Myths of Marriage, at Christmas and New Years.

When you are single, you walk around singing and thinking about the holidays as this wonderfully romantic time. (I do remember before I was married, even though I was only 5 years old back then) Maybe you will meet him or her, this year. Maybe you are with him or her, this year. Some years all you need is mistletoe and some years all the mistletoe in the world is not enough. The same is true at seasons of your marriage, should God trust you with that field to sharecrop. Some seasons are easy to think romantical and some seasons take work to dig up some romance and thoughtfulness. When you mix children and finance problems and work stresses and home struggles and car breakdowns and health issues; what are you doing New Years? is a joke, sometimes. Where is it? Last year, or the year before the romance was on the front burner. This year, I went out into the yard and dug as deep as I could and there was not a drop of water in the romance well. That is where trust comes in. God is the river of romance. God is the filler of the well, not us. If you think that is boring, you don't know what is excitement.
I love the romantical seasons and the dry. I love the reality of waves of joy and tumult. I love the excitement of the marathon of marriage. I go to sleep and know that God is there, even when I am not sure if I am there. Earth to Jayne. God is still there, even when the romance is a fight to the finish. Maybe we need to hire a well digger, but either way, there is water down there somewhere and we'll find it.

Now, At 50, I labor to learn to...

Confess and forsake my sins.

Young people think that their elders have given off learning. I used to wish to be 50 years old and only teach and not learn. I find that I am learning more everyday. I am seeing more of myself and others and God that teach me. Young people are eager to direct the paths of their elders. They say, if you had only known about the green economy and the health initiatives that we have discovered you would not have gotten us in the mess that we are in. Perhaps, we elders say. The lessons of the years past is that covering our sins can only exacerbate the problem. When people were distant from their foibles and the seas could cover a boatload of sunken souls and no one would confess for fear, we were in sin and we didn't even uncover our shame. God knows that confession and forsaking the sin is always in order. We cannot build buildings big enough to house the blankets we try to cover them over with. Psalm 51 is the aid to the public soul and the private.
Lord, when we had covered our sins our bones grew broken and groaned. Take not Thy Holy Spirit from us. You said that if Your people would humble themselves...and pray...and turn from their wicked ways, You would heal our land. We need Your healing in our souls and in our government and certainly in our insurances. We would give You the secrets of our souls and ask for wisdom and righteousness to be learned of our younguns so that they can inherit a blessing out of decay.

This Thanksgiving, I had a meditation of baking pie with cousin.

We have never taken the luxury of setting time aside to bake, Lauren and I. But somehow, this Thanksgiving I had a fond remembrance of the many enjoyments of her delightful pie.
I suppose that my life, I have attempted to imitate the taste, if not the look of that divine confection, for my children's sake. So many times, at home, I have asked of this or that detail of her pie, while eating it. Is it nutmeg, and cinnamon? Is it a normal crust, or some secret? I couldn't get every taste coded into my buds before I moved so very far from the taste of home. "The Christie taste" Lauren has risen to the upper eshelon of Christie representation of pie. Perhaps because she made it every year, since we were very young, perhaps, because she is a grandchild and not a great-grandchild like myself. Whatever the reason, I accepted the challenge in my mind to take the time and try again for the ?llionth time to recreate that taste of home that I am so very sick for.
Wow, Laur...This year I got pretty close. It had the look. Not quite the combo of nutmeg and cinnamon and sugar that I would have liked and certainly, I forgot the lemon. Then, Laur would say to me, that is not lemon, that is some other secret ingredient. I nearly ate the whole thing myself and my hips will not be happy at the result. I do love my cousin and miss her pie as well as her hugs.

And the stars did a dance for free.

When the sun went down, the stars were peeping into the window in the house on the mountain. We have a show for you, they beckoned. I ignored them and told them that the fellowship was much to fun, for me to go outside and watch the Star's Thanksgiving Day Parade. I didn't know that we were going to a parade. When we decided to go home, when we had drunk as much of the fellowship as we could, within reason, we walked outside. We hardly had to look up and a star darted here and there, seemingly on cue. It was musical. It was syncapated and it was all the sky. Thank God, from Whom all blessings flow. Then we went home.

Blackbeans and rice for Thankful Monday!

A hazy fog was upon most of the area in eyeshot, this morning. Out of my back window, I saw the most beautiful sunrise. A sliver of sun shone through a peep hole that the clouds split for it. There was a pink and yellow and a tiny strip of red and then the brightness of the sun, in the middle. It was breathtaking. I thought of how much we have to be thankful for.

Many people enjoy the thankfulness of bounty all year round. This is America. We are so blessed that the poorest of us feast, far more frequently than we would like to admit. We are averse to the sin of discontentment that we live with. We complain about the weather and the food and the places we live in and only when our discontentment reaches the stench of making us look and feel bad do we confess it. God is so patient with us. We have so much to give God thanks for, in the best of times and in the worst of times.
Thank God for the blackbeans that will be our dinner tonight. Thank God for the preachers who study and give us direction from God for our lives. Thank God for the relationships of mother and husband and siblings and children and friends, who accent life with all their concerns. Thank God for caretakers, such as teachers and doctors and police, firefighters and governors, who concern themselves with protection and instruction and healing. Thank God for loves and neighbors who beautify the world around us and ask nothing in return but a greeting, every once in a while. Thank God for Blackbeans and rice. etc.

Y, La Sabiduria es una jueza, From 8/8/09

Is this the Happy Ending to West Side Story?

I want to live in America. Is this the happy part of Tony dying in the gang violence in the streets. Will his daughter do much to end the gang violence by her judgment of us? Is this the soap opera that the angels are watching as Tony and Maria watch their daughter taking an oath of commitment to judge imparially. Up from gang violence! Up from tenement life and overcrowded schools and jails and the violence that is so crippling to any pursuits. God has woven up together and the insertion process is sometimes violent. Some of us who travelled through the halls of Ellis Island were appalled at the shame of the gang violence in our streets and how many of our young men died young and lived far below their abilities.
Daddy used to say, we expect so much more from the women. We demand that they deliver us from this managerie. What did they feel that they were defending? What did they feel that they could or would gain from the violence? Respect? Approval? Purpose? Perhaps this is the birth of that respect. Perhaps this is the birth of the real dreams that Martin Luther King and Ceasar Chavez and even the fictional Tony dreamed for their daughters. Not subject to the wiles of the streets and the “Jungle” so to speak. God bless the coaches and the instructors who after having fought in the streets themselves could look into our eyes and see hope for a growth into a new and free America.
Those who contributed and built up the hope of a next generation and saw a possibility of representation for wealthy and the “disenfranchised” coming on board as well contributed to a worthy cause. It doesn’t matter which of us made it into the ranks. We all reached. It is better that one of us could be accepted into the ranks of the courts than that we still sit under the oblivion of not being represented. Halleluia! God has truly been good to the oppressed and they who have sat in the halls of prayer hoping to see a day of representation are looking and seeing one country that has a face of diversity in its highest courts. Tennis coaches, who looked at us and bid us to soar and rise. You can do it they looked at us and saw a hope for tomorrow. The Mr. Rooney’s and Mr. T’s and Brothers who were adept at creating opportunities for us where there was none, Halleluia to God for them. We could see strength and we could follow that light and head in the direction of wisdom and truth.
Take this ball and aim at that ceiling, they taught us and hit it as hard as you well please and one day it will come down. No? Jump like this and one day when you hit your head the ceiling will collapse and you will get into where you have never been before. Supreme Court? Well God is God, isn’t He? Halleluia!

Look Up From Your Life-me

In the interview of Charlie Rose with Andy Rooney in 1995, Charlie provoked Andy to describe the emotions that he experienced on D-Day in 1944. His description included the sight of horrific scenes that impressed on his conscious mind for as long as he lives the sight of young men’s feet sticking out from the blankets covering them. No life, just dead bodies laying there. His zealous confrontation of evil for the rest of his days, seemed to me, to be fueled by the positive use of the griefs that he sustained on those days. I was mesmerized to see the emotions that were evoked from simple questions and the respect of our elders bearing fruit, 50+ years after the day of such a grief.
I was blessed today to have heard a sermon or study that shed some light on this for me. The real human reflex that recoils from such pain and grief inflicted on the soul, was studied by Pastor Martin and stabbed my soul in a good way, to draw out, some small understanding of the reflexes of recoil that I endure and that I have seen in others with similar afflictions.
I have certainly not been to D day, but my own griefs of the sight of pain and grief cause my own natural recoil and grief responses in depth.
I felt that I understood the alcoholism of some of the soldiers that I knew in my life and the drug use of some others. These medications can dull some of the emotional pains and grief responses that cannot be forgotten.
He was right that there are those who use the scriptures to manipulate the consciences of the sensitive and promise relief from emotional afflictions that do not come, with mere salvation or sanctification of the soul. Some of the scars of grief, will be ours, until we get to glory.
There was, in the NT the healing of the demoniac, who might have been one, who was attempting to escape from a huge grief and couldn’t run from the horror of his own soul. His response was to desire to cling to the Savior of his body and soul. Jesus left him there as a testimony.
I don’t see a promise of panacea from the remembrance of griefs and the desire to escape from the horrors of mental and emotional pains, in the scriptures. I see many of the Lord’s choice servants live in great grief and difficulty throughout some or much of their lives. This seemed always an irony to me, in my pain and anxieties, that Christians are the first to judge the anxiety of others and the pain responses of humanity as being, automatically the sign of not having been redeemed.

In Proverbs 31, it was the godly mother of Lemuel, who discerned that there is a time of need of strong drink for those who are in suffering. Those who were privy to some of the wicked atrocities of war, are certainly among those who are in need of mercy in their dealings with their own griefs. I, personally, have found it difficult to find Christian sympathy in the expressions of griefs and grieving responses.

The discouragement that is exposed in the scripture as the lot of those who have been provoked, by parents is never delved into as much as the permissive lot of the spoiled child, though it is a warning. It may be mentioned, but rarely repented of and almost never dealt with in terms of healing and help for the discouraged soul. {this is just my experience}
Lemuel’s mother included this as a mention in Proverbs 31, that the wise and godly leader, must be aware of the speechless, grieving and “disenfranchised”. {God bless Sr. Anne and many of my Catholic friends and others, who could see the weight of the world on my shoulders and instead of dumping, chose to lighten and pray for the “disenfranchised” souls}
My purpose in writing is not to shine light on my own emotional disfunction, but on the generation, that I believe bore the heat of the day on the subject of emotional distresses; having lived under the shadow of the D-day generation and gave us real and hopeful evidences of the mercy of God, in the light of the conflicts of grief and pain in the emotional realm. It is my conviction, that the generation that came after the WWII generation ran as far from God as they could in the light of the atrocities that they had heard and seen in the faces of their parents. Guess who they found at the other side of sanity and questions about God and His goodness? They found God, right there and they found some of the solutions and they found some of the comforts are useful and God showed them that He has given us all things richly to enjoy.
The picture of James Taylor’s feet in that album make me think of the dry bones awakening from the deadness of the D-day and looking for the life that is ours. First, he dillineates the problem. On D day there looked to be no God. The Hippie Generation seemed to explore this possibility, into excesses and God was there to deliver some of them. Where shall I go from Your Spirit? was the question some asked. "Don’t ask that", says the McArthur generation. God can handle it, we know. Scripture asks that question. The boldness to ask the questions about God’s presence, assumes that there is possibly true faith, waiting for a response. God is there, to be found.

God is our very present help in trouble

and sometimes we need medicine to see Him there. He has shown Himself a mighty deliverer for many, who couldn't see His goodness in the shadows of D-day.Best Years of Our Lives, Homecoming scene

Ode to Andy Rooney

Enough To Be On Your Way


One thing that I will never forget, he said. The feet sticking out of the blankets on the beach after “D” day, were enough to bring tears to the old soldier’s eyes, even 50 years later. What a heart and what a voice of the present, he was. What a beautiful wordcraftsman. We can’t let the world stay like this, was his commitment. It took the mighty sword of his pen to carry us out of racism, out of D day, out of the days of a culture with dead feet sticking out and blind not to know that it was so. It took legions of men such as this to breathe life and sight into the deadness of the old regime. The fact that Archie Bunker and George Jefferson are stereotypes of a world that used to be is the mark of a generation who are the reason that we are ahead of where we used to be. Don’t cover the putrid parts of our society, that sends young fellows to the beach to die. Don’t send them there anymore. Where are the plowshears? Give them pens. Give them plowshears. Let them live their lives. Stop sending them to the beach for D day. Goodbye Professor Rooney, you taught us well!

The Angels, certainly looked like they set up a table for a breakfast meeting at the reservoir, this morning.

The meeting was overflowed onto route 73 and we were stopped on our way home from the school as a result of it. The cloud tables were a mess when we passed the scene. You really can't see it clearly in the pictures. It was beautiful. I used to narrate the scene to the children and we would discuss whether the angels had ironed or wrinkled the water for us. Today the fog was being wrapped up and the fire dept had come, with the Police to direct the traffic around the beautiful scene of the angel's meeting over the water. We are so very blessed to have such a view of the beauty of God's handiworks. The reservoir is gorgeous at the sunrise or the sunset.

As your mother, I confess to you that your father and I came into the marriage with diametrically opposed relational habits.

We had far fewer distractions of life than you do in your generation. We had tv with 13 channels and just the beginning of a few cable channels, but neither of us had much seen cable tv before we were married. This must sound to you like a couple of puritists that got married in this day and age. There was no such thing as a cell phone, facebook, twitter, pc's, tablets, blogging, etc.
I had grown up in a family that argued, but, that communication was most important. We would discuss the events of the day, the condition of our relationships with eachother and our favorite music and shows. We loved knowing details about oneanother's likes and dislikes, sometimes to use it for good or for conflict. {still, it was communication} My dearest, came from a family that didn't talk, {from my observations}. His family considered it delightful to sit watching a sports game or a public debate and yell at the tv, but rarely directed the conversation to eachother.
Weeks after we were married, I walked in from work and my dearest was watching the news, having come home before me. After going into the bedroom to cry for half an hour, I decided to address the problem that I was feeling. He had no clue that there was a problem. It wasn't time for dinner or bed, it wasn't a wicked show that he was watching and I didn't tell him that I had cried and he would never have known. Where is the communication? What is he doing? Why is he so involved in this television? I was being selfish, truly. I had expectations of being the desire of his communication. He had no idea of what I was thinking. I think that it was a week later that we discussed the problem, maybe a month later. I wept inwardly at the possibility of having a communication free marriage for, at least a month.

It took months for me to express the longing of my heart, to know more about my most precious relationship. It came out in an explosion, one day. I was angry about something else and brought it all together and my gracious husband was able to unwrap the tangled web of anger and perceive that my heart was saying that I wanted more of him. It could have separated us. We were so different. He took the first step to go to counselling about this problem. 2 or 3 months married and we were in the counselling room, the honeymoon was over? No! We saw that we had to work at the relationship to make it more than just 2 individuals sharing a living space. We had to talk. We had to work through conflicts. We had to love eachother enough to talk and to listen and really hear. These things are very, very time consuming. Even then, I didn't say to myself, my marriage is boring. I had a hope that there could be life breathed into my marriage, no matter how difficult it felt to find it.
We decided to dig holes in our family dirt to find the life and the commonality that drew us to eachother.

My Boring Marriage and other myths of the new millennium

My Boring Marriage and other myths of the new millennium


We live in a day where there are so many exciting things to see and to experience. We live in the blinding speed of the internet and the microwave and the other means of transportation and communication that are ours to enjoy and to utilize. The speed of the development of communication and relationships remains constant: somewhat slow, in comparison to some modes and medium and somewhat fast in comparison to others. Where are we in the scheme of developing healthy friendships and sibling relationships and marriages, often requires more work and more observation than we are willing to put in. We are distracted and cumbered with much serving-{serving our lusts, often, but more-so, serving our modes of communication and transport} As Martha was{in scripture}. We are able to learn, if we take some time to sit at Jesus’ feet, as Mary did, to be discerning about the uses of the means that we have at our disposal.


As a result of the speed that our world turns, we can fall prey to swifter and sundry myths of life that can arrest us and cause us to live below our privilege as Saints of the Most High God. He has given us all things richly to enjoy. We needn’t put our heads in the sand and neglect the beauty and usefulness of the technological revolution, in order to live godly. Looking at the wonderful heritage of faith and history that we have at our disposal {that is afforded us to do, more conveniently, because of the technological age in which we live} we ought to learn to lead in our use of these means for the glory of God.

The Industrial Revolution, was a season of a similar tumult and problem. God has called the Church of the Living God to wrestle with problems of cultural and ethical import and bring captivity captive, if not in the entire world, in our hearts and in our homes.

I do pray, that our meditations of these things will mature us to learn the importance of the time taken for the basics of human communication and relating. That God would use us to usher others to understand the importance of these critical ingredients of mature human relating. in the name of Jesus, Amen.

Save Some Cheese Doodles for Grandma.

Save Some Cheese Doodles for Grandma

Last night was supposed to be the meteor shower. This makes me think of my grandma. I went back to Grandma’s house, just before the first meteor shower that I saw and that is why I think of her. She is always on my mind. The very dearest person to me, ever, was my Grandma Monica. I know that I will never meet anyone that outdoes her in my heart. God lent her to me and I asked Him so many times for just 5 more minutes to spend with her.

I broke Grand’s heart once, completely out of course. I just knew that Daddy had taught us, that you can love people, but there are certain people that we love that we must never, never emulate. Grandma was one of them. We were in a family party for some reason and everyone was there. I said something smart at 7 years old and Grandma Monica said, you are just like me. I said, no, no Grandma, I never want to be like you! I remember the tears. I remember the way they wisked me away from the scene of mayhem. I didn’t want to break my Grandma’s heart. I just was repeating the sentiments of my father. There was no way that I could know the depth of pain that I had inflicted.

This never daunted the love that we shared with each other. I loved Grandma, we shared birthdays together and she still considered me, her little birthday present. There was no reason. We had nothing in common, except the love we had for each other. She loved flowers and perfume and I loved spiders and dinosaur bones. She thought I was odd and I thought the same of her.
I will never forget the day that I told her that I would want to wear a tuxedo to the prom. Outlandish, we cannot have this. I was making no statement of affections for females, just for the antipathy of frills and such. Still, this antidisestablishmentarianism labeled me to her and got around to others. The talk of the family.

The fact that she missed my wedding by 3 days and persisted that we must go on without her, was mysterious to me. We had dreamed of this for our whole lives and here was I living on without her. I believe that when God changed my soul and picked me up, He heard my prayer for the 5 minutes with Grandma. He gave me more than that. He took me to the bottom of myself. My protected self, could never have seen the real Grandma, that Dad was protecting us from. A nervous breakdown, let me see my Grandma. Not in flesh to hug and talk to, as throughout life. I saw Grandma. I saw the desperate woman, who had to live and raise 2 children alone. I saw the woman who loved her children and grandchildren and lived through the Great Depression and vowed never to be that poor again. I saw the woman who traveled the world and I loved her all the more for what she had left us, in the many dollars that she had saved to give us. I saw the beauty of God’s heart to go after a soul, through many dangers, toils and snares and that, even through excommunication of the church, God will do more to save a soul. I think that God saved my Grandma, in the end. I love God, more, for letting me see her, really. I love my Grandma for encouraging me to go on into marriage to a love that she in life had never known. I love that God taught me that He is the inheritance that we are to labor toward. He saved the cheese doodles for me.

The school of prayer is a dear place with God!

It is better to go to the house of mourning, than to go to the house of feasting: for that is the end of all men; and the living will lay it to his heart. Ecc 7:2

We are in mourning at the loss of dear little Molly. This was not unexpected, because of her illness, but it is a painful time. I have observed your precious fellowship, holding oneanother up during this season of grief. You have held Molly's hand and Brianna's through the darkness of the valley of the shadow of death. That is the place where faith shines the brightest. The darkness of death, and especially the death of a child is so contrary to reason that faith is the only light of the goodness of God in the midst. I am grateful to have seen you learning the lessons that are so very hard and so very difficult. These lessons solidify your relationship with God and knowing that He does what He says. Yea, though you walk through the valley of the shadow...He will be with you. Know Him and love Him in the valley. Know Him and love Him in the shadows and He will be the light and grow you up in Him. Be comforted that we will see Molly again. She will not come to us, but we will go to her. xoxoxo

Our family and the maternal women's interactions are often guilty of judging the character of a generation.

In the movie, The Family Way, {which I only saw this scene of} I smirked at the scene where John Mills and {I think} Marjorie Rhodes played the parents of a son, who was having early marriage problems. I thought only my maternalistic family was swift to call people "lacking of natural affections" who had not been nursed at the mother. "Bottle fed", in our family seemed synonymous with not having natural affections. This is truly a large leap of spiritual reasoning from the providential distinction of an infant having been attached to his mother or not. We did it though. Many times, in family discussions, I was silenced by the other mothers who simply put fingers to mouth, when a word of disrespect or corruption was coming from the mouth of one or another. They will understand later on, when they have a child or God will spank them on that subject. They silenced me often and categorized the person as an immature person, unwittingly to the person. Always silently, these maternal eye contact kept me knowledgable of the secret society that we were, having gone through travail. There is no way to bring someone's soul into sympathy of childbirth, not having experienced it. I thought we should teach them. No, shhhhhh! God will bring them through experience, was understood. All of these unsaid or single word understandings were spoken outright in the scene of that movie.

The swiftest way to get a negative word from a mother is to attack her child. The father of that child or not. If you falsely accuse her offspring she will attack.

The knowledge that ordinarily a dearness attaches in the nursing process. A sense of humanness and eye to eye interaction, physical and mental in the preserving of the dates of maternal child feeding. I had stacks of books at my nursing chair, some for the child and some for me.

Why should I continue this archaic cultural remnant of our beastiality? Was always my question. Why should I endure the pain of this? What is the benefit of my sacrificing and enduring such? I had my answers in some books beside me, "La Leche"etc.. These encouraged me that there was some benefit.

The other books were for the soul. My soul and the soul of my child. Who is God? Why are we Christians? What do we believe about Him? Along with the early expressions of physical aptitudes, spiritual perceptions were also part and parcel of the nursing session. Not to bite momma, for one. This is the aspect that all nursing mothers mean when they talk about not having natural affections. Those bottle fed children can bite the nipple as much as they like, but there is a human element attached with human feeding.

In parallel, God is in Heaven and in Him we live and move and have our being. He is certainly not to be minimized in His power above us and we in our need of Him. He is loving and kind and gracious, but certainly feels our spurning of Him. There are many ways to teach this truth, but at the mother's earliest nutrients is a strong lesson.

My Maternal Syllabus.

There are certain movies that are musts, if you would run the race of motherhood, in my opinion. They are like a banana, they say, when you are running a marathon. When you have flown as hard as you can physically go, you are half way there, from the movie, Gahool.

I love my mamas and grandmamas and I try to remember them with fondness. I know that you will try to do the same, when I am gone. I find some extra impetus and strength, on occasion, from the stories of the other cultures' maternal/child experiences. I Remember Mama is first on my list.

That daughter studies and lays out for us, the way and skill that her mother had, in negotiating the multiple relationships in her life in a strange land, with her children and husband as a priority. Life gets so complicated and their life was complicated, by the multitude of close relationships and responsibilities that they had. It was clear that it was not because her husband was not the leader in the home, but because he was, that she had the liberty to use her gifts for the upbuilding and love of her children and others.

Mama's love of thrift and consideration, taught her children certain priorities in their lives. I am always struck, in movies, how the heart of an aching mother for her ill child is shown by others, who may have not had that experience.
In the scene of Dagmar's hospitalization, mama gets on her knees and she shocked the tough heart of her most cynical daughter, by doing so. They are such students of our behavior. The daughters were concerned about their sister, it was clear. "Is she sick, is she worsened or better?" Mama?
These life and death struggles of soul are the daily fare of motherhood. In my family the cat would have been put out immediately, before the sickness would have come upon the house. The prevention of those kinds of things are the bent of my maternal heritage.

I remember hearing stories of cat sicknesses, coming upon the children and the expectant mothers and it was taboo, for a child or a woman to be too close to these, "fungal animals" in my upbringing. It was obvious that they were also aware and their aunties had told them the stories also, but love and relationship and children pursuing their bent in life was a higher priority.

I was struck that the care of their mother's emotions was more to the girls than the concern of their sister's well being. This is also a reverse of my family upbringing. Sisterhood, is everything in my family love priority. Mother is secondary to the sisterhood. It must have been Mu that inculcated that to the family, since she was so far from her family love. I grew up with Aunts that were closer than anything. Grandmas and grandaunts who lived and died in eachother's arms. Care of mother's emotions was never even looked at. These girls cared about their mother's concerns. Her dropping to her knees, out of turn was heartwrenching to them.
Clearness of mind came to the mother, there on her knees, scrubbing her floor. It was not God, it was not prayer, perse'. It was clarity and cunning that came to her on her knees there. She thought of a way to get to her child. There must be some way to get to my child. Only when the barricade is manmade, can cunning of maternal pursuit be appreciated. I promised my baby that I would be at her bed, when she awoke; Rules not withstanding.

When the ground has swallowed up the fruit of your womb, that is a barricade that cannot be crossed. That is the barricade set up by God. No person can pass that place. They set up human barricades to divide mother from child and on the knees, we try to cunningly find a way to traverse the generation gaps and the educational gaps and the cultural gaps that are set up to keep us from our sickened children.
Dagmar and mother's embrace, in the hospital room was cathartic to my constant weeping soul. The bereft mother's heart is always in that state, looking for a way to traverse the barricade that God has set up. Catherine, gave me a way to traverse it for a moment as mama got into the hospital room to comfort her little one, my heart is embraced.

Remember Lot's Wife?

Jesus was not insensitive to the heartbroken condition of circumstances. Oliver Twist, The plight and circumstances of the birth of Oliver Twist.

What were similar to our day? What was different? What are God’s promises to the orphan and the fatherless? Site verses.

Great Expectations Pip Phillip Pirrup---
See the movie schedule it in.

What is the difference between… Him-PIP and Ollie

Mission to motivate gratitude for our day and for the comforts of God’s provision. To sensitize the hardened conscience to the goodness of God in His works and providences. To open the eyes of self centered young fellows to others of lesser circumstances. To sensitize the hardened child to the condition of what is real poverty of soul and condition.


It seems to me, that the men of words in our generation must show themselves in the musical realm. Every other genre, is torn apart for editorial purposes. I have seen more intensity in suturing or slicing the words of instruction and condition into the soul, in music than in any other genre. A picture is worth a thousand words they say. A picture uninspired by words, leaves all to the imagination. A song like, Daughters, a young man’s observation of the sensitivity of the feminine soul, little else needs to be said. I have rarely heard a preacher as sensitive to the human condition. Even in Isaiah, He looked at those women in his days and saw only temptation and sin. Making a pact with ones eyes for generations has left women in the lurch and bereft of Godly counsel when it comes to all of the vicissitudes. Job had friends come to comfort him. Who came to Job’s wife? She was not a person. Jesus understands and made it his business to come to the aid of the distressed and unpersonified women. Women are not just tools for either temptation or use. They are souls and many a godly man has sliced his share of women in the name of the scriptures. Jesus kept saying that is not what the scriptures are telling you to do. He cares about the needs and he allowed that precious woman to pour her sadness upon him. The help of God is in the condition of what men do with the dainty souls that God entrusts to them. Do they deserve what they get, walking around with jingling selves as Isaiah seemed to say? That is not God’s heart. Paul said Elijah was a man of like passions. He didn’t understand women either and still God used him and spoke to him, the same with Isaiah, but we cannot justify what men do, because Isaiah did it. God is judge.
12/6/10---
Remember not to be like her and when you see her, remember to go to her as Jesus did.

Little Boddens

Little Boddens


Don’t you think we need a boy? No, Yes, No, Yes, No.

Here I am years and years past the little voices who live forever in my memory. They are still alive and they are still little children, although they have all gone on to be adults and beyond, some are gone from us, but I remain, on occasion; a spectator in the little room in 113. Looking out of the window, past Benita’s house, down 113th Ave. Looking at the rest of the world and dreaming of life outside of our wonderland.

5 of us could fit in the length of that little window in that tiny bedroom, not larger than a closet really. Solid pale blue paint was on the walls, from mommy and Miss Bessie’s one long painting fit that day. They had us in the room and though it was small, it didn’t seem very small to the 5 of us at that point. We were not very large ourselves.
I was so grown at 8 years old and the director of our wishing, that day. None of you will wish for anything other than a boy this time, do you hear me? Was it you, who wished for a girl the last time mommy went to the stork’s house? We knew an awful lot about childbirth for being 5 children under 8 years old, but my mommy went to the stork’s house every year or so and we just knew that it was our wishes that sent her there. Who was it, who forgot to wish for a boy last year when Amy was born? Amy rose her hand. We know you wished for a girl, you are a girl and we are glad to have you, but this time we must wish for a boy, do you hear me?

They knew I meant business, when I used my mommy voice. Ju, said, who could wish for anything else. I heard some people saying that mommy shouldn’t have anymore children, if we had a boy. Do you think that she will stop if she has a boy? That is what they say. Well, I hope she has the boy and stops, like the people are saying. I am getting very upset that people are always talking about us. Never mind all that gossip that dad tells us not to do, I said, just make sure you wish the right kind of baby.
We ran to look out of the window. A star was above us. Let’s wish together. It is November 24th, cousin Karla is coming to watch us, it is like Christmas, let’s all wish for a boy. Yeah We closed our eyes and wished together. Jo said, why are we wishing for a boy, I don’t like boys. Jack said, me too. Nevermind, just wish, already, I commanded. I am not wishing for anything, it doesn’t make any difference anyway, said Jack.
The night seemed forever, and we woke up and Aunt Karla looked at us, Mom had a boy, she said matter of factly. Wowywowywow! A Boy!

A Boy!

When the Moon...

Is in the seventh house...
I remember being a little child. The bedroom that we shared seemed an alright place and a mysterious place for a group of little girls to play and at night it became our stage and show place. We caught the moon, nightly, by making up new rhythms to old songs that we knew and singing new harmonies "like alleycats" :).
We sang and sang and one of the songs we sang was Don't sleep in the subway... I am ashamed to say the I just figured out what that song was about today. HA, Ha.

Must'nt Point!

Company, we had company and it occurred to me that I haven't emphasized the importance of not pointing.
When we were young, there had better have been a broken finger on you, if your pointer finger were left out, in front of the other four, for any reason. Not to Ever. I must have forgotten. It isn't everyday that we have company. I must be seeing things. That is not her pointer finger going up at the company? I said, Ev, get the gentlemen some drinks. Up went the pointer finger, "these gentleman?" {meaning her father and our company?} Yes. Needless to say, there were no other gentlemen in the room. Steam and smoke and fumes and every kind of fierce gumption, had to be held back from me, in this state.
She did not just ask me a question in response to a command. She did not just ask me a question, did she? That is not the worst of it. She POINTED HER FINGER!!!
Where is Grandma Ruth, when you need her?

On the First Monday of Unemployment...

As I stated, in another place, Mr. Allstate called goose, over my head and now I am running around the circle trying not to get tagged by..."Mayhem?" LOL
This discouragement and difficulty could make me cry again. I spent the weekend in my bed and crying and now, I am out of my bed and awakened to remember the goodness of God, even when Mr. Allstate calls "Goose".
I do remember that my job was a wrapping of my tongue and as I think about it, it seems to be that there was a swaddling cloth over my mouth, in working in claims. You must say this at that and say that at that. At first it seemed a muzzle. Perhaps it was meant to be. I wiggled and waggled and tried to get out of the muzzle and now that I am loosed from the muzzle, am I crying?

At church one Sunday, I saw a delightful tiny newborn daughter. She wiggled and waggled, in her sleep to try to loose herself from the swaddling cloths. Her daddy was right above her face. She was reaching and pushing and then when her hand was loosed from the cloth, she opened her eyes. It alarmed her. She almost cried and then, she opened her eyes and saw her daddy. Her alarm turned to a precious newborn smile. I know that God is outside of my swaddling cloths and although the alarm of having my tongue loosed from the swaddling cloth of insurance verbiage, I can see God on the other side of the cloths.

Man is made in the image of God and in as much as we are using insurance for the good of others, it is in the image of God and outside of it and above it and beyond it, is God's goodness. I see Him there, above my upsetment and concern about our provisions, waning. I see Him there, loosing me from the muzzle of verbiage and loopholes and claim status. My claim is there before Him, being interceded by the the perfect Savior and perfect advocate. No demon in Hell and no earthly concern can snatch up my soul, though it be tangled in the verbiage and the gridlocks. God is above the muzzle and He uses them as swaddling cloths on our infant souls to teach us to long for Him and His face to be above the cloths. That we may smile, as that baby girl did, in the seat in front of me, in church, when we are loosed from all of our earthly concerns and see His face smiling at us, Abba! Father!

Laws of Association

My Jo (sis) and I had a discussion about what makes a woman throw off her feminism for the apron(so to speak). We had had this conversation many times and she had never been able to understand why I would submit my life to my wifely and motherly attempts. Then, she met Gill Noble. He's gone now. But, she heard him speak and described every notable inspiration that made her throw off her feminism, for that brief moment. I could identify, completely. I love my Ben in that way that there is a presence and an ability that makes you say, I will follow you. It is very observable, for a bunch of Bodden girls who were raised with boxing gloves and tennis rackets, a huge American twist serve and a big chip on the shoulder. When we collapse in the arms, it is a Goliath tumble. I don't know what my father did to make us like this, but we are what we are.
Jo described having had her act together to go and see this distinguished man speak. She was ready to be the woman student, but it rained and she was suffering with the popcorn syndrome of our hair. She watched him intently and there was something about the way that he instructed that made her incognicent of her BHD (Bad Hair Day). We got goose bumps about it afterward. He was commanding and yet not fierce. He was intentional and directive and wooing and she said, I don't care where he leads me. I am following him. She left and we both revelled in the wonder of God having made men that were like that. I married mine. She couldn't catch Gill Noble, he had already been taken. So she showed me her apron, put back on her feminism and waited for the next bus.

On carrying all the books home.

Today, I remembered with fondness the day that I was commanded to bring all my books home. I was in second grade. I remember the loud pounding in my heart when I found out that I had forgotten my religion book at home. O boy, o boy, am I gonna get it. Maybe Ms. Peterson will spank my hand even. Nope, Mom saved the day. She appeared out of no where with my book and no spankings followed. You are completely disorganized, was the diagnosis of my father. I want all books home everyday. Until when? Until, I say so. I did too. Enoch and Evy were deciding which books were right to carry to school on a half of day and I got a flashback.
4th Ave. all my books. socks around my feet and 89 stairs to get to the F train after a whole day of school. That is tired. Step 47, 48, I think I will try to pull my socks up and take a breather. Don't drop the books! Don't let them slip back down the stairs. {I do remember dropping them back a time or 2} builds character? I don't know, builds muscle, that I do know. Ding dong. Never mind let that one go there is no way that I am running for that train with all these books. Sometimes, I ran up the steps and definitely by step fortysomething I was winded and ready to faint. Just slow down, what are you rushing for the next train will come and you will get a seat. Anyway all my books in tow, was a recipe for knowing and memorizing all the books that were in my bag. Set, 2 hours each way on the train with no comrades but my books... Go figure. Ju didn't have such a plight. There is no way she would let them tell her how many books to bring home. Just me.

Snowdays.

86th Street was a shopping area, so I heard.

It was 5 or so stops from the last stop where I got on the train to go home from school. It marked the first leg of the first lap of my commute home from school. I had just gotten my nightcap on for a long ride, when any of the stalwart travellers who got on with me were getting off to shop. The skirts would be wheeled up and the things that made us look like Catholic School girls were shed by the time we got to 86th Street. I was too much on a mission to concern myself with the style of things, in those days. I had a long, long ride to go. There were no photo ops on 86th Street for me. Anyone who stayed on after 86th or got on after that point were usually the real commuters. They weren't doing riding the subway for fun, they were doing coming from work. Why was I commuting? It wasn't money, that was for sure. It wasn't fun, by that point I was whipped, tired. I had had a long day of school and was heading home for alot of drama, most days. I can't tell you how many times I fell asleep and found myself in some unknown stop, where the lights were not bright and from where I didn't know how to get home.
Are you going to 86th today? I would overhear them say. That meant they had money and would be shopping. I could not even imagine such a thing, nor, if I had money would it have woooed me to get off at 86th St. I had the fear of Dad upon my heart and soul and would no more veer off the beaten path on purpose, than jump in a lake.
Not one of the "good girls" who were imitating the naughty on 86th St., there was no category for me, in those days. I had one uniform skirt and I kept it at or below my knees. I walked and lived in the fear of my father all of the time. Other girls could relate with that. They all had fathers who would "kill" them for this or that. I guess that is what it meant to go to private school, it was a father's intense investment in the life and education of his daughter. It meant that he loved her enough to beat her to death, rather than let her get taken advantage of by someone else. He loved her enough to discipline her mind and heart before she got grown. In that way, we were all good girls. We were all carefully aimed to be good wives and mothers and workers and politicians and thinkers and we mostly got to where we were aimed, but for that brief moment we were children. Children attempting to test the bounds of the bars of the prisons that we were in. How far and what can we get away with? The people who got on at 86th St were grown already and I had absolutely nothing in common with them. But the girls who got off at 86th St were the girls that we were being groomed to a common goal.

Once, we were verbally accosted by some public school girls. You girls think you are something, don't you? (more words followed, with threats and pushes). In my day, I would have taken that challenge to street fight. Not now. Now, I had a higher challenge. We let them do their threatenings and it never went past their 10 or 12 black girls on the train in "civilian clothes". I am sure that they were loved and aimed, just as much as I, but the only time we were in proximity to them was, in their threatenings. This doesn't make for good PR for public school people. They didn't have an identity to uphold, it seemed. No one would know where they went to school, if they got into trouble. Our clothes marked us that we had to be "good", or try to be "good", or somebody would be telling the school that we were wreaking havoc.
We all wanted to be bad, or look like we were bad, but we could get put out of school for representing the uniform poorly and our fathers would-- as it were "kill" us. So we had to try to be "good". I was the only "good" girl still on the train, after 86 St. it felt like.