FROM THE SHOE

Last Drive on the Slide in the ’65

My sister and I have dozens of memories of Devil’s Slide. Thirty years ago when I worked in Half Moon Bay, I traversed the Slide daily in my ’67 Camaro Super Sport Convertible until I moved there. We have memories of riding down to Half Moon Bay at night with the top down and the moon up over the ocean. It was hard to pay attention to the road when the view was so stunning.

Although Pacifica is a small town, it is still connected to the urban life of the City. Half Moon Bay and its neighboring towns, Moss Beach, Montara and El Granada, are real small towns, there are farms, ranches, a quaint little harbor; they have a real small town flavor. Those towns give us the opportunity to show our kids a different lifestyle, a different pace and a snapshot of how life once was and Devil’s Slide was the conduit.

Of course, we came down to Half Moon Bay during the Pumpkin Festival, but that wasn’t the only time. We came down during the holidays and cut ourselves our own Christmas trees, hauling them back over the Slide either in the back of a pickup or the back of a station wagon or tied to the roof of a two-door.

My sister comes down every year for Dream Machines, this past year she took one of my younger kids. My oldest daughter and her husband go too. She comes down in the fall for fresh crab at the Pillar Point Harbor.

We are of Portuguese descent and Half Moon Bay is a home of an old Portuguese community. Devil’s Slide is the gateway to many things, but it is a connection to a people we are distantly related to as well.

Today my sister and her boyfriend took his cherry ’65 Corvette for one last ride on the Slide. She said it was bittersweet. The Slide is a pretty pass, but it can be a demonic drive; that’s how it got its name I suspect.

We are excited about the Tunnel. It’s time for something new, the Slide needs a rest and well-deserved renovation. It will be exciting then, when we can walk leisurely this lovely, winding stretch of roadway.

Kinda Irish

I’m kinda Irish. Actually, I’m half Irish, but it’s old Irish blood that runs through my veins. My paternal grandmother’s parents were born in Canada to Irish parents, and my paternal grandfather’s family were old American Irish from the South; so I’d like to think there’s still a “lilt of Irish laughter” in me. But on St. Patrick’s Day, everyone feels kinda Irish. It’s a happy day that celebrates the beauty of an old culture. Of course, we all know that St. Patrick wasn’t even Irish, but he has become the patron saint of the Emerald Isle for his missionary work nearly two millennia ago. Everyone wants to be an Irishman on St. Paddy’s Day. Well, there are some Irish folks that I want to be like everyday.

Every summer, my family went to the Russian River like a lot of San Francisco families did. One of those families was the Murphy’s. I knew Tom Murphy. He went to S.I. and was a year ahead of me. He always drove by the pier in his totally cool green boat and would wave. I liked how the deep green boat matched his red hair. Tom was a nice guy, a good guy, solid. I met his sister in my sophomore year at Mercy, she was a year behind me. Ann Marie – I can still remember clearly – was always laughing, smiling and telling jokes, happy. You couldn’t be in her presence long without cracking a smile and heaving a laugh. I didn’t know then that an illness ran in the family, a devastating illness to which both Tom, Ann Marie and other siblings would succumb. Surely, a mother’s hell.

Some years ago, I was reading the Irish Comics — the obituaries — and came across Mrs. Murphy’s obituary. The obituary writer summed up the character of this amazing woman. She was “a woman of faith, patience, endurance and grace, she faced head on the heavy onslaughts that nature threw against her and she stood up with courage and hope and without complaint.” What a eulogy, what a legacy! In the midst of my own troubles, none worthy to compare to her sorrows, I was encouraged, if she could endure “with courage and hope” all that she lived through, so could I. I was strengthened to go on “without complaint”. I am still working on that one. She exemplifies the kinda Irish I want to be like, and the kinda Christian I’d like to become.

I know some other Irish folks — the kinda Irish I want to look like. I first met the Carlins when I was a wee lassie, probably up at the River as well. Mr. Carlin was one of my dad’s oldest friends. I envied their twinkling blue eyes, beautiful wavy auburn hair and chronic joy. According to Mrs. Carlin, Mr. Carlin was a “hundred-percenter,” meaning both parents were all Irish. He reminded me of James Cagney – not “Public Enemy” Cagney or “Made it, Ma! Top of the world!” Cagney — but the charming “Yankee Doodle Dandy” Cagney. Decades ago, I spent a couple days with this family, one of my first outings alone. “American Pie” played non-stop on the radio Helen kept on all night. I took that habit home, much to the chagrin of my sister. Helen and her sister walked me all around from West Portal to Stonestown. They reintroduced me to the City of my birth. I was very young when we moved away.

Often when I take the kids on a drive through the City, I drive by St. Cecilia’s. I tell them that’s where their grandfather went to school, and where he lived on 18th Avenue. I drive on Vicente, but can never remember which house was the Carlins. I hoped to see one of them in the front yard. No such Irish luck — well, not until a Sunday in 2013.

My daughter had a CYO game at St. Cecilia’s. She had gone ahead with a friend, and her sister and I were meeting her there. Impatient to get to the game on time and not wanting to get stuck turning left at Sloat, I drove straight and took West Portal to Vicente and happened to drive on the Carlin’s block. As I passed, I saw a figure stooped over the little garden in the front yard. It was Mr. Carlin. Yay!

“I’m gonna drop you off, I’ve got to visit someone.” I said to my older daughter and dumped her at the St. Cecilia’s parking lot, “I’ll be right back.” I was so excited to see Mr. Carlin. By the time I got there, he was no longer in the front yard, but the garage door was still open. I illegally parked across the street and skipped over to his open door. “Hello…, Mr. Carlin,” as I knocked on the door frame. He got up and was happy to visit. I wasn’t sure if he remembered me, but he remembered my father. I told him I had always wanted to stop by and say hello, but forgot which house was his. He said I was always welcome, (of course, the Irish are known for “Céad Míle Fáilte” – Hundred Thousand Welcomes), reminded me of the house number and to come by again. After our little chat, I told him I beat him and had ten kids…then he remembered, “Yes, your dad told me about that.” His beautiful blue eyes still sparkled as he smiled. I hopped back in the car, very happy and went to the game.

No big deal, huh? That little visit blessed me so much. I had hoped for so long to say hello to this old family friend, and I got the opportunity. I’m sure he was as blessed as I was. Everyday we have opportunities to say hello to someone or smile at someone, even if it’s the Burger King guy who is just trying to get the order right. Those little things are blessings that we can be a part of. It doesn’t take much, folks, to lighten another’s load or warm another’s heart or to welcome folks into your life. “You’re only dancing on this earth for a short while.”

So this St. Patrick’s Day, I am gonna roast me a leg o’ lamb — I don’t do corned beef and cabbage, childhood trauma — listen to some Christy Moore and Ronan Tynan, and top it off by watching “The Quiet Man”. I will also remember the kinda Irish I admire, Mrs. Murphy and her strength of character, and Mr. and Mrs. Carlin and their smiling Irish eyes. Happy St. Patrick’s Day, folks!!

IMG-20190324-WA0000

The Flower Fades

March 2013

Daffodils have been abloom in Pacifica this past month. I love this flower — it is so delightful, so innocent, so cheerful and sadly, so short-lived. At the end of January, the green shoots are standing tall. I was excited to see them. I knew the flowers were coming. Seemingly, overnight, the blossoms bloomed. There they were, in their yellow glory. But, now, the stalks are leaning and the flowers are beginning to fade.

Isaiah writes, “All flesh is grass, and all its loveliness is like the flower of the field. The grass withers, the flower fades…” Daffodils as well as all flowers represent the brevity of life. This past year two lives faded from my life, and one life was cut off before it was fully abloom.

My uncle died this past January. He lived a full and active life. His bloom lasted as long as one would expect. He was a teacher who was a perpetual student. His home was filled with thousands of books, a haven for a bookworm like me. His homes were the places where I fell in love with books, and for that I will always be grateful. He traveled, he entertained, and he only slowed down a month before his blossom faded.

My friend’s fiancé died this past week. I did not know him well, but I know my friend, and in many ways I knew him because of the reflection of his life in hers. He brought her so much joy and happiness and through her happiness, I could tell he was a great man, a beautiful flower — a flower that sadly faded too soon.

Finally, yesterday, my family and I (and many others I know) remembered a flower that did not have time to fully bloom or ever fade. He died at 22 just reaching the full, vibrant bloom of youth. He was a beloved son to his mother as well as other women, me included. He was a beloved brother to all my children. Many of them mentioned that Jesse was the only one that knew them. He was like that – he noticed you and he listened to you.

I was an overprotective homeschooling mom in the middle of a divorce when this kid came bounding down the stairs with my boys into my home. I smelled trouble. So I was apprehensive — but this kid’s irrepressible charm and contagious smile won me over. At a time in my life when I felt not only invisible, but defeated, dejected and definitely down in the dumps (I was progressing in my housekeeping, though), Jesse noticed me too, he even called me “sexy” when I felt and I am sure looked quite the opposite. I am still amazed at the capacity and depth of love that not only my children, but their friends have felt for this young man.

Leo Buscaglia wrote: “What love we’ve given, we’ll have forever. What love we fail to give, will be lost for all eternity.” We who loved Jesse, Robert and Uncle Bill will always have that. He also wrote about this life: “Don’t brood. Get on with living and loving. You don’t have forever.”

The daffodils and the Scriptures agree.

http://pacifica.patch.com/articles/the-flower-fades

I ♥ Erma

February 21, 2021

Today is Erma Bombeck’s birthday. She would be 94 if she were alive today. When I tell folks I write a column, they ask what kind. I say, kinda like Erma Bombeck’s. Some folks immediately know who I am talking about, but some don’t know who she was. This Valentine’s Day I will attempt to pay tribute to the woman whose typewriter ribbon I am not worthy to change, who inadvertently taught me how to write, how to laugh, how to parent and how to appreciate what was most important in life.

If you want a glimpse into the life of an ordinary American housewife in the ‘60’s and ‘70’s, crack open one of her many books. She covered it all: the mystery of the lost sock, leftovers, teenagers and growing old. The ‘60’s were hard times, families were in crisis, it was the time of the generation gap, and this woman stood in that gap and managed to appreciate the next generation with all of their quirks and hang-ups. Our mothers and grandmothers read Erma Bombeck, related to Erma Bombeck and appreciated that some woman out there was writing about their experiences which on a bad day seemed so insignificant.

Erma was prolific. At its height, her column, “At Wit’s End”, was running three times a week in 900 newspapers around the country. Her column ran from 1965 to 1996, the year of her premature death. She wrote 15 books, many of them best sellers. She appeared on Good Morning America and other television shows.

Her humor is legendary, but many of her columns were poignant. In Motherhood – The Second Oldest Profession, there is a chapter titled “Everybody Else’s Mother”. She wrote about that age when your kids compare you to Everybody Else’s Mother. Someone is always doing something different which your kid prefers. But in the end she wrote:

Everybody else’s mother is very real and for a few years she’s a formidable opponent to mothers everywhere. Then one day she disappears. In her place is ninety pounds (give or take) of rebellion and independence, engaging in verbal combat, saying for themselves what Everybody Else’s Mother used to say for them. (pg. 27)

Unfortunately, I was that kid. I used “Everybody else’s parent” all the time. I hope my mom got some comfort from Erma’s words. My kids not so much, but I am a veteran now of “verbal combat”.

Perhaps her most popular piece that flies around the Internet is “If I Had My Life to Live Over”. Although Erma wrote it, she did not write it when she was dying of cancer, but she wrote it in 1979. I have come to appreciate this last part of the column:

But mostly, given another shot at life, I would seize every minute… look at it and really see it… live it… and never give it back. Stop sweating the small stuff. Don’t worry about who doesn’t like you, who has more, or who’s doing what. Instead, let’s cherish the relationships we have with those who DO love us.

I know I read her columns before I had kids, but it was after I became a mother that I really enjoyed her work. With so many kids literally climbing the walls when I was home, when times were very difficult and I did not think I was going to make it, this small paragraph from the end of her book, also titled “At Wit’s End”, carried me through. When asked why she wrote her book, she cited many reasons, but being inspired by authoress Faith Baldwin, she pins it down:

To be honest, however, I will have to admit that I wrote the book for the original model — the one who was overkidsed, underpatienced, with four years of college and chapped hands all year around. I knew if I didn’t follow Faith’s advice and laugh a little at myself, then I would surely cry.

These few lines helped me in that when I wanted to cry over my circumstances, instead I picked up her books and laughed, but I cried too, and I laughed and cried at the same time. You see, so many of us who are raising kids or caring for others feel totally overlooked and invisible. Erma, while just talking about her own experiences, shined a light on all of us who take care of others, whether we are moms, dads, caregivers, teachers, etc. She appreciated what she did and it spilled over to all of us. She wrote a column about Edith Bunker. Edith Bunker was the longsuffering wife of that loud mouth Archie from All in the Family. Erma was sad that there were few Edith Bunkers in the world – few folks who listen, who look you in the eyes, who care about what you are saying instead of thinking of what to say next, someone who really hears. I don’t know if Erma was that much like Edith Bunker, I can’t see her taking too much of Archie’s crap, but I do think she listened and was attentive to what her readers wanted.

Thank you, Erma, for all you did. I agree with your sentiment to your kids in the dedication in Aunt Erma’s Cope Book, “If I blow it raising them…nothing else I do will matter very much.” I think most of us raising kids would agree.

http://pacifica.patch.com/articles/i-erma

Image result for erma bombeck

“I Sing of Arms and of a Man…”

Last month, I went to get a cup of coffee at the Manor Safeway Starbucks in Pacifica, and I was greeted by a new barista. Her name was Lavinia. “Lavinia,” I thought, “that was Aeneas’ second wife, if I recall.” I asked her if she knew the Story of Aeneas and the Fall of Troy. She said she did not. So I told her how ancient and illustrious her name was. She was very excited, and so was I. She reminded me why I love a good story, and Virgil’s Aeneid is one of the oldest and one of the best.

In my freshmen year at Mercy, we had to read The Aeneid. I think I still have my dog-eared, well-worn, spine-bent copy somewhere in a box of beloved books. The book is about the end of the Trojan War from the point of view of Aeneas, a cousin of Troy’s King Priam. Troy was an ancient city in what is now Turkey. Homer’s Iliad covers the entire war, but from the Greek point of view.

“I sing of arms and of a man … ” Virgil hooks the reader from the first line of his epic poem about Aeneas and his wanderings, his struggles and how he settled in Italy and married Lavinia, the daughter of the King of Latium. His progeny became Caesars, so the legend goes, thus legitimizing the Roman Emperors’ authority and rule. In Book Two, Aeneas tells the story of the fall of Troy to the entranced and doomed Dido, the Queen of Carthage (in modern day Tunisia, North Africa). There you will find a good summary of the Fall of Troy, the story of the Trojan horse, and that famous quote “I fear the Greeks, even when they bring gifts.”

It is amazing how books you’d read over thirty years ago still have a hold on you. I hadn’t thought about The Aeneid in over five years since I taught it in a Literature class. A good writer will convey those universal emotions and experiences so they become etched into the reader’s experience; and when it’s good, perhaps great, it becomes a part of the reader’s identity. I encourage everyone to read at least the second book of this classic and, like Dido, become enamored with the hero, Aeneas.

This column is dedicated to my favorite baristas at the Manor Safeway Starbucks: Makayla, Jenn and Lavinia. You guys are the best and I love my decaf with cold water coffees. After a crazy morning of dropping off six kids to their various destinations, that fresh cup of joe is both soothing and delicious. Gratias ago vos, Latin for “thank you” (according to Google translate).

http://pacifica.patch.com/articles/i-sing-of-arms-and-of-a-man

‘ITLDO’

‘The courage to be is the courage to accept oneself, in spite of being unacceptable.’

— Paul Tillich

Up at the Russian River, in the town of Guerneville, a lot of the cabins have names. My father remembers a few, one was named “Rushin’ Rest,” and the Powers’ cabin was named “Powerhouse;” a St. Mary’s alum’s cabin was “Moraga Manor” and my favorite, our friends’ house, was the “ITLDO”.

We’d be parked in front of their garage where the sign hung. It took me awhile to figure out what “ITLDO” meant. As I studied it, I thought, maybe it some kind of acronym….I like the door open…nah, that didn’t make sense. I kept saying the word in my head and then said it out loud – bingo…”IT WILL DO.” The story is, it is assumed, that after construction, though not perfect, though not exactly according to specifications, the owner or someone said… “ITLDO!”

Of course, that “ITLDO” attitude applies to other areas of life. I remember feverishly (literally, it was hot in Moraga that day) finishing my last college paper on, of course, the day it was due. After it was done, though not perfect, I printed it out and muttered “ITLDO”. I got a C on it, I think. When I graduated two days later, though I was not an honors student or had a report card with straight A’s, I did have a St. Mary’s College diploma. “ITLDO.”

I have a confession to make, a little secret that I am quite ashamed of. I’m messy. Growing up, my side of the room was always messy, just ask my sister. When the kids came along, the house was, of course, messier. Once I passed the 5 kid mark, most folks (there was an exception or two…grrrr) understood with so many kids the house, it would naturally be messy. But, I confess, I have always been messy, messy room, messy desk, messy life. So I can’t let the kids take the rap anymore – it is mea culpa.

To overcome this unclean habit, I spent the last two decades trying to conquer it. I made lists, I followed programs, I even prayed a lot. Sometimes I would get it together, but, alas, I couldn’t keep it together. Lately, though, I have even applied the “ITLDO” mentality to my housework. I follow a little of Flylady’s advice, and do 15 minute increments. It doesn’t have to be perfect, as long as I get something done. “ITLDO.”

I suppose the “ITLDO” mentality is being content, being content with what you have, what you have done and with who you are. When I look in the mirror and see the face I’ve looked at for fif…a long time, instead of stressing out that I don’t look as young as I used to, I smile and say, “ITLDO”. When I get discouraged about my weight, I remember how good my body has been to me, how healthy I have been, and gratefully say, “ITLDO” When I get to the end of this column and after I review each paragraph, I will come to a point when I hit SUBMIT because “ITLDO”.
http://pacifica.patch.com/articles/itldo

Sixth Grade

January 2013

In the fall of 1970, I started sixth grade at Brook Hill Elementary School in Santa Rosa. The few years we lived in Santa Rosa will forever remain with me as an idyllicism (made up word) of the highest form. Block parties on 4^th of July, warm weather, our school across the street and sixth grade.

Sixth grade is where and when I came alive. Everything that excites and moves me was born in the last classroom in that plain school building. Although I was writing at an earlier age, the subjects that would activate that skill were taught to me in sixth grade.

I have learned that school is like a buffet feast. There are so many foods to choose from. In order to appreciate everything, you take a bite from each plate. But the ones you really like, those become your favorites, your comfort foods. So as with education, you taste as many subjects as you can, but the ones you love, the ones that make you come alive, those are the ones you return to, the ones you pursue.

Mr. Caudill, my sixth grade teacher, set a grand table. Of the many things he taught us, these are the subjects I have returned to, the ones I have pursued.

First was poetry. Each week, I believe, we got a new poem. I remember smelling the newly mimeographed paper anticipating a new tale. “Gunga Din” and “The Kid’s Last Fight” were two of my favorites. “You may talk o’ gin an’ beer, when you’re quartered safe out ‘ere…” I would bellow in a bravado-ish brough that would send my sister under the covers. Sadly, all my papers from sixth grade were lost in the move to Daly City. But the spark had been lighted, and still burns.

Second was music. Mr. Caudill handed out sheets with contemporary music lyrics. “Blowing in the Wind”, “Leaving on a Jet Plane” and “Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head” were a few of the many songs we learned about. I still know these lyrics by heart. I have written a few songs myself that remain in the confines of my journals; but because I learned to appreciate the music and lyrics, I can discuss any song with my kids. I help them highlight what their favorite musicians are trying to say. And as a by-product, I have come to love their music as much as my own.

Third was geography. I learned to love maps. I’ve always had a map on the wall. Even now, living in my parents’ house, I have an old ‘80’s Hapag Lloyd map up. I need a new one though; there are so many new countries since the fall of the Wall. In sixth grade, we studied South American geography and cultures. We used to have map contests to see who could find a nation’s capital the quickest. I was good at that game. I loved it. I learned that there were other people around the world with different customs, beliefs and ways of living. I did a report on the Incas in Peru. We sang “O Little Town of Bethlehem” in Spanish. Here was my first taste of that beautiful language. I am working my way to fluency even now.

I was eleven when I was in Mr. Caudill’s sixth grade class. I was eleven when I learned these subjects. But I didn’t just learn them, I ingested them, they became a part of who I was. They came to fruition in my English degree, my many Spanish classes, my missionary interests and my feeble attempts at creativity. I watched “Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy” last year. There is a scene where Control and Smiley were leaving Circus Headquarters, and in the background, there were maps all over the walls. I had an “a-ha” moment. I should have been a spy!

http://pacifica.patch.com/articles/sixth-grade

Individuate!

I am a word nerd. I love words. When I had a boring job in Half Moon Bay back in the 1970’s, I entertained myself by reading the dictionary. I still have the lists of words I learned. Words are great, wonderfully great and terribly great. Words can harm, cut down and poison; but on the other hand, words can build up, inspire and heal. Just like I have comfort foods such as creamed tuna and pumpkin pie, I have comfort words, “Providence,” “hope” and “sublime” to name a few. I am always excited when I learn a new word.

Sometime in the 1990’s, my family was watching “Home Improvement.” Jill was having one of her talks with the fenced-obscured neighbor, Wilson. She was having trouble with her older son, Randy, and mentioned to Wilson that she believed that Randy was probably trying to “individuate” from her and Tim. That word caught my ear. I had never heard it used that way, and I took a psychology class in college (my worst graded class, by the way — that may explain a lot).

Individuate! Not only did I love the word and the way it gave my tongue a mini workout, I also understood immediately what Jill was talking about. As my children have grown, I have witnessed them “individuating” away from me. For some of them this came early, one at about a year and a half and one at three years old when she declared in front of many witnesses, “It’s my life” (this one was going to move out when she was 8), but the others were in the typical age range of 12-15 years. This is a hard stage of parenting; but I am in it for the long haul. I think I can, I think I can …

As I do with words and other things, I like to add my own spin. I think it is time for me to “individuate” away from my kids. It was natural and exciting to pour myself into these little lives….but eventually, their personalities began to take over. Early on I should have known things were bad when after we got a set of Laurel and Hardy movies, I called my sister bemoaning, “Linda, I need to get out, I think Stan Laurel is hot!” Symptoms continued, singing the Rescue Rangers theme song while doing dishes, penciling in the “Good Luck Charlie” Christmas movie on the calendar and being more conversant with people under the age of 20 than my peers.

Those are the harmless aspects to full immersion parenting; however, things can get ugly. They are nice for awhile and then they turn on you. If you are not prepared, it can be brutal. “It’s not fair.” “You never do anything for me” “You like everyone else more than me” and, the topper, “I hate you” can certainly wear down one’s defenses. At first, I would indignantly defend myself as being a perfect and fair parent (LOL) and try to hide my hurt feelings. As they individuated away from me, I also had to individuate away from them.

My first step toward individuation was to build some strong battlements. I couldn’t be so sensitive. I had to garner some courage and fortitude to handle their time of individuation. In the process, I was delighted to find myself again. I didn’t need to spend every minute with them. I didn’t need to hover over them; I could pursue some interests of my own. I could listen to Barry Manilow instead of Tupac and Two Chains.

I still have young ones at home, and am appreciating the things that I used to love. Funny, I caught the 13-year-old listening to Barry Manilow awhile ago. That’s the best of both worlds.

http://pacifica.patch.com/articles/individuate

Eviction Notices

It’s a New Year. Resolutions abound. Lose weight, quit smoking, be nicer and manage money better are many common ones. I have one so far and that is to hang laundry on a warm, breezy summer morning. Unless I move, that’s not gonna happen in Pacifica. For some reason that simple act of housekeeping provides a gentle comfort. Funny how things are.

Seriously, I decided that my resolution this year was to give notice to some things in my life, particularly things in my mind. In Pink’s song, Perfect, she sings, “Change the voices, in your head, make them like you instead.” I’ve met some voices that like me, but I have to write some eviction notices first.

Despair – You are hereby given immediate notice to vacate said premises (my head). You have caused unnecessary distress blubbering about how things will only get worse and never change. Well, that is gonna change, today. I understand that you may visit from time to time on future occasions; but know this now- you will be asked to leave when Hope says so. Hope has been waiting to reoccupy her residence; therefore, without further ado, adieu.

Worry – You are also hereby given immediate notice to vacate said premises with your cousin, Despair. I thought inadvertently that there might be a good purpose to your visit, worrying about this and that; but, alas, those things never came to pass and I was needlessly upset. I don’t know much about Trust, but Trust is so willing to move in and is excited about our new relationship.

And last of all, the longest resident in my mind that needs the boot – Fear. You are hereby given immediate notice to vacate said premises. I know you think this is your turf, and you even balk at my order to leave and threaten grave things if I force you out, but like your cousin, Worry, much ado about nothing. You have been here far too long. A couple of years ago, I met Courage and he said he could help kick you out. So I have invited him to come and live with me. I do not know him very well, but am anxious (oops, that little kid’s been kicked out too); I mean I am eager to get to know him and have him help me with the many things I do.

Solomon wrote: “There is nothing new under the sun.” Far be it from me to argue with a Hebrew King, but there is something new. Today is new, this moment is new. Each new day breathes new hope, trust and courage. Last year was a tough year in many respects, but for our kids’ sakes…..for our own sakes, we can embrace and cultivate more hope, trust and courage. Happy New Year!

http://pacifica.patch.com/articles/eviction-notices

Be Ye Not Troubled

1920338_10203650407045470_7063388148633270543_n

Christmas 2012

“Once in our world, a Stable had something in it that was bigger than our whole world.” wrote C.S. Lewis. In that Stable, a Child lay in a feeding trough. It is His birth that we celebrate today. For Christians around the world, we manage to put down our theological clubs and grab hands and bow before Whom we call King, Lord and Savior.

The Man who gave us “blessed are the peacemakers”, “I have come that they might have life” and “I am the living water” also gave us “be ye not troubled.” Someone who has a greater perspective of things temporal as well as things eternal gently urges us to “be ye not troubled.” Certainly words we can always embrace.

Times are tough. Fiscal cliffs, budget cuts and politics at its worst dominate the newscasts. I’m sure I’m not the only one who is utterly frustrated with the ineptitude of our elected officials. My sister who lived frugally for many years would be better equipped to deal with the mess that is in the nation’s capital. I cannot even watch the news anymore without disgust. My words to Washington: Do your job. But in the angst of this frustration and disappointment, I gently hear, “be ye not troubled.”

Times are tumultuous. I have a lot of kids. Just some low level sibling rivalry can stir up a hornet’s nest. Most of the time I can handle it, but there are days when I just hang my head. There are other family members who will never be happy, people who run to trouble and seem to revel in discord. Family stress can be very tiring. Yet, still His words beckon, “be ye not troubled.”

And, finally, times are tragic. It has been a year of loss. Expected losses when death was seen coming, maybe even a relief; unexpected losses when death snatched a beloved before our eyes and unimaginable losses when death went on a rampage. There are no answers, no words, nothing to assuage the piercing and painful grief. “Be ye not troubled” seems so far away.

Jesus Christ did not promise rose gardens, American dreams or healthy families. Of His many gifts He did promise, some are provision for the present, patience for the perplexing and the peace that surpasses understanding. That peace, His peace, enables us to “be ye not troubled” when times are tough, tumultuous and inevitably tragic.

Have a blessed Christmas Day. Be Ye Not Troubled.

http://pacifica.patch.com/articles/be-ye-not-troubled