Friday Tidings

Yes, I’m a control freak. I keep a tight grip on life’s events. I prearrange good, solid plans (read: predictable). I don’t go for the outlandish. However, I’m married to an adventurer. When he plans something, it’s usually beyond my carefully manicured boundaries. I’ve been rightfully accused of shooting down his ideas. So when Thom asked to let him plan where we’d stay while attending a conference, it was a long overdue privilege. Excitedly, he checked out everything from a large sailboat to a motor home. He settled on a lovely fully furnished home nestled in the woods. He found it on the Internet (red flag). We arrived late. For the right effect, start humming Hotel California…. “My head grew heavy and my sight grew dim, I had to stop for the night.”  The “hostess” gave us a key, wished us well and quickly left.  Once inside we noticed the lovely home was decorated with dozens of scary masks, creepy art, and graphic paintings.  This was not some vacation condo. Thi

My sister Kerry 1956 The two pictures were framed together and displayed on my grandma's dresser.  It became a long-standing family joke—and the bedrock of our political game we’d play together every presidential election. Growing up in a bipartisan home was normal to me. Political discussions were lively, but never mean. My Republican dad baited my Democrat mom, but he listened to her views on everything from welfare to women’s rights.  Having a college professor grandpa on one side and a highly successful junior high-educated grandpa on the other just meant that I had a full spectrum of ideas.   Presidential elections brought increased volume during dinner discussions. It was no different when I’d visit my grandparents during the summer. I sat with them as they listened to the national convention speeches.  Political passion meant getting involved—and that’s exactly what my family did—just on opposite sides. As each election got closer, I knew t

The auditorium was dark and fortunately I was sitting near the back where all the 7 th graders congregated. The other blessing was that it was just the junior high girls. I think I would have totally freaked if it had been the whole school. I hadn’t told anyone that my mom had come to talk to us. It was an event sponsored by one of the local women’s clubs to promote healthy living—the usual message: not smoking, staying clear of drugs. An older woman, with a tall white beehive hairdo, introduced my mom.  I doubt she had any clue that my mom would soon unleash on this innocent audience. Understand that this was 1970—the beginnings of the women’s movement. And my mom was totally in. With her trademark rant-like cheer, she declared while we’d won the right to wear jeans to school, we now needed to demand to be able to take Auto Shop and not be forced to take Home Economics. The girls cheered. It was like a women’s lib rally for young teens. I slid lower in my seat. Girls close

I listened to the Paper Lesson directions: Fold a piece of paper in half. On the top part write the worst things that have happened to you. On the bottom half list all the good things. Then look at how some of the bad things on the top helped bring about some of the good things on the bottom. I recalled my disappointment not being able to go to the college of my dreams, but it led me to the college where I met the man of my dreams. Further down the bad list were the desperate years on our failing farm. But those years fortified our resolve to remain united in hardship. I’m old enough now to see the bad-good pattern and not flinch so much when something new goes on the top half of the paper. As much as I wish to avoid heartache, sickness, despair, brokenness, and poverty, I have experienced them all. Perspective allows me to see the good even in the bad…but usually not at first.  Something got added to my bad list this week. I anticipate eventually something good wi