That's Not Fair!

More than once during their childhoods, my children proclaimed vehemently, "That's not fair!" Translation: "I didn't get my way!" By now, they--like all adults--have discovered life isn't fair. If life were fair (according to our human egos) good people would always land on their feet. If life were fair, children wouldn't die. If life were fair, decent, hard-working people wouldn't live in poverty or go hungry, and only bad people would get cancer. Right? If life were fair, I would win the lottery and live happily ever after.

We look at other people's seemingly perfect lives and ask, "Why does she get to live in luxury while I struggle to make ends meet? Why does everyone else believe him when I know he's a liar? Why can she eat anything she wants and stay slim while I gain a pound by just looking at food. That's not fair!" Not fair according to whom?

Jesus said, "[God] causes His sun to rise on the evil and the good, and sends rain on the righteous and the unrighteous (Matt. 5:45)." Now that's fair! I don't hear any playing-favorites in those words, do you?  A few years ago I wrote a poem, "Matthew Wonders."  At the time, I had just come through one of life's inevitable challenges during which I questioned God's fairness.   

Matthew Wonders

Matthew wonders why bad things happen.

Matthew asks Mommy, “Why do bad things happen?”

“Darling boy, I don’t know why bad things happen.”

Matthew asks Daddy, “Why do bad things happen?”

“My son, I don’t know why bad things happen.”

Matthew asks Pastor, “Why do bad things happen?”

“Child of God, I don’t know why bad things happen, but God knows.”

Matthew asks God, “Why do bad things happen?”

“My precious child, if bad things never happened, would you recognize the good?

If you never walked in darkness, could you appreciate the light?

In the absence of sadness, could you fully experience joy?

Without moments of deprivation, would you recognize abundance?

Without famine, could you appreciate the feast?

Without war, would peace-time seem hallowed?

My beloved, I do not create the bad things.

You inhabit an imperfect world with other fallible humans.

I do not create the bad things, but if life were perfect, would you have need of Me?

Don't Surprise Me!

I don't like change.  I've never conducted an official survey, but I suspect most people are uncomfortable with change . . . otherwise, I'm just a control freak . . . and we all know that cannot possibly be true.  I prefer my world and my life to be predictable.  I guess that's why I don't like surprises, either.  Surprises can lead to embarrassing public displays of crying or tantrums or both.

For people who don't like surprises, going off-list can be as dangerous as going off-road.  When our son was a toddler, he once told us, "that makes my liver nervous."  I don't remember what the catalyst was for a three-year-old's nervous liver, but I can tell you in all honesty, surprises "make my liver nervous."

One day in April, when our children were small and I was juggling two jobs, raising two children and a dog, volunteering, taking voice lessons, and basically trying to be all things to all people, I casually mentioned to my husband that my mom and I had never been separated whenever my birthday fell on Mother's Day (which was every seven years).  Well, my husband happens to be a thoughtful, romantic guy and his mental wheels immediately began to spin. Unknown to me, he hatched a plan with my mom to fly her from Syracuse to Virginia for Mother's Day weekend.  It just happened that I was scheduled to present a voice recital that weekend which, of course, Mom was thrilled to be able to attend.

Did I mention that, since Easter, we had been raising baby ducks that were no longer babies, that swam in the bathtub, spread corn throughout the house and pooped a lot?  Did I mention that, because I was preparing a recital, I hadn't quite kept up with the cleaning or laundry?  Did I mention that, although there was no food in the refrigerator, there was a humongous cardboard spaceship in the dining room (don't ask) and the ducks were living in a playpen in the family room?  Oh, and did I mention that I was PMS-ing?  One last question: Can you imagine how I reacted to the news that we were headed to the airport to pick up my mother?  I'm too embarrassed to describe my response to this dear man's thoughtful gesture.  Suffice it to say, thinking back on that moment "makes my liver nervous."        

Worrier or Warrior?

I've always been an anxious person.  As a child, I suffered from severe eczema which--I've since learned--is a condition brought on by stress.  I've always had a compromised immune system--meaning I catch a cold approximately every two weeks.  For many years, when faced with a stressful situation, I.e. life, anxiety was my go-to emotion and worry was my go-to response.  I can hear Dr. Phil asking me, ". . . and how has that been working for you?"  Well, okay, it hasn't!

When one's DNA is ninety-five percent anxiety, it's challenging to find an alternative to worry.  Since childhood, I've been a prayer warrior with a clear sense of God's presence surrounding me.  But well into adulthood, my prayers typically started with worry.  They went something like this:

Me: "Lord, I'm worried about my children.  Lord, I'm worried about my friend.  Lord, I'm worried about my        job."

God: "I am your refuge and strength, a very present help in times of trouble (Psalm 46:1)."

Me: "Lord, I'm worried about the future."

God: "Do not worry about tomorrow; for tomorrow will care for itself . . . (Matt. 6:34)."

Me: "Lord, I'm worried about global warming, wars, and children in poverty."

God: "Cast all your anxiety on [Christ], because He cares for you (1 Peter 5:7). "

Me: "Lord, I'm worried about my anxiety."

God:  "LOL.  Are you kidding me?"

Me:  "That wasn't very supportive."

God: "Sorry.  I really thought you were kidding me."

Wake-up call!  Worry accomplishes nothing except to make me feel more anxious. It's really a huge waste of time and effort.  So, I've changed my prayers.  Now I'm a prayer warrior instead of a prayer worrier.  As I surrender my concerns to God, trust in God's wisdom and direction, and invite the living Christ to walk with me every day, through every trial and every circumstance, my anxiety is miraculously transformed into peace.    

Cleaning the Refrigerator

I don't know what came over me Saturday, but for some reason, I felt compelled to clean out the refrigerator. Usually when such a ridiculous compulsion seizes me, I either take a nap or eat ice cream until the urge passes. But with the long holiday weekend and the rain keeping me indoors, I was running out of distractions.

Since I keep an open box of baking soda on each shelf to absorb odors, the chore could have waited another month or two, but procrastination is such an unattractive quality. Don't you agree?  Also, I absolutely love cleaning the refrigerator. It's one of my favorite household chores because of the hidden treasures waiting to be discovered. I get to remove soggy lettuce and limp celery from the vegetable drawer and a couple slices of something from the meat drawer that smell like dead rat . . . or dead turkey, to be precise. If I wait long enough between cleanings, I might even find a fuzzy, green science project in the back corner that defies identification.

I grew up on a farm in central New York. At an early age, I learned that, when you lived in the country, you went to the grocery store no more often than once a month with a list as long as an elephant's trunk. It didn't matter that half of the items would expire long before the next shopping trip. One had to "stock up." Absolutely nothing was allowed to "go to waste."  If the cheese grew moldy, you cut off the mold and made Welsh rarebit. If the bread went stale, you had French toast for breakfast. If the milk passed its expiration date, you made Italian sour cream cake. Rotting fruit was baked into pies or cobblers. Everything else went into the deep freezer in preparation for the inevitable long winter storm.

So, you see, it's hard for me to break with the traditions of childhood. Sometimes I forget the market is only two miles away in any given direction. I can buy fresh produce every day if I choose to. In that case, perhaps I don't need the refrigerator. If I don't use it, it won't get dirty. If it's not dirty, I won't need to clean it. Right? And think of all the money I'll save on baking soda.  

Writer's Bum

For an author, only one condition is worse than writer's block. Writer's bum! Writer's bum is the condition which results from our habit of sitting for six-hour stretches at a time. It is far more serious than the "freshman fifteen" or the "pregnancy twenty-five (fifty, in my case)."  Typically, such plights are temporary, and affect the young who still have elastic skin and a metabolism. When one already suffers from middle-age spread, a case of writer's bum can be lethal.

Whether an author spends hour-after-hour seated at a desk or in a big, upholstered chair with an ottoman (like I do) or sprawled on the sofa with a laptop, she risks being afflicted with writer's bum. The condition manifests in a sore tailbone, achy legs that stiffen upon standing, tight hamstrings, jiggly thighs, and a gluteus maximus the size of a barn . . . probably a red barn, but I've never actually checked. If she also spends time sitting on a piano bench (like I do), the condition can render one, well . . . fat. There's just no polite way to describe it.

So, is there a cure for writer's bum? I suppose one could write less and play the piano less, but I refuse to follow such an extreme course of action. One could also eat less, but that doesn't sound like any fun at all. Liposuction might be a viable option if it weren't so painful and expensive.

A writer's only recourse, it seems, is to exercise more. No problem! I'm sure I can walk four miles a day instead of two. Maybe I could add a spinning class a couple times a week, and dig out those free weights I haven't seen since January . . . of 2002. Yes, it should be easy to increase my exercise. I'll just park as far away from any destination as possible, and always opt for the stairs instead of the elevator. Whenever I'm talking on the phone, watching TV, cooking or performing my morning ablution, I'll march in place. There! I have a plan. I'll get started on it as soon as I finish this blog . . . and one or two more chapters of my latest novel . . . and that Chopin prelude I've always wanted to learn. Oh, look at the time! Off to bed.

Fear Versus Peace

The world is a frightening place. I wonder how anyone can face waking to a new dawn on this planet without acknowledging God's presence and trusting God's promises. God is the only constant in an ever-changing world. He is the same "yesterday, today and tomorrow (Hebrews 13:8)," and He is as near as our own breath.   

God created a perfect world for His children to enjoy, and God created each human uniquely, but perfectly in His image. Often our ego (the great deceiver) convinces us we are too sophisticated, logical, scientific or intelligent to believe such seemingly simple concepts.  

I'm convinced that in each of us God placed a hunger that can be satisfied only through companionship with Him. But there are other forces at work making us fearful and trying to steal our joy and our awareness of God's loving presence. Sin and evil have wounded our hearts and our world. All of creation is now flawed, uncertain and in disarray.  It would be easy to throw up our collective hands and say, "It's no use! I give up!"  

    

Why do we insist upon struggling through life on our own? Why do we see dependence upon our loving Creator as weakness?  Why do we feel helpless and hopeless in the face of life's challenges? When living presents us with its inevitable change and loss, why do we blame God?  

Even in a frightening, uncertain world there is good news. The good news is that we don't need to be bound by the constraints of earthly life or threatened by the evil that surrounds us. Jesus told His disciples, "These things I have spoken to you, so that in Me you may have peace. In the world you have tribulation, but take courage; I have overcome the world (John 16:13)." 

A Frog, Perhaps?

Since the first grade, I've known I wanted to be a teacher, but I also knew I wanted to be a wife and mother, a singer, a conductor, a writer, and of course, a princess. I have been all those people--well, all except a princess, that is. The beauty of writing is that I can still be a princess . . . on paper.  I can fashion characters who are realistic or fanciful according to my whim. Writers like Tolkein or Rowling create entire worlds, kingdoms, and creatures, bringing them to life through mere words on paper. Shakespeare and Steinbeck hold the power to reduce even the most stoic reader to tears simply by manipulating language. The creative process has no bounds.

Most writers, it seems, are introverts. We are most comfortable inside our own heads. Even we who do not begin to measure up to the great masters can spend hour after hour alone with our thoughts and stories. If you dare interrupt a writer of fiction, you had better have a very good reason or expect to encounter a glassy stare or a full-blown fit of temper. Fiction transports the writer to an alternate plane of awareness. Thus, when the creative juices are flowing, an interruption can feel like being struck on the head with a heavy object.

My husband has learned that, unless the house is on fire or he has discovered a nest of rats in our kitchen, he had best leave me alone while I'm writing. Not only could an interruption incur my immediate wrath, but it could cause him to show up on the pages of my next novel . . . portrayed in a most unattractive light.