For Dianne

God is the composer of the Song of Life and we are all singers of that Song.

When one of us dies, the Song sung here on earth must change; the notes sung by that person are no longer a part of the melody.


But the notes aren’t gone. They have been written into the melody of the Song of Heaven,
the song sung in the presence of the Author of Music.


And that song is a song of such ineffable sweetness and beauty that we mortals cannot bear to hear it - it is the song that bursts forth only when we escape the chains of the flesh, and our spirits soar to our Maker.


It is the melody of the universe.

Maybe I need to walk a mile in someone else's shoes

One of my daughters told me the other day that I was being unkind and judgmental about someone we both know, and that it was not behavior that she expected of me. I wish I could say that my being unkind and judgmental was an aberration; unfortunately, it wasn't. It's an easy trap to fall into, isn't it? A negative comment here, a negative comment there; before you know it, you're hard pressed to find anything nice to say about a person. I read once that each time you point a finger at someone else, there are three fingers pointing back at you. Which I guess is one way of rephrasing the Biblical admonition not to try to remove the speck from another's eye until you get the log out of your own...

One definition of judgment is 'the process of forming an opinion by discerning and comparing' - if I ever stand before a judge or jury, I would sure want them to have all the facts before they make a judgment on my case. So I had to look at my attitude toward the person discussed and accept that I don't know all the circumstances that might be contributing to his actions, and that I need to work on summoning up compassion. I'm not walking in his shoes. If I were, I'd probably have a much better idea of the reason for his behavior.

It was a good conversation. It's pretty wonderful having a secure enough relationship with an adult daughter that she feels safe calling me out when I'm not being nice. She's still looking to me to set the right example even though she's grown. When she was little I might be able to get away with "because I'm your mother, that's why!" but now that she's an adult that won't wash. I can't get away with "Do as I say, not as I do." What I say is what I do; when it's ugly, I have to change it.

So I'm grateful for being scolded, and for second chances.

And for a daughter who challenges me to aim higher.

Where Are You, You SOB?

I was robbed today. Well, actually (according to the nice Red Oak police sergeant) it was a theft. I guess to be absolutely precise, it was a larceny ("the unlawful taking of personal property with the intent to deprive the rightful owner of it permanently"); when I talk about it, it's a lot simpler to say "I was robbed" rather than "I was the victim of a theft/larceny."

Our office is in Red Oak. It's a small town, typically a safe town I guess. Our building is the only one on the street, and we're at quite a distance from the cluster of businesses along Ovilla Rd. There are two front doors to our building: The south door leads to the dentist's office, and that door is only unlocked when the dentist's office is open. Our wing, the north wing, holds only two tenants, neither of which business has walk-in visitors. Our exterior entrance is on electronic lock and requires a passcard for admittance.

So for anyone to access the north wing, they either have to have a passcard, knock at our outside door for admittance, or enter at the dentist's side of the building and walk around to our side. Apparently that's what this creep did.

After the dentist had seen the last patient of the day, one of her staff was working at their front desk and saw through their glass office door when a man entered from the south door and walked past their office and headed down the hallway. She even commented "wonder where he's going?" since he used their entrance.

Meanwhile, I was alone in our office. John (my son-in-law boss) is traveling this week. I was working in his office for an hour or so. While sitting at his desk, I heard a sound that appeared to come from my office. I was intent on what I was doing and didn't pick up on it at first. Then I heard another slight sound. I 'knew' no one was in my office, but I had a funny feeling, so I stepped into my office and saw that the door was closed as I had left it. So I assumed the sounds I'd heard had come from the adjoining office.

It wasn't until more than two hours later that I remembered that I hadn't checked the mailbox outside. I went to my purse to get the mailbox key and the passcard that would let me back in the building. That's when I discovered that my wallet was gone.

You know how it goes. When something is supposed to be there, and it's not, you think at first that somehow you're just not seeing it, that by some Twilight Zone sort of trickery that it's just not readily visible. And when that happened, when I rooted frantically through the purse and didn't find the wallet, I thought that somehow I must have carried it into John's office and laid it down, so I ran in there to search. Of course I hadn't done that, there's no reason in the world I would have done that, but I looked anyway. Then I raced out to my truck, thinking it might have fallen out of my purse (!) when I was driving to work. It wasn't in the truck.

In my panic, I had forgotten that in the morning I had made an online payment, printed out the receipt, and put that receipt in my wallet. So the wallet had definitely been in my purse before noon.

So sitting in my truck I called the police. They told me to hang tight, that an officer would be there in a few minutes (if it had been Dallas, I'd still be waiting for the police to show up). I had to knock on the window of the next-door tenant and get them to let me back in the building, since my passcard was in the wallet. Before I could even call the bank to report my debit card stolen, the officer was there to take the report. The dentist's employee pulled up the records of the electronic door and it indicated that there was two exits made at midday, and not again until the time I went out to the truck to search. Midday is when I was in John's office working. So apparently some guy opened my office door quietly, walked in quietly, saw my purse sitting on the floor behind my desk, and took his chance.

Normally I carry a purse that's kind of deep and the wallet tucks down at the bottom. Today I had a purse with a smaller mouth, and after I made the online payment I remember sticking the wallet back in on end (rather than laying flat) because the small opening made it harder to reach down inside. Lucky for the thief: that meant the wallet was plainly visible and easier to grab.

But I am definitely lucky as well. Because I got on the phone and canceled my debit card and my three gasoline cards, and none of them had been used, even though it had probably been three hours since the theft. The police officer said maybe the guy just grabbed the $48 in the wallet and tossed the wallet away. He searched all around the building and in the dumpster, even drove back to where the street deadends at a field, and didn't find it.

If the thief had grabbed the little green bag next to the wallet, he would've gotten my car & house key - and with my driver's license, he had my address. That would have been a nightmare. So all things considered I guess I'm fortunate.

But I don't feel fortunate. I feel damn mad. And I guarantee that I'm keeping the office door locked from now on, even when I'm there.

The Facts of Life

Nowadays you can’t turn the pages of a newspaper or magazine without being met with images of scantily-clad females being used to advertise not just lingerie but also beer, shampoo, or automobiles. Whether on TV or in print, that’s long been the case, and it’s so commonplace that we accept it without thinking much about it, even if we’re not necessarily crazy about it.

But, underwear ads excepted, it’s still not quite as commonplace to see a scantily-clad man in a national publication. Just imagine what uproar there was back in early 1972 when actor Burt Reynolds posed in the nude for the centerfold of Cosmopolitan magazine. Advance word was that Reynolds had a prop placed in a strategic place in the photo, but still…A Hollywood actor? In the nude? In a national magazine? It was absolutely astonishing!

I was 21. I thought Burt Reynolds was pretty cute. So I was one of thousands of temporarily-deranged females scouring the newsstands of American cities to find a copy of Cosmo. I shared the news of my search in a letter to my Uncle Gaither, who was 75. He was taken aback, to say the least.

April, 1972

Dear Peggy,

After reading your last letter I was tempted to lop you off our family free but following days of ruminating, cogitating and praying, I decided to give you another chance. I’m going to try to REHABILITATE you.

I had no idea that you are a pornography addict who would search the city of Dallas for a magazine’s centerfold picture of a nude Homo sapiens male. I am shocked to learn that you and Jack, after four months of marriage, are still concealing from each other the basic physiological differences between male and female. No wonder our educators are pressing so hard for pre-kindergarten sex education! This rehabilitation program may take longer than I figured. There’s a considerable time lag between the day I learned about females and your belated attempt to catch up via the purchase of a Cosmopolitan centerfold. Let me tell you how I learned all about the opposite sex at the age of about four. Ha! How well do I remember that Sunday day of discovery!

Our family lived just across a narrow dirt road from the Methodist preacher’s parsonage, and about 5 Sundays a month my mama would fix a chicken dinner and invite the preacher and family over to eat. Which it did, gobbling all the white meat at first table for the elders and leaving gizzards and necks for us kids at 2nd table.

Then, one Sunday—whether by chance or Divine guidance I’ll never know—we went to the preacher’s house for dinner. The preacher had a daughter about my age and, as usual, we had to wait for 2nd table gizzards and necks.

Lois and I were put in a closet-like cubbyhole adjoining the dining room and told to play. We sat our little butts on the floor, facing each other, but I could see nothing to play with until I noticed that Lois had on a very short dress and that her mama had neglected to supply her with a fig leaf. I then noticed that she seemed to be physiologically different from me. I tried to explain to her that she was some sort of freak, but she wouldn’t believe me until I unbuttoned my pants and showed her what a person ought to look like.

We were still giggling about our discoveries when our mamas opened the closet door, and their faces got as red as our two little bottoms did a few seconds later. Lois and I were never allowed to play together again. Her father was soon sent to harvest the grapes in another vineyard. But right there in that lil old closet waiting for my chicken neck, I learned all that I’ve ever wanted to know about sex that mama hadn’t already taught me…

Love, Unk

I loved Uncle Gaither’s story. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I hadn’t bought the magazine in order to satisfy my physiological curiosity (my brother’s birth when I was nine kicked off my birds-and-bees education), but rather to satisfy my Burt Reynolds curiosity. 

Today, after 35 years of marriage, grown daughters, and grandchildren, I’m asking myself why I’ve hung on to that magazine for so long. It’s been tucked away in my cedar chest, and I haven’t looked at it since shortly after I bought it. What am I saving it for? Who am I saving it for? (Even Burt himself probably hasn’t kept a copy all these years!)

I know why I’ve kept it. One day each of us wakes up and realizes that life has raced along and we’re a lot closer to our old age than we are to our youth. We all need tangible reminders of who we used to be. That magazine represents the 20-year-old that still exists in my heart, in my memory, in my soul. I know full well that my daughters can’t truly imagine what I was like at 20. Maybe I should try more often to give them that glimpse of the “me” that existed before I was Mom, and grandmom, before I had grey hair and reading glasses and middle-age spread. One of these days, I’ll tell them about my search for Burt. I’ll remember for a few minutes what it was like to be 20, and that will be long enough.

And maybe someday I’ll write to a great-niece or a granddaughter, and I’ll say “Let me tell you about the time I searched all over town for a magazine…”

Other Drivers

I used to be a bit of a hothead when I drove, impatient at the carelessness or selfishness of other drivers. If someone cut me off or changed lanes without signaling, I would usually respond aloud with an insult of some sort.

It was my young daughter's innocent question one day that made me realize I needed to change my ways.

"Mom," she asked, "are all the other drivers morons?"

Ouch.

Since Webster's gives one definition for moron as "a very stupid person," I'll go out on a limb and say that there are a lot of morons on the road. But that didn't make it right for me to call them that - and certainly not within earshot of my children.

Too many of us drive around angry these days. There's no doubt that many of us feel shortchanged when it comes to time. I've seen gals putting on makeup while steering one-handed. It's commonplace for folks to talk on their cellphones as they drive, and I am guilty of that. How many of us eat a meal while driving? And not just fast-food - once I saw a guy driving down a Dallas highway with a big pan of spaghetti propped on the steering wheel. My jaw dropped in amazement as I watched him scooping the strands of pasta into his mouth.

I can multi-task with the best of them, but I've come to realize that doing too many tasks at once can be dangerous. Juggling too many tasks can certainly be stressful, and when we take that stress behind the wheel, we are more prone to anger. And when we are angry, we put ourselves and others at risk.

Once as I entered the overpass from Interstate 35E to the Dallas North Tollway, the clutch cable broke, and my car wouldn't move. Passing drivers honked and screamed at me for partially blocking their way. There were numerous rude hand gestures. With my toddler and infant daughters in the car, I was terrified to get out in the heavy traffic. Fortunately an angel in the form of a truck driver came and pushed me to the tollbooth so I could exit. I have never forgotten the feeling of being the victim of so much hostility, so much anger over something that I could not help.

A few years ago, in a RoadRagers.com survey, more than 11,000 folks answered questions about their actions behind the wheel, some of which could be considered aspects of road rage. "I try to be a polite and courteous driver," said 76.9 percent of the respondents, but 69.8 percent said "I tailgate another driver to encourage them to speed up and go faster." I wasn't a math whiz in school, but those sets of numbers don't compute. Somebody's fudging.

One stress expert says that we set ourselves up for trouble when we don't allow ourselves enough time to do the things we need to do, then try to make up for lost time on the road. When we do that, everything that interferes with our attempt to gain that lost time adds to our frustration level, and has the potential to erupt as road rage.

We can control whether we let the stress in our lives become anger that we direct toward others. I have learned that if I allow myself enough time, drive courteously and safely, and don't take the bad driving of others personally, I stay a lot calmer. So nowadays when I see other drivers do stupid things, I try to remember that there are circumstances of which I'm unaware. I say a prayer that they'll realize that their carelessness behind the wheel could be dangerous, and I hope that they'll do better next time. And I try not to call them morons (at least not out loud).

Unless they're texting. Then they're morons.
(Dallas Morning News Community Voices 8-23-09)

A Community of Believers - So Why Don't I Feel Welcome?

Some years ago I visited churches in connection with my job. One day I stopped by 

a church to leave some information. The secretary glanced at me as I approached 

her door, but when I saw that she was on the phone, I stepped away to give her 

privacy. I waited. And waited. While she chatted away on what was clearly a happy

personal call. After nearly 15 minutes, a man working outside, seeing through the 

glass door that I was still waiting, came in and apologized profusely, and took the

brochure from me. I was there on business, but I remember wondering, "What if I 

were looking for a new church?" The rude behavior of that secretary -- the first

point of contact for a stranger -- dissuaded me from wanting to return for any 

reason.

In the 46 years since I became a Christian, I have been a member of two Dallas 

churches, the first one for more than 30 years. In 1996, we moved our membership

to a church of another denomination. We were happy there for a long time. But a

couple of years ago, I felt drawn to find a church nearer home and decided to visit

Protestant churches in the southern suburbs. I had two primary criteria: the church

had to recognize my infant baptism, and it had to be one where I felt a real

welcome.

Ah -- there was the rub. 

I had thought my experience with the unwelcoming secretary was an aberration. 

When I began my hunt for a new church home, my daughter and young grandsons

came along one Sunday. We followed the "Nursery" sign arrow to find an empty 

room. After several minutes of waiting in the hallway, wondering what to do, a 

young women walking by said, "Oh, sometimes the nursery lady just doesn't show

up. Somebody will probably be here soon," and away she went.

At another church we visited, where our family made five of the 40 or so in  

attendance at the early informal service, not one single person spoke to us, not

when we entered, not during the time allotted for greeting, and not as we exited.

But even that wasn't the worst experience. One summer Sunday my husband and I

visited a church for the first time at the invitation of some friends. We were the only

newcomers in the congregation. In fact, the minister commented on it: "It's easy to

see who are visitors are today!" We were greeted warmly by several folks and stayed

after the service to talk with the minister for about five minutes. Two days later,

we received a "welcome visitor" letter which said, "Sorry I didn't get a chance to

meet you. I hope you'll come to visit again so that I can meet you and get

acquainted."

We talked to the man. We were the only visitors that day. And he sent us a form 

letter that he apparently didn't even read before he signed it. 

A Christian church is a community of believers in Christ. Christ taught us that God is

Love and we are to love one another. Unfortunately, in some churches that love

appears to be reserved for those who are already "in the group." 

Don't get me wrong: we visited other churches where we were definitely made to 

feel welcome and were invited back. I'm already a Christian, and I'm a persistent

person who kept looking even after some negative experiences. But I can't help

but wonder: what if I had been a nonbeliever who was searching for Christ, and

the secretary wouldn't give me the time or day, or none of the people around even

said 'hello,' or the pastor couldn't remember talking to me two days after the fact?

So maybe we need to take a hard look at how we show that love. Starting at home.

(Dallas Morning News 7-12-09)

The Child Obesity Challege

An elementary school held a Physical Fitness Challenge day earlier this spring. Kids were assessed for their fitness, and were weighed and measured for height. Many of these kids – all of them under the age of 12 – weighed in at 150 pounds or more. What used to be the average weight of a 16- or 17-year-old boy is fast becoming standard for grade-school kids.

Until the time I graduated from high school, I could not have counted ten grossly overweight kids in all of my school years put together. Now I can count ten obese children in five minutes of walking through a mall.

It’s pretty much the norm that adults gain weight as they age. Probably most of us had parents or grandparents who were a bit overweight. But when we were children, it was almost unheard of to have friends who were obese. What has happened?

The U.S. didn’t even collect data on obesity until the 1980s. Back then, the prevalence of obesity (for all ages) was less than 14% nationally. By 2006, there were states that exceeded 30% obesity in their populations. These percentages are not people who are slightly overweight, these are people who are obese. And far too many of them are children.

In the past 20 years, the prevalence of obesity among children ages 6-11 more than doubled, to 17%. For adolescents between 12 and 19, the rate more than tripled. Type 2 diabetes mellitus was formerly an adult condition; now it is being diagnosed with alarming frequency in children. An estimated 6% of obese young people have at least one additional risk factor for heart disease, such as high cholesterol or high blood pressure. A generation ago, these types of medical concerns were barely conceivable in relation to children.

If we agree that obesity is usually the result of an improper balance between the calories we consume and the energy we expend (the calories we burn up), then we have to ask how it is that these thousands of children are burning up so many fewer calories than they are consuming. There’s no doubt that, for multiple reasons, many kids today get less exercise than kids of previous generations. Fortunately many school districts are revamping their curricula to once again require more physical activity. But if kids have P.E. at school a couple of times a week, but when at home sit for hours in front of the TV or computer, that little bit of exercise may be negated.

Studies point to the impact of food marketing on children, but the bottom line is that for most children, the food they consume is not food they buy for themselves. It’s food provided by their parents. Fast food. Junk food. Lazy food.

I don’t for a minute believe that parents set out deliberately to sabotage their children’s health. Every one of us has dealt with kids crying for a Happy Meal, or candy, or soft drinks, and sometimes we give in, in spite of knowing that we shouldn’t. But when we give in over and over again, when we throw in the towel and rationalize and make excuses, when we fill our refrigerators and our pantries with junk food because it’s too much trouble to take the time and make the effort to feed our families healthily, then we’re sliding rapidly down the slippery slope of irresponsible behavior.

And we’re killing our children in the process.

The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention website contains links to thousands of publications that address the problem of childhood obesity. The U.S. Department of Health and the National Institute of Health have instituted programs aimed at enhancing children’s activity and good nutrition efforts in order to fight the problem. Dr. Matthew Miller writing in TimesBulletin.com says that if we don’t take drastic measures to curb childhood obesity, kids of this generation are at risk of having a shorter life expectancy than their parents. Shouldn’t we all be appalled by that prediction?

This is a problem that we have created. This is a problem we must eliminate. Our children’s lives may depend on it.

(Dallas Morning News Opinion Page June 19, 2009)