Island Living

"All of my books are about achieving the isolation that our culture tells us should make us happy. Someone has gotten onto an island or into a high-rise condo and is completely cut off from all 'the jerks' in the world. That's supposed to make them happy, but they are more miserable than they ever were."
Chuck Palahniuk, author. From an interview in Relevant Magazine, Sept. 2004

I think this is a great illustration of much of the church in America in recent history. We somehow thought that isolating ourselves from culture and people that aren't like us and that we frankly, just consider 'the jerks' in the world, would make us not only happier, but holier.

Now, it's easy for me to lob that insult at other Christians, especially 'older' ones (because, of course, we younger ones are all missional and authentic and all that, you know). It's harder to admit that too often the isolating myself in my little happy Jesus box is my own "modus operandi". When given the choice of hanging out with friends that laugh at my jokes, other believers that understand my "Christianese", and acquaintances that willingly make polite conversation OR talking to people who don't agree with, get, or even like my humor, lingo, and beliefs, the obvious choice is the one I mostly choose.

The thing is--always interacting with like-minded souls gets pretty boring. It's like discussing a movie that you've all seen a few times. You can only go "remember the part where he..." and "wasn't it cool how she..." so many times and then the only way to go on is to overanalyze it and interpret it with your own cool, new spin. "I thought that was symbolic of..." or "I think the deeper meaning of that part is..." You could keep trying to one-up each other with your great new insights on it, but then it kind of becomes all about you--all about your thoughts on it, your opinions and interpretations of it--and none of it is real life.

Chuck Palahniuk goes on to say about his miserable characters, "So they create circumstances-whether or not they are aware of it-which force them on a quest to reconnect with people." A quest to reconnect with people is a great way to describe the gospel. We create circumstances, whether or not we are aware of it, when we stop looking at other people as "the jerks" and instead treat them as people that God created and deems worthy of care. I can strike up a conversation with that waiter that I see all the time. I can take time to listen to my neighbors and invite them into my life and world. I can ask that co-worker how his weekend trip went. And in doing so, I begin the quest for reconnection. Eventually, maybe, they will like me, get my humor, and even understand the lingo. Or maybe they won't. But it will be real life. So you can sit on your island or stay in your high-rise condo. I think going on a quest sounds a lot more exciting.

Real Grown Ups: stories of people that are well on their way to being "mature"

This is the story of a bachelor. Not a long time bachelor, but a man who was married for 40 years to a wonderful woman, and had been adjusting to life alone for 2 years. Retired, with grown children and grandchildren, he had long served as front door greeter at his local church, always the first one to offer a good morning and a handshake to regulars and visitors. He had served in leadership there as well, offering sound counsel in the middle of many trials. People knew he was in the building when they heard his familiar whistle. (people don't whistle enough anymore!)

Then one day the bachelor fell in love and became a groom again. He met a woman who is beautiful inside as well as outside. A missionary, supported by his church, living in Spain, she had been a widow much longer--for 13 years. They married and since she was not quite ready to retire from her mission work, he began a transcontinental commute. To Spain to be with his wife for a month, then back to the states to see his children and grandchildren for a month. Difficult, but when you start mixing your lives together late in the game, there is a lot more to accomodate. Young newlyweds have the advantage of starting with an almost blank slate, intertwining every part of their lives from before they even say "I do". Older newlyweds have entanglements on every front that have to be unwound more slowly and then carefully woven together.

The bachelor, become the husband, is now 75. When he was newly married, he asked a computer techie friend to look up the words to an old love song so he could sing it to his bride over the phone, something he still does after 4 years that still results in giggles on the other end of the line. He has become involved in her ministry and has tried with no measurable success to learn Spanish. For now, they still commute and he is still there at the door each week when they are in the U.S.

Recently, while waiting for a flight to Spain, he was approached by an airline representative. The flight was overbooked, and they offered him $900, a stay at an airport motel, and his supper if he would wait until the morning to fly out. He didn't consult her. He didn't think about what they could do with the money. He said, "No". He wanted to be with his bride. He says simply, "I'm a romantic", and leaves whistling an old love song that we all should hear.

Open Hands

It's been a week of emotional and spiritual highs and lows. One of fighting giving in to my feelings versus holding on to my faith. And it's only Wednesday.

This quote is helping me...

"Living a life of faith means never knowing where you are being led, but it does know loving and knowing the one who is leading. It is literally a life of faith, not of understanding and reason--a life of knowing him who calls us to go." (Oswald Chambers)

Trying to stand with open hands, palms up, eyes closed--trusting.

The Skinny on My Mocha

According to a recent article in More Magazine (subtitle: "smart talk for smart women"), coffee may help women stay sharp. Researchers in France, who I'm sure were drinking those tiny little espressos, smoking and eating cheese, studied the effect of caffeine on 7,000 men and women. Running tests over the course of 4 years, they found that the women who drank the most caffeine (the equivalent to 3 cups or 300 milligrams a day), were better at remembering words and "less likely to lose their nonverbal memory than those who drank less caffeine." They think it has something to do with how the caffeine interacts with "estrogen receptors in the brain". To which I thought, "aaahh, I have estrogen receptors in my brain interacting with a stimulating substance! Great!" Researchers also found that it didn't have any effect on men's cognitive abilities. Bummer for them, although I'm encouraged that it doesn't stimulate testosterone receptors in their brains. Although that would explain the popularity of Starbucks.

My son started working at Starbucks a few months ago, so all this is great news for me. An avowed tea drinker for years (which is NOT the same as being a "teetotaler"), I started drinking coffee only a few years ago when I started working full time. It started with Mochas, which we all know are a gateway drug, and has progressed to Sulawesi Bold (still with non-fat cream & sugar, please). I think it was just a coincidence that my growing fondness for coffee and my new everyday-going-to-work-outside-the-home schedule coincided, but it was a great convergence. And now that we get a free pound of coffee every week, which is more than we drink in...I don't know--I haven't really figured out the timeline yet--but several weeks, I can indulge for significantly less moola. So, bring on the cognitive skills tests! Quiz me on what states Obama won! Ask me the name of that person I met last week! Just don't expect me to drink it black-I don't want to overstimulate my estrogen receptors, you know.

Life--as we overcome

From "My Utmost for His Highest" by Oswald Chambers:

"We all have many dreams and aspirations when we are young, but sooner or later we realize we have no power to accomplish them. We cannot do the things we long to do, so our tendency is to think of our dreams and aspirations as dead. But God comes and says to us, "Arise from the dead . . . ." When God sends His inspiration, it comes to us with such miraculous power that we are able to "arise from the dead" and do the impossible. The remarkable thing about spiritual initiative is that the life and power comes after we "get up and get going." God does not give us overcoming life— He gives us life as we overcome. When the inspiration of God comes, and He says, "Arise from the dead . . . ," we have to get ourselves up; God will not lift us up."

Stoke the Fire

February. Michigan. Snow. Sub-zero windchills. "I hate this state. I hate the snow. I hate my commute." said my husband after a particularly bad drive home. Me, in my eternal optimist guise, remarked, "You're being quite the pessimist." "If you can't be pessimistic in Michigan in February, when can you be?" He got me on that one. I could have shared that I'd been fighting a funk of my own for several days.

And it had been one of those days. You know, the ones where it feels like everyone needs a little piece of you? I'm finding the problem is I like the idea of being a mentor, helping those that are a little newer in their faith-walk move forward and grow. I like the idea of coming alongside those I minister with and listening and encouraging them. I like the idea of it. The problem is sometimes I just don't like the work of it. And it does involve work.

It can be hard to set aside what you're focused on and really listen to someone who is lonely. It takes patience to offer counsel to someone who is struggling with the same issue today as yesterday, and often the day before. It can be soul-wearying to encourage a co-worker when the same critics are continuing to drain the life and joy out of their ministry week after week. Doing these things is more than work. It's sacrifice. It's laying aside your own agenda, your own to-do list, your own life. It's choosing to lay your time on the altar as a sacrifice. Choosing to lay your stuff on the altar as a sacrifice. Choosing to lay your self on the altar as a sacrifice. It's never easy. It's usually very, very hard. Sacrifice always involves giving up something we hold dearly. What I always seem to forget though, is that God gives it back to you in a myriad of ways. He provides. He strengthens. And in the giving up, He gives joy.

Even in February. In Michigan. In snow. In sub-zero temperatures. So, burn something on the altar this week. See if it doesn't warm you up a little bit.

A Peaceful Home...in HD

My mom and dad just bought a new TV. This was a major event, since the old one was NOT broken. This is unusual for them, coming out of the era where upgrading meant they put gravel on the dirt road by the house. And 2 TVs! We may have had a phone in every room (ok, not the bathrooms) growing up but that was only because dad worked for AT&T and got cast-offs for free. Two TVs would have been just...excessive, decadent even. But, they recognized the coming of digital broadcasting and realized they would need to have the capability and those HD flat screens just looked awfully good. At least, that's the reasoning they gave as a couple.
Individually...
Dad: "We got a new TV and put the old one in the basement. Even bought another DVD player. That way when I want to watch a show, I can do it without mom talking to me or talking on the phone during the whole thing."
Mom: "We got a new TV and put the old one in the basement. Dad even picked up another DVD for down there. That way Dad can watch his nature shows and history movies and I don't have to sit through them!
Did I mention they just celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary?

Real Grown Ups:Stories of people that are well on their way to being "mature"

Skiing out west is not a vacation for wimps. Each day, you have to get up early (if you are serious), pull on layers of clothes, check and double check your gear (did I get my chapstick, neck gator, mittens?), drive to the mountain on treacherous roads, carry your skis and poles from the always distant parking lot while wearing boots that are designed to hold your calves “comfortably” in a bent knee stance (good for skiing, stupid for walking), in an altitude that your lungs are not accustomed to, in temperatures that are usually unpleasant. Are we having fun yet? We pay for this experience! Ahh, but once we are schussing downhill in knee deep powder, it all becomes worth it. The world comes into focus and we say “This is EPIC!” Or at least that’s what my son-in-law says, but I would agree. But as with many ‘epic’ sports, I am cautious--an intermediate that knows my limits. I can comfortably navigate the “blues” (medium difficulty runs), but draw the line at mountain black diamonds (most difficult).

So I found myself at Copper Mountain, CO, taking a Blue Tour while the rest of my fam hit the steeps and sought out the free snowcat skiing in the back bowls. In our blue group of 5, I quickly assessed that I was the youngest (trust me, it was obvious), and that myself and another gentleman named Les, were probably the best skiers. We soon found out that it was possible to ride the snowcat up the mountain, and ski down behind it on what would be a really cool blue-level run. When I expressed interest, Les offered to come and try it too. We used the buddy system, watching out for each other and exchanging small talk. He was from Washington State, a retired nuclear physicist (I managed to say nuclear correctly, avoiding a Bush moment!) who was on an extended ski vacation. His wife had not been skiing with him recently due to a knee replacement. He planned to ski 14 out of 16 days. We were well matched in skiing ability. So as my husband quipped to Les “either you ski like a 42 year old woman, or my wife skis like a 70 year old man!”

Yes, Les was 70 and 2 months old. After asking if we minded him joining us for lunch and afternoon skiing, he shared a bit more with us. He had climbed 7 of the ‘14ers’ in Colorado (mountains over 14,000’) and had climbed Annapurna, a mountain in Nepal (26,538 ft the 10th-highest summit in the world). He had worked as a glacier guide.

When I asked him how he had met his wife, Betty, he told a rather long story of an ill-fated hike many years ago. Due to bad weather and other mishaps, he had ended up hiking quite a bit with Betty. He was married at the time, they became hiking friends on the trip. A couple of years later, he arrived home following a conference in Chicago to find a note from his wife saying she was leaving him. With surprising emotion in his voice for an event that happened almost 40 years before, he said, "her father had a lot to do with that". “So what did you do?” I asked. “I went and found Betty”, he replied. They have been married 39 years.

A long marriage like that is not for wimps. You have to do things that you aren’t accustomed to and go through things that are often unpleasant. You have to look out for each other when things are treacherous and carry each others burdens. It’s only accomplished through sacrifice. But when you take that kind of risk, and plunge into that kind of love, it is truly “epic”.

like a mockingbird

"...a mockingbird spent the day in my yard singing.
He never stopped all day, shifting from birdsong to birdsong, never repeating. He had other sounds in his repertoire, some that sounded like owls or tiny foghorns. And it was impossible not to laugh listening to him shift from one song to another. "He's showing off," said my daughter, and I thought he was right to, showing how worldly he was, how far he had come, what he now knew that he wasn't born knowing."

Excerpt from "Still Life With Chickens" by Catherine Goldhammer

"I'm sorry, I didn't quite get that.."

There is a new FREE! online service called Jott. With upbeat promises like "Never forget anything again!" and "Get more done every day!" and the endorsement of my boss (who is always finding the latest techie time savers) I signed up. With Jott, you simply call the Jott number programmed into your phone and wait for a friendly female voice to say "Who do you want to Jott?". You then say "me" or the name of any number of people you have set up online to receive your Jotts. The line then beeps and you leave a message of up to 30 seconds long. Jott then sends your message as an email or text message (you choose) to the destination you have programmed. There is also a feature for sending messages to individual folders, thus maximizing the efficiency.


Cool! If there was ever something an over 40 brain could use it's something to help it remember things. Like when you're driving to the store and go, "I forgot to call Jethro back today!" or "Remember to buy sticky notes!". When you get to work the next day, your email reminder is there waiting. You can leave other people Jotts, a feature my boss is already using for those times he remembers something as he's driving away that he meant to ask me to do. Very handy! I have just one problem. Jott and, as I've recently discovered, other electronic voice readers, don't always understand me. When the voice says "Who do you want to Jott?" I often have to say "me" several times, each time with a slightly higher, more nasally pitch. "I'm sorry, I didn't quite get that?" says the voice. "If you need help, say 'help'," she helpfully suggests. "Of course I need help I think. That's why I'm using this darn service! Rats! Now I don't even remember what I needed to remember!


I had the same experience trying to retrieve our errant oversized luggage after our ski trip. Due to a flight delay in Denver, we jumped on an earlier flight, assured our bags would make it (yes, we are gullible). Four did, but our skis and snowboard had to be sent later to a nearby airport. There were some major storms and they were delayed several days. In the meantime, I had to keep calling the airline to check on their whereabouts, so we could pick them up when they arrived. The friendly female voice and I communicated beautifully through airport destinations and arrival dates. After locating the correct files, she asked for my last name.

"Mallard", I said slowly and clearly.
"I believe you said 'N-a-v-o-r-y'," said the voice. "Is this correct?"
"No"
"My apologies, please say your name again."
"Mallard", I said, trying to speak crisply, without a hint of my still somewhat evident Hoosier accent.
"I believe you said 'Z-a-m-o-r-o-f-f'," said the voice. "Is this correct?"
"No!" I said forcefully. "I can't believe this thing!" I said to my husband sitting nearby.
"I'm sorry, I didn't quite get that." said the voice calmly.
"I wasn't talking to you! I'd like to speak to an agent."
"I'll transfer you to an agent, but first I need some more information. What is your last name?"
"Arrgh!!"
"Transferring you to an agent."

This happened every time I called to varying degrees. Eventually we spoke to an actual person and then drove to the airport and got all of our stray luggage.


For the most part, my Jotts have come through clearly and I'm finding it is a useful tool. But there was the one that I sent to a friend encouraging them after they had had some difficult but neccessary interactions with people. I told them they did a good job speaking truth into their lives. But I'm not sure what I meant by "Be Skate. Live this week." Seems like good advice though.

Early Bloomer

I've always been a bit ahead of myself age-wise. My mom told me the other day that I was able to say the pledge of allegience, my ABC's, and other amazing things when I was only 18 months old! I was walking at 7 or 9 months (I can't remember which). I have distinct detailed memories from my great-grandfather's funeral when I was 3--confirmed by relatives at the event. I breezed through school and then started 'adult' life earlier than most when I got married at 18.4 years old. No, I didn't 'have' to. No, people from the south don't get married younger (well, maybe statistically they do, but not in my social circle of the time). I just wanted to. I met a great guy, 5 years farther into adulthood, and I fell in love. We married and moved 500 miles away from my family.

After 3 whole years of marriage, which we both deemed long enough-by what or whose standards I don't know-we had our daughter. About 3 years later, our son. And with that I skipped right over college life and career struggle into 'mommyhood'. I still remember when my son started kindergarten. Watching the other moms sniffle and linger saying goodbye, I felt a more than a little guilty that I felt like whooping and celebrating over a few hours of freedom from the constant kid-tug at my leg. And I felt just a little rebellious for smiling at the thought of a few minutes of grown up time.

And then suddenly, here I am, an almost 'empty-nester' at the ripe young age of 42. My daughter married and moved out (thankfully both) in June. My son, though still living at home, between college, work, and girlfriend uses his room like an inexpensive motel room--sleep, shower, watch a little TV (in varying order) and leave. There is even that scary 'I could be a grandma' thought that surfaces now and then, even though my daughter and son are doing their best to delay that blessing for a while. And though I did sniffle a little (ok, a lot) at her leaving and I'm still lingering over letting go of both of them, there is a little part of me that is celebrating a little over the thought of this new kind of freedom and grown up time. Who knows-I might just do something amazing. At the very least, whoop it up a little.

Real Grown Ups: stories of people that are well on their way to being ‘mature’

Dorothy L., caretaker of homeless veterans
I met Dorothy on the plane coming home from a Colorado ski trip. After switching planes due to flight delays, I found myself in the dreaded middle seat. I managed to get a Nigerian man to switch places with my husband, so he could sit next to me on the aisle, and settled in with the Sky Mall magazine (“we could use one of those!”). Dorothy and I soon struck up a quiet conversation. She was from Boulder, flying to Chattanooga to visit her daughter. I helped her clean up her spilled bag of potato chips as she remarked about the frustration of getting old. She confirmed with a flight attendant that they would have a wheelchair waiting for her in Chicago, confiding that though she could walk fine, she got too confused these days and feared getting lost in the airport.

We talked about Boulder being an interesting place to live—an active, young college town. A spiritual town as well, with “always some new guru” pushing a new book or meditative idea. Her daughter and a son in Las Vegas had tried to get her to move, but she likes living there too much. She grew up in Summit County, where her grandfather was a butcher in the Leadville area. She told me the story of “Silverheels”, the heart of gold prostitute known for the silver shoes she wore. According to the Colorado legend, Silverheels was the only one who stayed behind to nurse the ailing miners when smallpox hit their mining town. Unfortunately, she contracted the pox, and though she lived, was permanently scarred. After the epidemic passed, she shut herself away in her mountainside cabin, and when the recovered miners delivered a collection they had gathered on her behalf, they found the cabin empty, the silver shoes left behind. In her honor, they named the place Mount Silverheels.

Dorothy lost her son a few years ago to “an extended illness”. He was a veteran—I suppose of the Gulf War. She said she promised him she would volunteer to help vets after his death. She wanted to help at the Paralyzed Veterans of America chapter, but it was too far across town. So, she started taking in homeless people, with a focus on vets. She currently lives in only 2 rooms in her house, and lets 3 or 4 homeless people live in the other rooms. She also works at a local hospital, but gives all the money she makes “to the poor”. “I had a near-death experience. The tunnel, bright light and all that. It changed my life.” She says after that, she realized that it was much more fulfilling to give things away. Sometimes she goes to an area in Boulder called “The Morgue” because of the many homeless deaths, carrying bags of fast food. Like “playing Santa”, she remarks. Her family understandably is not happy about her current living situation. But Dorothy seems to be a person that doesn’t really care what others think. At 77 years old, she’s earned the right to ask for a wheelchair delivery between airport gates. At 77 years old, maybe she feels like she doesn’t have that much to lose. Or maybe she’s just learned, like Lady Silverheels, that the things that bring the most pleasure, the things we will be loved for and remembered for, are often acts of great sacrifice and love, worth the risk, even if those acts may result in scars.

A Shock to My System

I’m the same age as Brooke Shields, model (“Nothing comes between me and my Calvins”) and actress (Blue Lagoon, short lived TV show “Suddenly Susan”). Technically, she’s a month and a half older than me, a fact that would have been important when I was 7, but not so much now that I’m 42. In a recent interview she’s quoted as saying “I keep thinking I’m younger than I am. The other day, I was working with a photographer to recreate an image we had done years ago. When I saw my face, I kind of went, ‘What is that?’ I assumed I was going to look the same, and I didn’t. It was a shock to my system.” Shields, a model and actress, must be photographed almost daily and surely has watched herself on film recently (she is in a new TV show, “Lipstick Jungle”). And yet, she was shocked to see herself? Or at least, shocked to see her self as she really is.

I don’t really find this that hard to believe. I’m not photographed often at all and although I was recently caught on a camera phone playing my son-in-law’s new electric guitar, I rarely see myself on film. But there are times when I do see a picture or catch myself on an in-store camera screen and go-“What is that?” We sometimes get a picture of ourselves in our heads and it stays there, in a sort of body image limbo. We do a double take and ask “Where did that 20-30-40 year old go? Where did that more mature, lightly-lined face come from? Did I always look like this much like my mother?”
The same goes for the inner self. It’s easy to find myself living in the image of myself that had been my status quo for years: mostly stay-at-home Mom (with the chauffeuring, laundry, and meal prep that go along with that), part-time music teacher, part-time volunteer worker, available for lunch with friends most days. It had a wardrobe, an image, a routine that while varying wildly from day to day, was pretty predictable and safe. But with age comes change. I began working full time 3 years ago. In the past year my only son graduated from high school and started college, my only daughter got married, and both my parents and in-laws celebrated their 50th wedding anniversaries. The landscape of my life has changed. I look at my daily and weekly routine and go “What is that?” And though I never assumed it was going to look the same, it has still been a shock to my system.

Little by little, I’m embracing this new life stage. It has its perks-no more driving kids around to their events, no more need to have dinner on the table at a certain time each night, less teenage angst to deal with, more time to myself, more quiet weekends. It has its pitfalls-becoming too work focused, going out to eat too much, watching too much TV winter evenings. This blog is born out of this time. I’m eager for a creative outlet, feeling a need to pour out some of what other’s have poured into my life over the years. I hope to share some of their stories and the impact they’ve had on me. I want to share thoughts, images, and articles about ‘growing up’ in a deliberate way. I want to look back at this time in my life in a few years and not have to say “What was that?” but instead see that I did my best to grow up gracefully.