Mauri and Sherry

We use our credit card for just about everything we buy. It simplifies accounting and is just plain handy.

The pile of mail delivered when we got home from our travels included our credit card statement/bill. It showed about half of our trip charges, and I was pleased with how few service fees we incurred for the currency exchange from pounds to dollars. I was not pleased to see a $879 charge for an airline ticket from LIS to LTN, which we did not purchase. It meant reporting it as fraud, which led to the cancellation of our card.

Our new cards arrived in Saturday’s mail, so I quickly went online to update our auto-pay accounts before any of them notice we were out of commission for a while. The hardest part of this “ordeal” was relearning how to pay cash for our purchases. It is downright pathetic how spoiled I am to not have to think about whether or not I have enough money in my purse to buy something. I’m far from an extravagant spender (and we never carryover a balance), but I realized after a few credit-cardless days just how dependent I am on that piece of plastic.

I just came home from worship (first of three morning services). I usually sit down in the front because Mauri can join me there after he’s finished with his part of the service. This morning I chose the less-populated balcony, mainly because I didn’t want to share any lingering contagion I might have carried with me.

Planning separation allowed me to make a daring choice—I wore JEANS to church! At my very core I know attention to what I wear to a gathering for worship lands toward the bottom of God’s importance scale. Since I abide in him and he abides in me on a continual basis, the only thing I need to think about is whether or not my wardrobe choices honor him—wherever I am. So did I dishonor him this morning? If I had sat front and center with one of the pastoral team, would the answer to that question change?

We live one block from church, so we normally walk. In that short distance we pass the homes of people whose only connection to the church in their neighborhood is a glance at or a wave from Mauri and/or me. We’ve often expressed our discomfort in what could be their perceived view of the church from noticing our “dressy” attire. Do we want our neighbors to think that going to church means they have to leave the comfort of their casual dress and find something more appropriate to wear to be accepted at church and acceptable to God?

My morning experiment proved fruitful. On my way out of the church doors I was greeted by two older women, friends of mine, who focused their attention on our conversation and not (that I could see) on my denim. In the parking lot I also met cousins Craig and Wendy as well as my dear friend Susan, who because of our close relationship would surely have said something if she felt the need. In both cases the focus remained on cheerful verbal interchange. But the best part was when my walk down the middle of School Street converged with our across-the-street neighbor getting into her car to drive off. There I could acknowledge her with a smile and a wave and walk on by in absolute comfort.

So I ask myself: Have I judged anyone for what he or she has chosen to wear to church? I confess I have. My position of judgment comes from an upbringing that taught us to give our best to God; we dressed up to honor God. It’s a tradition that had a fine basis but one that has now shifted to a higher purpose—inclusion. Would we ever want some folks to feel excluded from our worship gatherings because of an unwritten expectation of a certain clothing quality?

Some of you wear jeans or shorts to church nearly every week; others choose your color-coordinated outfit on Saturday night and make sure the wrinkles are pressed before you turn out the light for sleep. Time tends to change the importance of some ideals we hold dear for too long. I’d rather keep up with the times than to cling to values that have become worthless.

Michael Chapman tagged me. So here goes.

6 Non-Important things/habits/quirks about myself:

One—I’m really good at getting rid of stuff, but I can’t bring myself to part with boxes and other storage containers. I never know when I might need one that size.

Two—My mother misspelled my name on my birth certificate. I’m sure she was overwhelmed by my beauty.

Three—I’m a grammar fanatic. Whenever I learn a new rule, hearing or reading the rule broken drives me crazy. Did you know that a disease is diagnosed, not a person. So “she was diagnosed with cancer” is incorrect. Now it can drive you crazy too. Or you can just not care. Choose the latter!

Four—I gave up recreational eating and drinking (dessert, snacks, sweets, pop, gum) for an entire year—twice. It really wasn’t hard except for one thing. I literally longed for hot chocolate. On Weight Watchers I don’t get enough points to splurge on anything, but every day I enjoy the luxury of a mug of hot chocolate.

Five—I love online banking. All the time I save paying bills, I now use reading blogs.

Six—I’m lazy. I’d explain, but I don’t feel like it.

I tag Denise and Jamie.

Mauri returned yesterday from his month at the coast. We were both ready to resume our normal way of life. While talking on the phone and dropping each other e-mail notes is very nice, nothing quite measures up to the joys of cohabitation. Mauri gets as well as gives in those weeks of retreat ministry, and he always returns refreshed from his time away.

Since Mauri wasn’t scheduled in leadership this morning, we got to sit together on the other side of the sanctuary. I found affirming the number of people who made a point to welcome him back. I found equally affirming the number of people who didn’t seem to notice his absence. Mauri brings thoughtful leadership to worship at NFC, but his only goal is to direct people’s attention toward God, never toward himself.

I’ll leave you with one final photo from his time at our beautiful Oregon coast, known for its monolith rock formations jutting from the shoreline. You’ve seen shots of the Twin Rocks. Did you notice that one has a hole in it?

We have a ridiculous law in Oregon that gives pedestrians the right of way. Sure, they’re supposed to cross in designated crosswalks, but I’ve witnessed enough close calls to convince me people have grown delusional about their own mortality. They will cross wherever they very well please, sometimes not even looking first, and expect cars to come to a halt. I don’t know how long lawmakers have thought it was a good idea to encourage people to own the roads that were actually designed for auto travel, but, come on!, the human body is no match for motorized metal.

Even in crosswalks, people should take caution to wait for cars to stop before they head across the street. It seems like a no-brainer to me.

So Oregon walkers are supposed to know that if the crosswalk is at a traffic-lighted intersection, they’re to follow its particular color. It’s not a suggestion. Cars have the right of way at traffic lights. But if there are lines across the crosswalk, cars will stop for them. But will cars stop for them? Not all Oregon drivers recognize those crosswalks, making them a dangerous place to cross the street. For it to be safe, all drivers in both directions need to stop. And those who are diligent crosswalk observers need to be mind readers as well. They need to be experts in body language. Is that pedestrian planning to cross or is she just watching for a friend coming down the street or looking in that store window. Hmmmm. I’d better not take a chance so I’ll stop anyway. Ah, she’s going to cross. But the car in the lane next to mine reads her differently or doesn’t see her at all and drives right on through.

As an Oregon driver, I can’t avoid crosswalks. As an Oregon walker, I’ll go out of my way to avoid them. Entrusting my flesh and bones to Oregon “safety” laws is not a good idea.

Here’s a video that illustrates a place where everyone understands and observes the safety laws.

Have a nice day! =)

All these clothes would look just great
If only I would lose some weight.

Last night I went to my first Weight Watchers meeting. Saw five people I know. Signed up. Paid the money. Weighed. Painful. Stayed for orientation. Waiting till Mauri gets back from Philadelphia so we can start together. Meanwhile, eating, um, well. While I can. It’ll make the before/after more impressive. Right?

Mauri has enjoyed taking his digital SLR camera to the wildlife reserve in Sherwood, a neighboring town, to shoot birds for his growing collection. Herons, especially. He’s enjoyed watching the development of the reserve, with the addition of walkways and observation benches. Last week, as we drove past on our way in from the airport, he mentioned the new parking lot—with four prime spaces reserved for hybrids. Seven days later this information still occupies space in my mind. It bothers me for reasons more important than that I will have to walk a little farther than some others next time I want to visit the reserve.

Earlier this week I had a parking-lot conversation with Pete Snow, whose wife had died two weeks earlier. Somehow we got to talking about cremation. I listened to his opinions and stories on the topic and then, to illustrate my related opinions, I asked his permission to tell one of my two stories. I told him that at one point in my life I had three boxes of cremains on my closet shelf. It wasn’t at all creepy; they only waited for my full attention, and life was very full at that point. Paul (my first) had died in October and after that I was completely occupied with the care of his two elderly (88 & 89) parents—along with keeping my real estate advertising magazine business going and the other stuff of life. The following March, Paul’s dad had a stroke and died shortly thereafter. In between the two deaths, I had shown Dad a pamphlet on cremation, and, much to my surprise, he became convinced that was the right action for him and for Mom. Add a box to the shelf. Then in May, Mom slipped into a coma and died in her sleep. Box number three.

Of course there’s much more to the story, but in case you’re interested, I have four cemetery lots in Chicago and two lots in Grand Rapids I’d be glad to sell you.

Instead of the traditional burial, Ben, Quinn, Taylor, and I went shopping at the local nursery for appropriate plantings to adorn the yard of the house they occupied for only a few months, but where Ben still lives. Frank got a prickly bush; Florence got a rose bush. Paul’s box traveled with my earthly possessions to Newberg when I married Mauri, and my kids and I had a similar “planting” in the rose garden in our yard.

Some time back, I found a book of stories, each containing exactly 55 words. So I took the challenge and used the above as my topic. To understand it, you need to know that the rose garden began with Margaret-Rose’s cremains:

Love, Continued
They had met long ago. Only letters spanned
the intervening years. Nothing romantic developed;
their hearts belonged to others.
“I wish you’d known him better,” she said.
“I wish you’d known her better,” he said.
No jealousy exists as the two watch
from some celestial porch.
“They remember us in those roses.”
“And our children.”

Believe it or not, that’s not the story I intended to write when I sat down here at the computer. While I mentioned the rose garden to Pete, I described an earlier scene that involved my parents. My mother died in May of 1988, and her body was buried in a traditional graveyard in Jacksonville, Florida. The following October my dad, at age 84, was mailing a letter in the Jax post office on a Sunday night when someone came out of the shadows and mugged him, straddling him and beating his face on the marble floor, then leaving him for dead. Somehow he managed to get to his car and drive the wrong way down a one-way street to the church where he’d planned to attend the evening service. The greeters recognized his car, not his appearance, and they got him to the hospital. When the call came, I quickly booked a flight from Michigan to Florida, where I spent my days in the ICU waiting room and my evenings at my dad’s house. For two weeks I drove back and forth between the two. On the last night of my stay before heading back home, my brother rode with me. As we passed the cemetery, he said to me, “There’s where our dear mother is buried.” It was the first time that fact ever entered my mind! And we had just had her service months earlier. After all, my mother was not there! It confirmed the fact that I have no attachment to the body no longer occupied by the soul and spirit of my loved ones.

Pete listened intently and we had wholehearted agreement on the topic. Not everyone feels this way, and I certainly do not judge those who have other viewpoints. On matters so personal, each is entitled to own an opinion. But now you know mine!

Yes, my dad recovered. It was quite remarkable to be allowed into his room for 15 minutes every three hours. His face was pieced together with wires, making talking impossible. But that didn’t stop him from “witnessing” to the nurses and doctors. He used a clipboard to invite them to church. He lived another eight years with a crooked face and double vision. But he never became fearful or bitter. And just for fun, here’s a picture of my dad. His eyes were never level after that, but he was never without his “V” (for victory) sign.

Dad died only two weeks after I brought him out here to finish his days on earth. He’s buried next to my mother in that Jacksonville cemetery. I don’t get to decide for everyone. But it doesn’t matter. My heart holds them all the same.

Singing has been part of who I am my whole life. My parents recognized a musical bent in me when I was still so little I had to stand on the front pew of the church to sing solos while my mother accompanied me on the piano. Singing was the identity that gave me enough self-esteem to survive high school. Through the years I used my voice to communicate messages I couldn’t have spoken, since public speaking is not my gift.

I don’t sing solos anymore. For one, I’m older and my kind of singing doesn’t fit the church MO. If that sounds sour grapes, it really isn’t. I fully understand the need to stay relevant. I don’t long for the good old days, the good old ways. But, yes, I do miss singing solos—not for the spotlight (I was never very good at the attention) but for the fun of finding songs that speak to and from my heart, rehearsing (I’ve been blessed with wonderful accompanists through the years, none better than my own dear man), and then standing before a group and sharing in song meaningful lyrics that tend to stick longer than the spoken word.

Last week I was invited to sing at a women’s banquet as part of a regional gathering of Friends (Quakers) called Yearly Meeting. Mauri agreed to play for me and I got to choose the songs I would sing. I’ve been waiting literally years to sing Larnelle Harris’s “I Give All to You” and what more appropriate song could I choose for a missions-oriented gathering? God gave me the gift of singing, and I’ve been blessed to use it many times and in many places. I don’t need it for self-esteem any longer, thankfully. But getting to sing last week allowed me another opportunity to share with others what God gave me. And that felt good.

Since Mauri is not prone toward self-promotion, I’m the one left to report that his single-seater recumbent bike odometer turned over to 7,000 miles on his last ride. Of course his lifetime mileage would soar into numbers way higher, probably six figures, since he’s been an avid bike rider for many years. Having lived in these parts since nineteen eighty, he’s familiar with about every crook and nanny, okay, every nook and cranny within a thirty-mile radius of Newberg. He recently told me he rode down an alley he’d never ridden down before. I can’t quite fathom it.