being Christ to me–so that I could wash His feet with my tears and dry them with my hair. You see, today, I bandaged Jesus’ wound. Today, I rolled a finger cot on Jesus’ finger.
Not only did I get to experience someone being Christ to me, but at the same time, I got to be Christ to him. The truth is, I am helpless to deal with my own shame, my own pain, my own sin. I am incapable of understanding God, of comprehending His purposes. The “independence” I have is insignificant compared to the degree to which I depend on God for my every thought, breath, word, action. Just like my coworker was dependent upon me to help him deal with his scrape, I am dependent on Christ to deal with my situation. The difference, of course, is that I too often think that I am autonomous and rebel against dependence. When I scrape myself, I try to deal with it on my own. Even when I can’t roll the finger cot on myself, I refuse the proffered help. I don’t accept my dependence. I rebel against it–against what is best for me–because I think I know better and can do it better myself. I could learn a lot from my coworkers. Jesus said that we must become as little children if we are to enter the kingdom of God. In that respect, my coworkers may be closer than I–I still have a lot to learn about being dependent.
Most of Jesus’ teaching took the form of parables–stories, metaphors, things to make us think. And today, I heard His word in story form–a living parable, to make me think. “Who is my neighbor?” the teacher asked to justify himself. Jesus answered that today. “What does it mean to become like a child?” Jesus answered that today. “How can I serve Christ?” Jesus answered that today. A story. A metaphor. I play Christ and bandage a wound–and realize how often I refuse His help. My coworker plays Christ as I serve him–and I discover the joy of worship. Everyday life becomes theology–understanding that almost skips the head on its way to the heart.