Is This Life?

Is this life?

Lying still in bed

Never aware -- no way to know

That others care

No means to

Let go a giggle

Stifle a yawn

Shed a tear

Rise early by the dawn

See the sun shine

Spread warmth and cheer?

Is this life?

Day in and out

Always alone

With every thought

Up and down

Work all day

Home to hear

No one say

How did it go?

I hope it was great

But must have been busy

Since you're so late

Just couldn't wait

To have you home

Time for us

To be alone.

Is this life?

Through manmade power

Making hearts beat

If just another hour --

Or day week, month or year

With eyes, arms or ears

Too blind to see

Nor touch, nor hear

Nor can feel

A bird in a tree

A buzzing bee

Screaming sirens in the night

Noisy crickets out of sight

Trains on tracks

Keyboard-thumping computer hacks

A hug

What is life -- without a hug?

Forget the Status Quo. This is the Year of the Checkup!

That's the way we've always done it.
That's our tradition.
We've been doing okay.




The status quo -- the current state -- can be a dangerous condition.   Maintaining the status quo can cause businesses to fail, untreated illness and disease to denigrate the body, families to fall apart, and houses to collapse.


You are offered one illustration, one attempt to persuade you of the peril of maintaining the status quo, with economical use of verbiage.  This is apropo, since the status quo the members of the Texas 18th Congressional District this writing attempts to encourage to change, involves one whose verbosity is legendary.  Here is the one illustration:


For more than a decade the Texas 18th Congressional District ("the 18th") has been malnourished, existing on an unbalanced diet of doubtful nutritional benefit.   In all this time the 18th has not taken advantage of free biannual checkups, and instead has plodded along, content to continue its current existence.  After so many years of abuse (maintaining the status quo), the 18th is now plagued with all kinds of ailments:  rotting teeth, abscessed cavities, halitosis, acid reflux, hypertension, and more.




How much longer must the 18th go on like this?  Fortunately, not long, for this is the year of the checkup, a process which begins with registering to vote no later than February 1, and then voting for a new remedy in the primary election on February 16.  The new remedy is Jarvis Johnson.


Consider the benefits of the checkup:  an opportunity to develop new eating habits, repair damage to and rejuvenate the body, learn some new fitness techniques, get some nutrition tips, and basically get a makeover -- or if that term doesn't suit you -- an overhaul.   Whatever floats your boat -- just be sure to take advantage of the free checkup.

That Four-Word Sentence: Part I -- DTCs

Don't you find acronyms annoying?  I do, especially since there are few that are truly unique.  Take DTC for example.  I Googled DTC just to see what the results would be. Am I referring to Domain Technologies Control?  Dallas Theater Center?  How about Diversified Technology Consultants?  No; at least not this time.


In this Part I of That Four-Word Sentence, the focus is on DTC advertising -- direct to consumer advertising.  Isn't all -- or most advertising direct to consumer?  Sure.  But there are some goods and services that are consumed by each of us, to which the average consumer does not have direct access.  Take pharmaceuticals, for example.  Have you ever wondered why pharmaceutical companies advertise so heavily now?


The Prescription Drug Marketing Act established safeguards for advertising pharmaceuticals to the general public.  Advertising guidelines for pharmaceutical companies were changed around 1997, and in a seven-year span DTC advertising quintupled.  With this tiny snippet of background, fast-foward to January 2010.  This is what's happening:

• Pharmaceutical companies court the FDA, seeking approval of the latest and greatest, or new and improved prescription drug.  
• The FDA approves the drug.
• Pharmaceutical companies inundate the public with commercials about drugs designed to treat common ailments like depression, overactive bladders, erecticle dysfunction, and even some that many folks never knew existed until the commercial was aired.  (How about restless leg syndrome?  I never heard of that before.)
• The ads instruct consumers to ask their doctors about (Rx).
• The ads include warnings about possible side effects.  (Notice the chipmunk-like speed at which these warnings are given.  I am reminded of the tiny, extra-fine print that is used for car commercials.)
• In the meantime, pharmaceutical sales representatives descend on doctors' offices, promoting the new wonder drug du jour, leaving samples in abundance, and gifts for doctors in God-only-knows what proportions.
• Sales skyrocket!
• Next come the ads from law firms, encouraging anyone who has suffered the side effects of whatever drug to call a toll-free number to determine if the consumer has a claim.
• Lawsuits are filed, sometimes multi-party cases involving large numbers of Plaintiffs claiming damage from taking the (Rx) prescription.
• Courts are clogged with cases.  Cases are routinely referred to mediation (woe unto the folks who actually thought they would stand in front of that judge or have their day in court).  Generally, Texas being a "Good Old Boy" state, the appointed mediators are chosen judges showering unmerited favor on their good-old-boy buddies.

The four-word sentence of the day:  It's all about money.  So, where does it go?

1. Ad companies
2. Media
3. Pharmaceutical companies
4. Doctors
5. Pharmacies 
6. Lawyers 
7. Mediators

Indeed, it's all about money.

The Plague of Complacency: Why I Support Jarvis Johnson for Congress

Normally when I sit to write a blog, the sitting to do so is preceded by much thought, sometimes over a period of days or weeks.  Today's blog is not the case.  (I am well aware that I started a series about 4-word sentences and have published nothing other than the introduction, but this is indeed an emergency.)


So, what's the emergency?  As usual, I'm glad you asked.   One of my Facebook friends actually invited me to become a fan of person I have many years considered unfit for duty!


And, what's the big deal about that?  Again, I'm glad you asked.  Complacency is the big deal.  Complacency is what has  had a stranglehold on the 18th Congressional District ("the 18th") since 1995.  Complacency, and its first cousin, apathy have allowed the 18th Congressional District to be inhabited by a person, who like one of her, probably, most well-known predecessors, Barbara Jordan, is an American woman of African descent.  I dare say that is where the comparison stops.  Anything beyond that would have to be considered contrast. 


Unlike Barbara Jordan, who left the office too soon, according to most folks who remember her, the current 18th Congressional Representative has far outlived her usefulness in that capacity.  It appears that she needs to be reminded that the boundaries of her district do not extend to Jasper, Texas or the sunny state of California.  While the murder of Mr. Byrd via dragging was a most horrific event, and the demise of pop star Michael Jackson touched the hearts of many, these are just two of untold escapades of Mrs. Lee that have nothing to do with her work for the folks of the 18th.  If these extracurricular activities were not so commonplace, the common folks of the 18th might hear something other than lame excuses when they call their Representative for assistance.   This is not what I heard; this is what I know.   Of course, it is understandable that a Representative who does 99% of the talking and only 1% of the listening, would not have a clue.


While our current Representative may be a fine person, a good wife, mother, or whatever, she has far outlived her usefulness in the 18th.    It is time for the 18th to give Mrs. Lee a performance evaluation.   Other than making quickie appearances at church, community and sorority banquets, picking up plaques to commemorate God only knows what kind of award, honing in on press conferences that have absolutely nothing to do with the business of the 18th, and maintaining a staff who first checks to see if a caller is on the voter registration rolls before announcing that they have so many hundreds of thousands of constituents (which means they don't have time for the caller), one can only wonder what tasks regarding, relating or pertaining to the concerns of 18th ever get accomplished.


For years I have dutifully showed up at the polls to cast my vote against Mrs. Lee, all the while wondering why my fellow 18th'ers cannot see the big picture.  Unfortunately, there had been no candidate that even she considered viable competition -- until now.   I have known of Jarvis Johnson for years.  He has worked in the 18th before being elected to City Council.  He is a well respected man whose values are reflected in the way he lives.  People don't just know of him; they know him because he is visible and involved in the community where he has helped to bring viable improvements to its infrastructure and quality of life.  Leading by example is his mantra, and leading by example is what he does.


Now is the time for the 18th Congressional District to fire its representative.  They can only do that by going to the polls and VOTING!   There is NO TIME for COMPLACENCY, nor for its cousin, APATHY.  Believe and know that your vote is important enough to matter.  Make sure your vote is counted!  


For these reasons and more, I SUPPORT JARVIS JOHNSON FOR CONGRESS.

Haiti: A Message from Steve Wells, South Main Baptist Church

Just as my pastor does, I believe that the local church is the hope of the world. No time is that more true than in times of disaster. Like Hurricane Katrina, and now, the disaster in Haiti. Long after other relief agencies are gone, the churches will still be caring for communities. I know, because church like mine (South Main Baptist in Houston, Texas) have missionaries who live in other parts of the world. We are blessed to have these folks present to worship with us maybe once a year. My church also sponsors mission trips several times a year, during which members of our congregation go to places, among others, like Mexico to do construction and Peru to provide much-needed medical and dental services. Those of us who stay behind help with tasks to contribute to the completion of these missions. For these reasons, I take this time and space to share with you a message from Steve Wells, Senior Pastor of South Main Baptist Church.



As you are no doubt aware, the island nation of Haiti has experienced massive devastation in the wake of a serious earthquake and a series of aftershocks. We need to pray for the people of Haiti, and we need to add our efforts to our prayers. The finance and missions committees have authorized a special offering to provide relief to the people of Haiti. We will receive the offering for the next two weeks. Monies given to this offering will be forwarded to Baptist World Aid, the relief agency of the Baptist World Alliance and to the Cooperative Baptist Fellowship. Both BWA and CBF have people in country now and will have an ongoing ministry presence in the years to come. CBF has field personnel in country and BWA directly relates to the two national Baptist conventions on the island. So the monies we provide will be distributed through established and ongoing networks. You can learn more about the Cooperative Baptist Fellowship on their website (thefellowship.info) and the Baptist World Alliance on their website (bwanet.org). Please pray for the people of Haiti and if you feel led to help financially, please give to this special offering by marking your check or envelope "Haiti." Grace and peace, Steve

That Four-Word Sentence: Introduction

Have you ever wondered why things are they way they are?  How stuff gets so fouled up?   How we (yes, all of us) have really made a mess of things?

What things?   You dare ask?   Just stand still a moment.  You might even want to sit.  Now, just look around and take stock.   . . .

What's that?  You don't see anything wrong?  Well, maybe wrong is the wrong word to use.  Without labeling conditions -- the situation -- just open your eyes and take stock of what you see.

..................................................................


This is the start of a new series the writer has been mulling over for months, fretting about whose feet might get stepped on (including her own), whose feelings might be hurt, who might take offense, blah, blah blah.  Then she had a thought:  Is this still the United States of America?  Well, I guess so.  Do you still have the constitutional right of freedom of speech?  Well, I'm supposed to.  Are you a hate monger?  Are you going to write anything to incite the masses to turn into angry mobs and perhaps kill the POTUS or even Palin the Pathetic?  Nope.  That's just not my style.  And besides, my stuff is not read by "the masses."  Then, what are you waiting for?  Duh . . .


......................................................................................................................


So, having decided to come out of the closet again, this writer has decided to proceed with this series.  As for  an explanation of the title, hold on for Part I.

A GodWink: The Personal, Handwritten Note

Alright texters, hear this:   You can exchange quick little snippets day and night on your mobile devices, laughing out loud, rolling on the floor or whatever, but you've not really lived until you've received a card via U.S. mail (you might call it "snail mail"), handwritten, addressed directly to you, and inside a note, handwritten, to you, and to you only.  


Today I retrieved such a treasure from my post office box, sent by a wonderful woman, a member of my church  whom I rarely see, and usually then only from a distance, but whose countenance and spirit exude such peace and love that it is just a good thing to behold her, wave to her and exchange smiles from across a room or down a hallway.  Her smile spreads warmth that can be felt, like a nice Pashmina draped over shivering shoulders, or the hooded "house coat" that belonged to my Sweet Pea's paternal grandmother, and in which Sweet Pea likes to wrap herself and hunker down for comfort.


On a day like today, [of which I wrote in my previous blog (Remembering Mr. G)], haunted by a premonition that something wasn't quite right, I received this precious and priceless gift of spiritual affirmation and encouragement, opening it just at the moment when I was about to lecture God on the relevance of human contact.  (Yes, I do have some nerve!)   Before I could plow into my soapbox speech (Now, God, I know You see me down here . . . . .), as I opened the card and began reading, God winked at me, and stilled my tongue and my thoughts.


So what's the big deal?   Think about what goes into the production of The Personal, Handwritten Note.

• someone has to think of you
• the thought of you has to be so compelling that the thinker is prompted to act
• in case you haven't tried it lately, and especially if your handwriting is like mine, some effort is invested to write complete, coherent thoughts that another person will be able to read, filter and understand the intended message
• there is some sacrifice involved, as in placing one's thoughts on paper, the writer is sending a part of him/herself
• the writer invests resources of paper, ink, envelope and stamp (for some this may not be a big deal, but whether great or small, the person who thought of you evidently thinks you're worth the effort)

As one who lives closely with Technology (yes, just as The Personal, Handwritten Note is capitalized, so has Technology taken personage, just like The Weight [lots of which I need to lose, but that's for another blog on another day]), and as much as I appreciate Technology which affords me abilities beyond my own humanity, the satisfaction of acquiring the many computers and peripheral devices I have acquired over the last 20 years, or working my magic as one of my lawyers still says today (even after 22 years of magic), cannot in any way measure up to the warmth and gratification of receiving The Personal, Handwritten Note.

Remembering Mr. G

Just now I learned that I lost a friend.  One might think us an unlikely pair to befriend each other.  He was old enough to be my father and from a socio-economic background and a side of Houston that in my childhood I would not have known existed. but for television.  Still, we had some crucial commonalities:  belief in God, a sense of fairness, trying to do the right thing, wanting to make things right when they're not, what marriage is supposed to be about (even though we are both divorced), an observation of folks' penchant for power and the corruptibility of such.   He was no saint, and would freely admit it.  Although I knew his name well and had known of him for 30 years or so, had he not needed my legal support services, we would never have met.

We had not known each other long, and our visits were generally no more frequent than bi-weekly.  But during those visits when our work was done, we took time to converse.  The subject matter of our discussions was not frivolous, nor their content pretty or politically correct.  We both spoke in a plain, straight-forward manner, and while respectful of each other, we never shied away from the issues of race, gender, wealth, professions, or any other factor pertinent to our discourse.  While we did not butt heads, he did observe and respect my willingness to question his positions and my unwillingness to rubber-stamp his declarations.  

I expected to see him yesterday, but never received a call to establish a time for our visit.  Since I last spoke with him either Christmas Eve or the day before (right now I'm now quite sure which), he has weighed heavily on my mind, more so than usual.  As I thought of him early this morning, I realized that I was more concerned about not having heard from him for the sake of hearing from him, than not having heard from him for the sake of whatever task he would ask me to tackle next.  And in my driving around Houston yesterday and today, I realized that I was thinking of him more than I was listening to my own music.  Now I understand why.  

My friend was as genuine and down-to-earth as any man or woman I have ever known.  His voice was as rich and resonant as his face was smiling and friendly.  His parents named him well, as in many ways he was his name personified, even while, during the time of our acquaintance, the last year of his life, he admits that he did not always do that name justice.

I soon recovered from the initial shock of the news.  So, why speak of my friend now, especially in a way that says he is not due to be canonized?  It is simply for the reason that I am reminded that none of us have come here to stay -- even if we want to, or try to.  Life is a gift of indeterminate ticks of the clock.  True, many of those ticks have been wasted by all of us in some quantity or another.  In hindsight my friend saw that waste and was trying to do better.  And today each of our "hindsights" can be used to plot a clearer, surer, more sustainable path to the future.  Notice I did not say an easier path.  As some of us can attest, it is one's quest for the easier path that can cause one to waste many ticks of the clock.

Well?  What about you?

The Real Joy of Christmas -- Part II

Here it is:  the evening of Christmas Day.


This writer's premature commencement of celebrating the Day began in early December with active participation in Christmas concerts with the Houston Choral Society and Antioch Baptist Church, followed by the mid-month Christmas Candlelight Concert at South Main Baptist Church, and then two Christmas Eve worship services (5:00 p.m. and 11:00 p.m.) at South Main, and two really nice gatherings -- one with family and one with friends.  


And what about today?  The Day?  
Events?  Nicht
Concerts?  Nada
Parties?  Nein
Lots and lots of presents?  Beaucoup -- but not the tangible ones of which most folks will think.


Today was a day of uncommon peace.  No frenzied phone calls.  No traffic.  No let me think about it response after I laid out a myriad of reasons why The "X" Plan is right for my audience.  No.  No.  No.  Today I overslept, not being fully awake until 9:00 -- that's normally mid-morning.  So what was the day all about?  Nothing.  And everything.


Today I joined my daughter and her husband for an afternoon meal at one of the finest rehabilitation facilities, located in the Texas Medical Center.   We joined a close family friend who has been encsconced there for a few weeks now.  We ate a meal prepared and served by folks who were not on "holiday," which made me try to imagine what was going through one man's mind as he handed me a plate of Cornish hen, yams, green bean casserole and a wheat roll, with a smile and a Merry Christmas!.  The free-flowing fountain of carbonated beverages was bypassed in favor of a bottle of Tropicana Pure Premium orange juice with some pulp.  (Why drink trashily when there's good stuff to be had?)  I stood at the checkout, wondering what happened to the cashier, and when I stopped a passing employee, she said It's on us today.  Merry Christmas!


Visiting a place like TIRR can put one face-to-face with the results of one's mistakes or the bad decisions of others, resulting in severely broken bodies, or, as in the case of our friend, an illness visited upon him without invitation or provocation; it just sneaked in one day and made itself at home.  Our quiet visit was often interrupted by my son-in-law (truly he is an angel on special assignment to see after my Sweet Pea), as he would leave our table to assist other TIRR residents in their high-tech wheelchairs, and their guests as they maneuvered among the tables to be seated.


In the countenance of a young teen we saw the rawest anger, so strong that it pierced my heart.   We saw a woman, perhaps my age or a little older, with the sweetest spirit, so sweet that Daughter could not help but comment.   In a moment of bare-naked candor, Daughter asked our TIRR resident:  When did you stop being angry?  He replied, I was never angry, just afraid.  I would wake up and survey my body, starting with my toes and working my way up to determine if anything was different; and sometimes there were differences; that would make me afraid.  But after the second surgery, I wasn't afraid anymore.  


After our meal we returned our TIRR resident to his room, and as he got situated, Daughter said you know, any of us could be in here.  I know I've had some close calls.  But this has made me mindful to be careful.  Our TIRR resident agreed, adding that he knows that, comparatively speaking, he's still in pretty good shape.  


I stood at the window, looking out over the forest of concrete and steel in the Texas Medical Center, thinking about all that our TIRR friend has endured:  an illness that spans three decades, the unjust, unfair and unwarranted treatment visited upon him, the  people who could and should have stood by him and did not, and how when he answers his phone and is asked How're you doing? -- will always answer -- Pretty good.




So what about This Day?   That's what I've been talking about here.  Can't you see?  This day of uncommon peace had nothing to do with brightly wrapped packages containing tangible gifts.  The gift of this day is the uncommon peace -- the kind of peace in knowing that even though things are not as they once were, I'm still okay; that undeserved gifts and consequences deserved but withheld (we Believers refer them as Grace and Mercy) are blessings that go far beyond the inventories of the finest stores.  The gift of this day is the uncommon peace in seeing one who has every reason to be bitter and angry, resentful and hateful, and instead enjoys moments of scathing humor on the one hand, and deep-seated gratitude on the other.  After all, he's still in pretty good shape.


This day we celebrate what was, what is, and what is to come:  God in the flesh, coming to earth as a baby, growing into a man, gathering disciples, teaching them how to live, love, suffer, endure, and make more disciples, teaching them the same.  And one day, He will return.  That is the real joy of Christmas.

The Real Joy of Christmas: Part I

The Christmas season has become the most commercial time of the year, and each year it seems to start earlier than the year before.  Now, instead of the day after Thanksgiving, there is evidence of Christmas in retail stores before Halloween.

Every year we rack our brains

Trying to find the ultimate things.

When if we just sat still awhile,

We would save quite a mile

Of running hither and thither and yonder.

Running frantically, full of wonder.

What could it be that I could get

To give ultimate pleasure without much debt?

And all the while we wonder

If we will receive what we most want

What would it be like if we kept the Christmas sprit throughout the year?  – gifting our family and friends and the folks we don’t know that some of us only think about in December – we call them the poor  . . . the homeless.

What if we just gave from our hearts all through the year?  Would we be more reasonable and prudent with our resources?  Is there any other time of the year that folks typically go way overboard and beyond the bounds of their budgets?

Wouldn’t it be great to remember those who have less – or little – throughout the year?  I’ll bet you won’t believe this – but I tell you it’s the truth: you have never seen real gratitude until you have given a hungry person some food.

And you know what I’ve found?  When I really feel down, one thing that can pick me up is doing something for someone else.  It’s a whole lot better than searching for that perfect present – that car – that fur coat – that humongous chunk of compressed carbon (you may want to call it a diamond) – that Wii that's now $50 off and still too pricey -- that "free" $500 phone that enslaves you by means of a two-year contract -- and giving it to someone who may value the thing more than he or she values you.  (Take it from someone who was not valued by one who vowed to do so 'til death they parted!)  Don’t you think you’re worth more than a car?  A phone?  A fur?   A Wii?  Or a chunk of compressed carbon?

A Wealthy Woman Indeed

Thanksgiving Day 2008 marked the beginning of the end of my life as it had been for several years.  What followed were events that, even in retrospect and without experiencing the agonizing pain that accompanied them, I believe were the most egregious of my little life.  And right here, right now, on this Thanksgiving Eve 2009, I cannot help but have a profound sense of gratitude for the many ways God carried, consoled, encouraged, rescued and loved me.  He used the hands, arms, eyes, ears, feet and hearts of my family by birth and law, my family of faith at South Main Baptist Church, my business clients who are so much more than that, and two wonderfully gifted women who welcomed me into their labor of love for spreading the Good News through music.  And He used for good the acts that others meant to do me harm, all the while teaching me some painful and now much appreciated lessons.   My life is different now; a new chapter is in the making.  And most of all, I am at peace.  That makes me one of the richest people on earth -- a wealthy woman indeed.  What more is there?

My prayer for you, is that even in the darkest hour of your day, on the worst day of your life, and all others as well, that you know the peace of God which transcends all understanding, and that His peace will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.

And as my pastor Steve Wells would say:  Go with God's blessings; go with God's peace.

.

It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year

Already???   You think?

Today I went into the Greenway Plaza branch of my bank.  It's a tiny branch -- a little space at the end of one of those tall buildings on Richmond Avenue.  There isn't a drive-through; you have to actually park your vehicle, get out and walk into the bank.   For many on-the-go, don't-have-time-for-human-contact folks, this may be a hassle.  There was a time when I belonged to that group, BUT the joy of being able to walk has taken hold.  While I still live everyday with some degree of pain, today was one of those days when I didn't feel the need to avail myself of "accessible" parking, and despite the on-again/off-again rain, I reveled in my ability to ambulate well and without the assistance of my walking stick.

As I entered the bank I could not help but notice the CHRISTMAS tree (nope, I will not call it a "holiday" tree), and the CHRISTMAS wreath on the wall -- both very well done, sporting huge ornaments, richly colored with a matte finish.  It's the kind of tree I would like to have in my home -- if I was "tree" person.  The thing about this little branch of the bank, is that when one enters, the folks on duty who are not already engaged with a customer, actually speak.  Yeah, I know, they were probably trained to do that, but it's still nice to hear a greeting, especially ones that ring true.

I proceeded to the little desk to fill out my deposit slip, wondering when, if ever, there will be a sufficient amount of zeros to the left of the total's decimal point.  After completing the deposit slip, grateful for the opportunity to make a deposit (despite the perceived deficiency of zeros in the total), I was called up by a friendly voice:  may I help you? and came face-to-face with a genuinely friendly smile and sparkling eyes which were drawn almost immediately to my WWJD* tie.  She queried me, and I told her that I've had it so long I really don't remember where I purchased it.  Note to self:  search for WWJD stuff for Leticia.  I told her about my failing to represent this morning when I walked away from an unkind soul, saying to myself I don't have time for this !###!!.    I spoke of my disappointment in handling a situation with a young woman whose attitude and conduct wasted time from my day that could otherwise have been productive.  After a brief exchange with the woman, I referred to her as a b!#%# and a trollop.  Leticia put a spin on it:  At least she didn't say it to her; at least no one heard you.   With her help I acknowledged that I had to let that go and move forward.  Our conversation broadened, as we discovered by we are both members of a family of God called "South Main" -- hers in Pasadena, and mine "just a few miles down the street from here."  We spoke of the challenges of being Believers in a world where it seems okay to believe in everything and everyone else except Jesus Christ.  And, of course, we talked about this time of year, and concluded our conversation with a smile and a handshake.

Thank you, Leticia, for being in the right place at the right time to remind me how truly wonderful it is to embrace the Christian meaning of this time of the year, not only during this time of the year, but all throughout the year.


So why, with Thanksgiving Day being a week away, am I writing about this "time of the year" now?  Well, today an acquaintance, who loves this time of year, is concerned about how stressful it can be -- trying to get everything done.   My thought was why does it have to be stressful?  What things need to be done?


And so I leave you with these questions:  As you approach this time of year,

1. - what does it really mean to you?
2. - will you celebrate?
3. - if so, how will you celebrate?
4. - what do you expect to receive from it, and from whom?
5. - what do you expect to give because of it, and to whom?
6. - how will your life be different because of it?

Obstacles: Keeping the Main Thing the Main Thing (Part III)

Just a reminder:

1. This writing is not about bashing your religion.
2. This writing is not about bashing your denomination.
3. This writing is not about bashing you.
4. If you take offense, well, I'll finish this item 4 later . . .

In Part I of this writing, we discussed how one's appearance can be used to include or exclude one from the "table."

In Part II we talked about the woman factor -- how male dominance of today's religious organizations is based, at least in part, on a misinterpretation and mistranslation of the Scriptures.  We also talked about traditions, and how maintaining the status quo can hinder the work of the Kingdom.

Let us turn to circumstances.  What do you mean circumstances?  You know -- STUFF.   The stuff that you think YOU have to change BEFORE you accept the Main Thing.   The stuff that YOU think gets in the way of your getting to the Main Thing.

Last week, I believe, the three CSI series -- the "original" set in Las Vegas, along with the Miami and New York spinoffs, devoted their episodes for the week to a three-part story about the present-day exploitation of  young women in very ugly ways (and, frankly, some way beyond this writer's ability to conjure).  Having dutifully recorded each of the three shows, I watched them back-to-back.  A focal character, common to all three, was a young woman whose mother reported her missing.

Sidebar:  Throughout my viewing of these three episodes, I could not help but think how real the kinds of incidents incorporated into these works of fiction, really are, and that somewhere, right now in the United States, just as in other parts of the world, these things are happening for real.  I  thought of my Sunday School classmate and Facebook friend, Dr. Joan D___, whose daughter works tirelessly to fight 21st century slavery right here in the good old U.S.A.  

One can surmise that throughout the CSI three-parter, bodies and body parts were in good supply.  But at the very end, the young woman was found.  I'll spare you the gory details of all that happened to her; feel free to use your imagination.  When the young woman approaches Dr. Whomever (I don't know the CSI character's name, and it really isn't relevant), she asks:

How can I go back after all that has happened?

His reply is something to this effect:  All you have to do is walk through the door.


The young woman, via the "CSI," had received a text message from her mother which said, in essence:  I love you, I miss you, please come home, I want you back.

That really does say it all:  I love you, I miss you, please come home, I want you back.  So, I ask you this:

Have you ever done something so terrible that when you think about it you just cringe?  You might even shiver a little bit and wonder however could I have done that?  Something that you're absolutely not proud of and you a very ashamed of?  It just makes you groan inwardly when you hear about it or even think about it.  It just tears your heart out.

We've all done things of which we are not proud, of which we are ashamed.  But there is some good news here:  I am reminded of a sermon about second chances.  In this sermon were mentioned several folks --  well-known Biblical characters who are just like us.  They have problems and obstacles and challenges and successes and relationships.  And some of them abused their relationships, taking people for granted, and really messed over them, really bad.  But at the same time, those folks, when they realized the wrong that they had done, and were grievously sorry for it – do you know what they did?  They went to God and confessed their wrongdoing and asked Him for forgiveness.  And you know what?  In seeing them in their sorrow and knowing their hearts, He forgave them and gave them a second chance.


Most times, it takes more than a second chance; often there are third, fourth and even more chances - because we fall down.  The key is to get up.  God is so merciful that if your heart is sincere, He'll give you the chance you need to get up and try again.  Isn't that wonderful to know, that there is One to whom we can go, Who will wipe our slate clean and give us another chance?
 

So, how can you go back after all that has happened?  All you have to do is take the first step through that Door.  As one of my favorite songs goes:  Everytime I run back to Him, He is waiting with open arms . . .  Just as the mother waits for her wayward child to come back, even more so does the Father.  The obstacles that keep us from the Main Thing are not of his doing, but are those of others, and perhaps even yours.  The sad part is that the very ones who would serve to block others from the Main Thing, are as messed up as the rest of us.  In their ignorance, they let their rules, regulations, rituals, sorry Scriptural interpretations and traditions keep others -- and themselves -- from experiencing the joy of the Main Thing.


Well?  What obstacles prohibit you from keeping the Main Thing the Main Thing?  What is more important than being made righteous by faith in Jesus Christ?  Does your new suit do it for you?  How about those new pumps and matching purse?  Perhaps more to your liking is the ill-prepared, aliterate self-proclaimed prophet, who speaks poetically, peppering his/her verbiage with alliterative points which tickle your ears without speaking to your heart.


On the other hand, what obstacles do you cast before others that keep the Main Thing from being the Main Thing for them?   Your dress code?   The little doily things that add no significance to anything, and definitely do not serve as a conduit of justification?  Perhaps you have a residential zip code requirement?  Or, maybe everyone must look, act and speak like you?  How boring is that?

And finally,

1. This writing is not about bashing your religion.
2. This writing is not about bashing your denomination.
3. This writing is not about bashing you.
4. If you take offense, well, look in the mirror and ask yourself why.  If you deem any rule, regulation or standard you adhere to more important than anyone's relationship with the Almighty, perhaps you should rethink your position.

Obstacles: Keeping the Main Thing the Main Thing (Part II)

Just a reminder:

1. This writing is not about bashing your religion.
2. This writing is not about bashing your denomination.
3. This writing is not about bashing you.
4. If you take offense, well, I'll finish this item 4 later . . .

In Part I of this writing, we discussed how clothing can be used to include or exclude one from the "table."   But what about other exclusionary devices -- tactics -- TRADITIONS???

What about this one:

• You simply cannot go to worship there; they have a woman for a pastor!
• Or -- as I was told recently:  Oh, I see you're an ordained minister, but I don't allow women in my pulpit.

My Sunday School class just finished a short study of women in the Bible.  While some of the actual female characters in the Bible were discussed, the study was as much about the fallacies regarding women in the Old and New Testaments (with some mention of the Torah), the misuse and misapplication of gender in many versions of the Bible, and the effects thereof.

A little sidebar here:  Recently I happened on the website of a "church" which describes itself thusly:

We are a local New Testament church reaching the [city name] Area with the gospel of Jesus Christ. Don't expect anything contemporary or liberal. We are an old-fashioned, independent, fundamental, King James Bible only, separated Baptist church and not ashamed to say so.

My first thoughts upon reading that little snippet:  Doesn't he realize King James is a version of the Bible and not an accurate translation?  Was Jesus a fundamentalist?  Was Jesus a separatist?  If Jesus was "old-fashioned" and "separatist" how could He have possibly reached the folks whose lives he changed, and who in turn lived the Great Commission?  How could he sit "at table" with loose women and tax collectors and all those other sinners?  Just curious.   


As a child, I wondered why pulpits were populated by men -- and only men; why women ministers were curiosities and had celebrity status; why women were systematically assigned to missionary work as if being called thusly was not as significant as being called to preach the Gospel.  Why did all women go to "mission" meetings and men to "brotherhood" meetings?  Were men ever missionaries?  Did women ever have "sisterhood" meetings?  

So, what's the deal?   This writer sees it like this:  Sometimes traditions are perpetuated to maintain the status quo, thereby depriving others -- in this case, women -- access to all of the rights, privileges and responsibilities, of being true believers in The Way, The Truth, The Life -- in Jesus, the Christ.  In Galatians, Paul makes clear that we are one in Jesus Christ -- that there is neither Jew nor Greek, slave nor free, male nor female (Galatians 3:28).  So, why do some folks insist on defining a believer's role in the building of the Kingdom God based on one's gender?  Simple.  One can-be-and-in-this-case-is-nasty little word:  TRADITION.


Were one to take a look at the big picture, one might agree with this writer:  WE SIMPLY DON'T HAVE TIME FOR SOME TRADITIONS.   The harvest is plentiful, but the workers are few. (Luke 10:2).  There are more people on the face of the earth than ever before.  There are more churches on the face of the earth than ever before.  Still, we lose ground with petty territorialism, insecurities and jealousy, because:

• The Church is not your church
• Those who are lost do not have the luxury of waiting for you to choose your successor
• Your successor is not necessarily your biological son (the laws of descent and distribution of your state do not apply to God's Kingdom)
• Your son in the ministry is not yours (God has children, not grandchildren)
• Even if you/your family own the real estate on which your subset of the Family of God meets for worship, study and fellowship, it is still not yours (the earth is the Lord's -- and everything in it)
• Yes, there are actually others who have studied the Word and have something substantial to impart to God's people.  They study with their hearts and minds, not their genitalia.  Their filter is the Holy Spirit, not their hormones.

 Note to pastor who informed me that he does not allow women in his pupit:  Where is GOD in YOUR pulpit? And what makes you think I want to be anywhere near YOUR pulpit?


While I do not advocate abdicating our sense of how to effectively "do church" for the sake of hyped commercialism and  marketing, I do advocate the adoption of a Paulinian mindset:  in Jesus Christ there is no male nor female.



While some bask in the glow of their positions, standing on what has always been and sitting on their responsibilities, the harvest is rotting in the fields.  

Because of tradition.

While those who have called themselves warm the benches of the dugouts (oops - pulpits) of many churches, the truly called are precluded from going to bat or into the field.  

Because of tradition


While some man, woman, boy or girl would hear in the firm, strong, and gentle voice of another, a message of love, hope and salvation, he or she is instead subjected to the rantings of one who did not take the time to be still and listen for and prepare a message from the One who is waiting with open arms to receiving His children.

Because of tradition.

Traditions aren't all they're cracked up to be, according to Paul in the second chapter of Galatians.

News flash: Not only is it not about tradition, it's not about the rituals. And it's not even about the religion. But it's all about the relationship.


Keeping the Main Thing the Main Thing may require the emptying of oneself to allow room for the Main Thing to come in .  If your traditions take up too much space, there may not be room for the Main Thing.  


What baggage do you need to throw overboard to allow the Main Thing in your boat?

to be concluded in Part III.

Remembering Daddy

Lewis Hoxie, Jr. was born 102 years ago today, in his home on Detering Street just off what is now Memorial Drive.  At the time of his birth, his maternal grandfather, Anthony Gonder, owned acreage in that area, now priced well beyond my ability to pay.  I think of my father often.  Even though he died when I was 14 years old, he left a lot of himself in me.

For my short stint with Daddy, he was self-employed.  He rented a lot on Telephone Road near the Gulf Freeway (just north of the railroad track, next to Manning Machine Shop).  He sold soils, fertilizers and sand.

As I wrote "He sold soils, fertilizers and sand" I remember that I wrote of my father in my never-completed series REAL DADS OF THE DARKER NATION, so I went back to my archives and found the article, coincidentally published on November 5, 2008.  Rather than repeat myself here, I commend the reader to that blog.  [I've always wanted to "commend" someone to a writing -- it's what lawyers do when they're supposed to be presenting in those much-too pricey continuing legal education courses that are required for lawyers and board certified paralegals.  I've often wondered, why stand in front of me, all motor-mouthed, if all you're going to do is "commend" me to the paper?  Anyway, back to Daddy.

Stuff my Daddy taught me:

- If you see something that's not right, it's your responsibility to fix it, and if you can't, make the situation known so that it can be fixed.

- If you're big enough to invite someone to "whatever", you'd better be big enough to pick up the tab.

- If you want to eat, go to work.  Daddy once "floored" a guy who announced to my father that he was "retiring" and "going on welfare."

- Don't talk ugly around the children (especially his).  Daddy once jumped a fence after asking a guy next door to hold down the foul language because his kids were playing outside.  The guy's response was more vituperative utterings, so Daddy jumped the fence and belted him.

- Prayer meeting is not just for when we're at church.  So we had prayer at home -- the whole famn damily.

- A man can only take so much.  A woman, too.

One of the great things about being a daughter of Lewis Hoxie, Jr., was being able to roam the neighborhood freely and not be bothered by anyone.   Just the suggestion that I might tell my daddy was sufficient for the biggest neighborhood bully to leave me alone.  Daddy wasn't as tall as my mom (and she was 5'8" back then), but he was stocky and as solid as a brick wall.

Was my Daddy perfect?  Absolutely not!  But he was my Daddy.  He is still my Daddy.  And even 40 years, 9 months and 1 week after his death, I still think of him.

There's Room at the Table -- If You Want There to Be

There was a wedding, attended by lots of folks connected to the bride, groom and their respective families via business relations, church membership, neighborhoods, and other ways. At the reception, Mr. & Mrs. Newbee staked out a table with other guests whom they knew. Upon leaving the the round table set for 10, to visit the buffet of sumptuous fare, Mrs. Newbee left her purse in her chair and Mr. Newbee left his hat in his.

Upon returning to "their" table, they found their chairs occupied by Mr. & Mrs. Ikkslusiv. Mr. Newbee's hat and Mrs. Newbee's purse had been placed on a ledge behind the Ikklusivs. As the Newbees stood, looking in wonderment, eyeing the empty chairs at the table, Mrs. Ikklusiv spread her arms wide and said these are all taken. Mrs. Newbee replied, yes, I know, they are ours. That's my purse and my husband's hat. And that sitting in front of you is my half-emptied water glass. Mr. Newbee leaned into his wife and said let's just find another table.

The Newbees turned around to the adjacent table, which was empty. They sat. Shortly thereafter, Mrs. Barnabas approached. As Mr. Newbee looked up and saw Mrs. Barnabas, he began to explain how they had been displaced. Well, these are tall take -- but we can make this work. Before either of the Newbees could react, Mrs. Barnabas began shifting chairs around.

As the evening progressed Mrs. Newbee sat back and surveyed the very full table. Her husband was deeply engaged in conversation with Mrs. Barnabas. All around the table were smiles and lots of chatter. No one seemed uncomfortable. In fact, there seemed to be ample elbow room, and everyone appeared to be having a great time of fellowship and celebration at this wedding feast.

I really don't believe it necessary to say anything else here.

Thanks to Pastor Steve Wells, whose dissection of Galatians 2:11-4 yesterday evening, prompted me to make this record of a true incident which happened not too long ago.

And I'm tempted to ask one question -- okay -- a compound question: Who is it that you would exclude from the table, and who would exclude you?

Obstacles: Keeping the Main Thing the Main Thing (Part I)

There's nothing like a good Bible Study to stir the pen. Okay, the keyboard.

I'll keep this short, but first a little housekeeping:

1. This writing is not about bashing your religion.
2. This writing is not about bashing your denomination.
3. This writing is not about bashing you.
4. If you take offense, well, I'll finish this item 4 later . . .

I'm sure you know the story of the woman who always cut a head of cabbage in half, cooked one half and discarded the other, because that's they way her mother did it, and that's the way her mother's mother did it. It turns out that her grandmother did it that way because her pot could only hold half a head of cabbage.

Alright, it might have not been a head of cabbage, but surely you see the message here: Oftentimes we do things out of tradition. At least that's the word that is frequently tossed about as the salve to heal all frustrations spawned by the never-ending question: Why? Why? Why this way and not that? Why?

Earlier this year while conducting a choir rehearsal this exchange took place:

Andrea: You know folks, I only see you a couple of times a year and we have a limited time to prepare for worship, so would you hold down the excess talk so we can get through this?

Male choir member: Well, you know, we have our traditions.

Andrea: Yes, and your traditions might take you straight to hell.

As a child I wondered why we do some of the things we do, especially among our church congregations and in our houses of worship. Why must we wear white on first Sunday? Why must someone plop that little doily thing on my head while I'm playing the communion service? What do you mean I have to cover my head? What do you think that stuff that grows out of my scalp is for? (Not intentionally, but since I tend to move around a bit when playing the piano, that little doily thing often landed on the floor.)

And just a few years ago, my best friend said to me: I'd love to come to your Christmas concert but I just have on a plain dress. My reply: Well, I'm sure you'll fit in just fine. Why was this little exchange so weird to me? As usual, I'm glad you asked. Until recently I suffered tremendously with insomnia, sometimes going for three or four days without real sleep. I decided to try a change of venue and checked into a downtown hotel for a couple of nights. (Checking into hometown hotels was nothing new for me. I did the same thing while in seminary when I had writer's block.) After checking out of the Crowne Plaza, I drove straight down Main Street, and as I approached my Place of worship, and it being Sunday and all, I had a tremendous yearning to attend the 8:30 worship service as I normally do. I parked my Jeep in the usual spot, and approached the side entrance, tentatively, just as our Minister of Music arrived. He greeted me with his normal gigantic smile, eyes twinkling, teeth flashing, and greeted me: hey girl! Come on in here! What was so unusual about that? Girl was sporting a warmup suit and athletic shoes.

The really cool thing is that no one who spoke to me that day gave any indication that I grossed them out because of my attire. They looked at me -- not my togs.

Now, before I dwell on clothing and the reader thinks it's just about fashion, let's move on. Since I promised to keep this short, I'll have to deem this writing Part I, and will end with this:

Traditions aren't all they're cracked up to be, according to Paul in the second chapter of Galatians.

News flash: Not only is it not about tradition, it's not about the rituals. And it's not even about the religion. But it's all about the relationship.

Welcome to South Main Baptist Church

Title: Welcome to South Main Baptist Church
Link: http://www.smbc.org/

A couple of months ago I was reminded of why I chose to become a member of a particular congregation. We sometimes refer to ourselves as the family of God in this place. This place is our campus -- where we meet for worship, to learn, to fellowship, and to celebrate weddings and new babies and souls gone on with beautiful memorial services that celebrate life. We dedicate babies and commit to supporting their nurture, growth and development. We baptize new believers. We pray with an for each other and others. We encourage and commission missionaries who go near and far to spread the Gospel of Jesus. We have fun and food -- fun for the entire family and food that is consistently good.

About 11 years ago I started going to worship at the 8:30 service at that place when I still held leadership positions in music ministry. That was my hour of worship, unencumbered by worry or wondering -- whether "she" would properly execute her solo, or if "he" would be on time, or whether the drummer would be too loud -- too fast -- too slow -- or too much. Some percussionists don't understand that they are most often accompanists for the accompanists (primary instruments [piano and organ]), who are accompanying the real messengers -- the singers. In that hour I was free to commune with God and His family in that place.

It turned out that the family of God in that place are really nice folks. They not only speak to strangers, but do so with a smile, a firm handshake, a pat on the arm or shoulder or back, a real greeting, a there's a seat up there -- it's a little closer -- do you want to come up? kind of invitation. The kinds of smiles, handshakes and invitations that say we're really glad you're here. While I am pitiful about remembering names, there were faces that had become familiar to me, and to whom mine had become familiar as well. Okay, you're probably asking how do you know your face became familiar to them? Well, it's like this: miss a couple of Sundays and then go back. The welcome to South Main greetings are tossed in favor of it's so good to see you again.

When I left music ministry in 2003 I visited a few churches closer to my home, but on that first Sunday in April 2003 I went back to that place where I had been welcomed so frequently. I have been there since. I cannot say unequivocally that there is no other place like it because I have not been to all of God's places. What I can say is there is none other that I know. Yes, ourplace is a nice campus that's well cared for. But what makes our place special is not the campus layout or the buildings, but the family.

So what happened? I'll spare you the gory details. After having written this, the unpleasant incident is no longer remembered. And I continue to visit my place, commune with my family, have a little dinner, then prayer, Bible study and choir rehearsal. That incident is nothing more than an inconsequential blink on the spectrum of eternity.

So, why revise and repost this blog today? Well, I'm glad you asked. I was out of town this past Sunday, and I just visited our website and looked at the Sunday worship guide. I missed being at our place and thought of it as I arrived at the airport about the time I should be taking my seat in the choir loft. What I now know is that I missed some really special stuff: our former pastor returned to the pulpit to share a message, the hymns that were sung are among my most favorite, and a truly brilliant pianist played an arrangement of Amazing Grace. He and his beautiful family will be greatly missed, but I'm sure they know there will always be room for them in our place.

Like a Bad Penny: Sarcoidosis Update Part II

Sarcoidosis manifests itself in many different ways. For me, although it was found in my lungs and my left eye, my problems are most often bone, joint and muscle related. For a pianist, even a middle-of-the-road, fair-to-midlin', just-a-hair-to-the-right-of mediocre one like me, it is a really big deal. Let me veer off the road for a moment:

Before being diagnosed in 1996, one Sunday afternoon, in fit of rebellion, I decided to go for a walk in the park. No big deal, right? Not for me. I spent hours walking every week. At least I had until the first week of April '96. Oh -- that "no big deal" question -- yes, a big deal. When one is dragging the right side of one's body and is in indescribable pain, a walk in the park is a bit problematic at the least. The park was only four houses away at the dead end of Lawnhaven -- about 300 feet. I made it to the edge of the park and could go no further; so I sat down on the curb and waited for "M" to figure I've been gone long enough and he should come and look for me. In my anger at not being in control, my confusion in not knowing why, and the very pain itself, I cried. No, I bawled. And, finally regaining control of my blubbering and tears, I prayed: Lord, I don't know what's happening to me, but if you just let me play [piano], I'll be okay.

It's like this: I figured I could get along without my left foot, and an eye, and if necessary, perhaps being too weak to walk. But I needed my hands, and I needed to have use of my right foot, even if it was almost as big as a football. Because I needed to play the piano. For the 18 months or so that I could do practically nothing, I could play piano. I may have had to go to a hospital on Sunday afternoon, but on Sunday morning I sat at "my" grand piano at the church where I served, and played the entire worship service. I may have conducted choir rehearsal with everyone singing a capella but on Sunday morning I played. Sometimes my back and arms were ripped to shreds by surgeons' scalpels -- or so I envisioned, but even then I could play.

So why am I remembering such an awful, but wonderful thing today? I really love these easy questions. I don't have to haw and stammer like a politician; I can simply answer. Let me get back on the road and tell you my answer, which has two parts:

First, I have to play this evening. A few weeks ago before my condition worsened, I was asked to play this evening at 6:30. I've had a pity party today about not feeling well. A friend called me this morning and asked how I was, and I said I'm down to about 30%. In retrospect, that's 29% more than many folks with whom we share this so-called orphan disease. How dare I indulge in a woe-is-me session on a fine Friday afternoon with 45 percent humidity and a 77-degree temperature in HOUSTON TEXAS????!!! That means I can go outside!!! Hellooooooo patio! I'm reminded of that song that ends:

Wait a minute, it stopped raining

Guys are swimming, guys are sailing

Playing baseball, gee that's better

Mother, father, kindly disregard this letter

Alright, I'm going out to the patio right now.

Second, this is an opportunity for me to remind readers -- again -- yes, again -- about the upcoming Sarcoidosis walk-a-thon. And yes, I'm going to post the link again.

Alright, I said this was a two-part answer, but let me leave you with this "part third:"

Like many chronic conditions, Sarcoidosis not only robs one of vitality of the body, but can zap the psyche as well. Sometimes until one utters (or writes) those sentiments of dread, one is totally oblivious of being unable to see the forest for the trees. Such is the case here, in which my temporary amnesia blotted from my mind the fact that the God to whom I prayed 13-1/2 years ago is the same God who had sustained me from my premature birth when few thought I would survive, and all the 42 years prior to that mid-1996 diagnosis, who has been with me through every illness, car accident (especially the one where I knew I was going to die [yeah, okay, what do I know?]), the birth of my Sweet Pea, and everything else, is the same God, the One and Only, the Great I Am, who will be with me this evening when I sit at a piano on a campus in a house of worship, consecrated for use by His people to His glory, to praise Him, and to grow His Kingdom. As my pastor Steve would say: Well? What about you? And for this blog, he might ask: On whom will you relyto get you through your next challenge? This day? The rest of your life?

http://www.jsof.org/events/2009_08_01_archive.html

Like a Bad Penny: Sarcoidosis Update

I am out of remission. That in itself is nothing new. Since being declared "symptom free" of Sarcoidosis in January 1998, I have regularly phased in and out of remission every year. Talk about showing up like a bad penny, it never really goes away. This time, however, is different. The pain is just a hair on the wrong side of unbearable, and my legs have become undependable. I'm trying to decide if I need to buy a walking stick (I went so long without using mine that I gave away both).

This past Sunday I stopped at the H.E.B. on Westheimer @ Fountainview. Prudence prevailed over my being self-conscience, so I used a mart cart, which I drove through the checkout and onto the parking lot next to my Jeep. A woman who appeared to be of sufficient age to be my mother (for the record, I am 55) offered to help me with my one bag in the parking lot of H.E.B. on Westheimer @ Fountain View!!! While it was really sweet of her to offer, that made me wonder am I really moving that poorly? Still, I am more fortunate than many who live with this so-called "orphan" disease.

So, why am I bringing this up again? I could get argumentative and ask would you say that if the subject was some other, more popular disease? Instead, I'll just reply thusly: Simple. There are some events coming up to highlight Sarcoidosis and raise funds to support related research, and I want to share them with you. So here they are ---

Janine Sarcoidosis Outreach Foundation will be a guest on KPFT 90.1 FM Radio's October 18, 2009, Panafrican Journal program at 8:05 p.m. KPFT is a media sponsor of the Janine Sarcoidosis Outreach Foundation.

On Wednesday, October 21, 2009, the honorary guest for the Janine Sarcoidosis Outreach Foundation's 5th Annual Walk for a Cure, Dr. Marc A Judson of the University South Carolina Medical Center's Sarcoidosis Clinic, will be a guest on KPFT 90.1's Connect the Dots Program, from 3:30 to 3:45 pm. (Note to the fabulous Texas Medical Center: how about a Sarcoidosis clinic for Houston?)

On October 14, 2009, the Houston Texas Sarcoidosis Support Group will be audience members for the live taping of of KHOU 11 TV's Great Day Houston program with Debra Duncan.

October 24, 2009, the 5th Annual Sarcoidosis Walk for a Cause and Cure will take place in Houston Texas. There will be a special appearance by the awesome jazz saxophonist, Rachella Parks, who has had three hip replacements due to Sarcoidosis complications. You can get more information about the walk by clicking here: http://www.jsof.org/events.html

I invite you to tune in to learn more about Sarcoidosis, and for those of you who can, participate in the "walk" -- something that I had hoped to do this year. If the walk took place today I could not. But -- there's always tomorrow.

Tomorrow might be better.

Some of Him in Each of Us

Today I played for a funeral. It was a nice celebration of a man whom I met just a few years ago. Most of the time I spent with him was in family settings at his home and the home of others of his family. We shared little one-on-one time. Actually, I can remember only one such time during which we spoke of shared passions: love of family, technology, music and the Lord.

The "service" began at 11:00 this morning with an hour for visitation prior to that. As is my custom, I arrived at 10:00 and began playing without interruption until the procession of clergy and family at 11:00. I mention this part (about my playing) with intent. Normally when I play piano for an extended period of time, my surroundings become a blur. When not playing in private, part of me manages to remain mindful that I am treading on someone else's space and maintain a modicum of alertness. This morning I was aware of the movement of folks up and down the aisle and occasionally a few passed by to speak to me. (I'm really not fond of conversing while playing, but one has to be polite, so I speak, or nod, or make some kind of gesture in response.)

Now, imagine. There I sit, moving seamlessly (well, most of the time seamlessly) from one hymn or gospel song to the next. In my mind I hear those songs being sung, and the end of one tends to lead me into the beginning of another. Those who know me well know that despite the hundreds of songs I have learned in the past 50 years or so, I tend to draw on songs I learned in my childhood first, and the preponderance of those are hymns. I good hymn suits me just fine. Oh -- you say you don't know any hymns that are good? Then perhaps you don't know ANY. Before I get of track, I'm making a note to revisit that "hymn" issue. Anyway, in the midst of my playing and responding to an occasional greeting, I am accosted by a woman whose visage was most unpleasant. Actually, there was something spiritually maligned about her -- something I was loathe to deal with. She introduced herself using ALL THREE of her names: I'm A-B-C. Okay, I'm Andrea Hoxie. She then made a point to inform me of her position. My thought: Do I really care? I'll let you answer that. My only response to her was that my presence had been requested, and I continued to play. Needless to say, at the first opportunity she "got me" but good. At least, she probably thinks she did. While her interrupting my acoustic piano with some electronically enhanced stuff caused me to stop playing to avoid the dissonant clash of instruments, it reminded me of one reason why I quit music ministry, which I shall save for another blog. So, what does that have to do with SOME OF HIM IN EACH OF US? Keep reading, and I'll tell you.

During the funeral service, several of the Decedent's co-workers, friends and family spoke. This gave me more insight to this man whom I had known only a few years. I learned quite a bit which made me appreciate him all the more. Was he a saint? Absolutely not! As none of us is. And while nice things were said about him, there was no attempt to canonize him. (Why we tend to canonize the departed is something I have never understood, and having played for at least a thousand funerals [no exaggeration], it's something folks tend to do; but I'll save that for another time.) And I learned that he was at peace with what he knew was the end of this little finite period we call life.

As I sat through the eulogy, this is what stayed with me: God has put Himself (I'll not quibble over the gender issue or try to be poilitically correct here -- I mean HIMself -- refer to Him however you want in your own blog) in each of us. Whether we let Him out is entirely up to each of us. Ms. Three Names who made it a point to treat me with hostility, although I had been invited into her "home" by her "family," chose to cast the spotlight on herself. When we are seeking opportunities to be seen, we are so full of ourselves that we are choking out God like weeds in a field of lilies. (Okay, test: who are we --- the weeds or the lilies?) Rather than show a little grace and welcome me to her space, she was gruff and territorial. (Perhaps I should invite her to my home -- South Main Baptist -- so that she can experience examples of real warmth and welcoming --- perhaps.) On the other hand, the Decedent, whose life we celebrated today, reminded me that God in us will work through us, if we let Him.

So, here's my thought: there is Go[o]d in the worst of us and evil in the best of us, and if we ever get ourselves out of His way, His love will come through us and reach others.

Have you ever considered the many ways we can reach others? It might start with a smile, a gesture, an open door, a note, a word of encouragement. We don't have to be Billy Graham clones to make a difference in the lives of folks whose paths we cross -- sometimes daily.

Leaving you now, with this question: If each of us would get out of God's way, and allow His love to flow through us in even small ways to others, can you imagine the pandemic change in humankind?

Each one who knows Him, reach one. It's not a new concept, but from where I sit it has yet to go viral.

The Next Wave of Hot Careers

Do you remember when becoming a paralegal was all the rave? How about dental assistant? Medical transcriptionist? Massage therapist? And we must not forget electronics and information technology. Training institutions and business colleges sprang up like weeds after a heavy rain. The default rate of their students' "student" loans was comparatively horrific compared to traditional institutions of higher learning.

So what? Well, I've got news for you!!! Whether you're just getting started and haven't decided what you want to do with your life, or contemplating a career change, consider this:

Caveat: I have no statistics, but all you have to do is open your eyes and see that --

1. An alarming number of men wear clothing several sizes too large. What is problematic is that their trousers, those garments designed to fit around the waste, are being worn several inches below the waist -- sometimes below the buttocks. Aside from the flashing of boxer shorts, which this writer simply cannot understand why this fashion statement is "in" -- have you ever noticed how one must walk when one's trousers are much too large and worn well below the waste? Even when secured by a belt, it is necessary for the wearer of such foolishness to walk with his legs farther apart than is natural. It is doubtful folks who wear baggy trousers have given little consideration to the long-term effects of poor walking posture. Our bodies are a delicate balance of chemicals and minerals comprising systems of muscle, tissue, bone, connective tissue -- blah, blah, blah. We are engineering marvels of the Creator, and He did not create us to walk in such unnatural ways as required by baggy pants.

2. An alarming number of women wear extremely high heels -- all the time. This writer actually knows a woman who claims not to be able to wear flat shoes! What is problematic is that over time the wearing of high heels damages muscles and joints.

So what does all this have to do with the next wave of hot careers??? Well, I'm glad you asked. I figure in the next 10 to 20 years we're going to need a lot more podiatrists, orthopedic surgeons, chiropractors, manufacturers of durable medical equipment for stuff that hasn't even been invented yet, special insurance plans to pay for all this crap (you know -- like you can buy a cancer policy today that pays in the event of that kind of diagnosis).

Yessiree, buddy: the fashion industry is going to do for us what the pharmaceutical industry has done. Just as legal drugs are destroying our bodies from the inside out with side-effects and organ damage,* baggy pants and high heels are damaging our musculature and spines.

I suppose, however, that it is unfair to blame the fashion industry. Is there a gun to our heads? Are we under threat of the loss of life if we don't buy trousers that don't fit? Or shoes that make us as tall as we want to be? (Like -- I am vertically challenged and wish I could be as tall as my Sweet Pea, who has literally looked down on me since she was 14 years old.)

Just a little something to think about this evening. Now -- I need to go take inventory of my shoes . . .

___________________________

*Organ damage: NSAIDs (non-steroidal anti-inflammatory drugs) and ACE (angiotensin-converting enzyme) inhibitors)= are culprits that can cause renal failure. NSAIDs include some popular over-the-counter drugs. ACEs can constrict blood vessels and cause hypertension. Having Sarcoidosis, I am prone to have high levels of ACEs, which is why I have high blood pressure, something I never had before the big S. Have you noticed how many dialysis centers have been built in the last 10 years?

What Do You Do When You Don't Get Your Way?

Yesterday was Wednesday -- "hump" day -- the middle of the week. The day following our President's speech directed to children -- encouraging them to stay and do well in school -- a speech that too many folks did not want him to make. As one man put it: I don't want my child to be a little community organizer. This week I am listening to Mr. Obama's first book as I tool around the city in my Jeep. I spend a lot of time in my Jeep it seems. When I first heard the term community organizer I had an inkling, but now have learned a little more. In essence, what Mr. Obama did as a community organizer, was bring people together to work on problems to benefit their individual and common good -- the kind of stuff that many take for granted. (stuff we take for granted will be addressed at another time.) It turns out that when one reaps an individual benefit, it does affect the common good. But, again, I'll save that for another time. Back to the issue at hand -- Wednesday -- hump day.

Wednesday is a really special day. No matter how grueling it is, I try really hard to end it by four o'clock. If it all possible I like to spend 30 minutes or so with the beautiful rosewood Steinway that sits in the sanctuary of That Place where my family of God assembles for a myriad of reasons and activities (see previous blog). I missed that time yesterday, but arrived in time for dinner --- succulent, juicy, well-seasoned chicken breast tenders, a baked potato (custom loaded by yours truly), fresh leafy salad (they even remember I'm allergic to tomatoes), a roll that rivals any (even those from my mom's kitchen [don't tell her I said that -- even at 90 her baked goods are as scrumptious as they were 50 years ago]), and finished with a perfect peanut butter cookie (baked in our Place's kitchen, of course). Hmm. Anyway, trust me, I don't just go for the food. More importantly, I go for the fellowship and all that word encompasses.

There is something special about communing with a group of folks who share a common belief. It is the tie that binds our hearts in (at least in this case) Christian love. The fellowship part includes my pastor visiting our tables, taking a few moments for us to catch up with each other. Then we review our newsletter and get updates on what's happening with our friends and family. Then we have prayer. And then we begin Bible study, which brings us to the question pastor Steve asked yesterday evening: What do you do when you don't get your way?

I have yet to shake that question from the forefront of my thoughts. After Bible study I went to choir rehearsal -- as usual a mixed bag of musical genres. And, confronted with two pieces I really don't feel yet -- one in Spanish and another in a language I dare not even guess (something from Africa [no offense to my African brothers and sisters]), that question loomed in my mind: What do you do when you don't get your way? After rehearsal, getting into my second home (the Jeep [perhaps I should give it a name -- something gender nonspecific]), I received a phone call, and after my usual greeting -- this is Andrea -- what I heard was not hey, how're ya' doin' -- or the more gutteral vernacular -- whassup? -- but instead: did you hear that #!!*@??? (Remember Watergate? -- expletive deleted.) Anyway, no, I did not hear Joe Wilson. By now, most folks know who he is, so I'll just move right along. But after hearing the Joe Wilson excercise in uncivilized behavior (at least here in the United States -- not so in England or some Asian countries), there was that question again: What do you do when you don't get your way?

So, what about that question? Here are some broad strokes on the complicated canvass we call life (trite, huh?).

1. You remember your commitment. If you made it, you should honor it.

Is your commitment to your political party, or the people you represent, or to yourself? Is the oath you took a meaningless jumble of words -- you know, allegiance to the Constitution of the United States, swearing to well and faithfully discharge duties, blah, blah blah? These are questions -- particularly to legislators who enjoy great medical insurance and retirement benefits that are the envy of the folks they represent -- that merit answers. And don't forget these little gems: How many lobbyists do you actually know? Commune with? accept gifts from?

Suggestion to all: ask your legislator (how about all of them?) where his* loyalty lies.

2. You remember who's in charge. If you're not the leader, then you're a follower. If you dont' want to follow, get the heck out of the way.

Is your commitment to be the best choir member you can be, by following the instructions of the director, knowing that despite the numbers of bodies, there is only one soprano, one alto, one tenor, one bass (meaning if you screw it up there goes the whole section -- whether 2 or 12 or 20)? Is your commitment to serve at your whim, or to serve your God (mine gets the capital "G" -- how about yours) and minister to His people through music?

Note to self: review the Spanish and African language songs at home so you won't feel like a large-lipped bungling idiot trying to pronounce "mbwe" while in choir rehearsal.

3. You remember that He is the way -- so make your way His way. (Warning: you may not get with this blurb. That's okay for now; I pray that one day you will).

I have learned that most times our way is not the right way. We devise and scheme, plot and plan to shape, form and fashion what is right according to our own whims. Actually, we give little thought to the "rightness" of it all. Sure, we sometimes whitewash it in some lie on the Lord or Holy Spirt. You know of what I speak: I prayed and I prayed and the Lord showed me . . . The Lord led me to . . . The Spirit spoke to me and said . . . . Am I sayingHe doesn't speak to us? Absolutely not! He's always speaking to us; the problem is we are rarely listening. Why? Because usually we are hell bent on having our way. And most likely, that is where our way will take us: straight to hell. (Or as one man told me when I, substituting for his church's minister of music, asked the choir to reign in their conduct: Well, you know, we have our traditions, to which I replied: Yeah, and your traditions might take you straight to hell. Anyway, moving right along. . . .

The truth be told (another trite little saying), if we listened more often, we would have our way a lot less. But, we forge ahead with whatever, and when we get ourselves in another mess, He is still there. As the song says: Everytime I come back to Him, He is waiting with open arms, and I see once again He's been faithful to me. (That's really a nice song. Thank you, Carol Cymbala of Brooklyn Tabernacle.)

Sometimes not having our way is painful. This year has been chocked full of the most gut-wrenching pain I have ever experienced. I lost someone very dear to me in a most unsettling way -- not to a natural death, which is a natural progression of life -- but to divorce, which is the crudest tearing away (I rate it right up there with murder). If I had gotten my way, rather than having grieved over the loss of possibilities and potential, we would now be nurturing the growth and development of a viable means of help others. My thought about this last night: sometimes when we don't get our way it is because we have no control. And that thought begs the question: what do we do when we don't have control? Well, I'm glad you asked.

Even when I don't have control, The Way -- the Maker and Creator of us all -- is in control. He did not call Himself a Christian; He called Himself The Way. So whether it is a control issue or a getting my way issue (is there any difference? I think not), I choose to focus on Him. Only He has the ability to make sense out of confusion, turn darkness to light, open blind eyes and deaf ears that truth may be seen and heard, to melt hearts of stone. I pray for the day that my steps -- not some, but all -- are ordered in The Way -- the Word, the Truth, the Light. The Way is all that and much more.

____________________

*Please be reminded I care nothing for being politically correct. Use whatever gender pronoun you deem appropriate.

The Family of God for Me in That Place

This evening I was reminded of why I chose to become a member of a particular congregation. We sometimes refer to ourselves as the family of God in this place. This place is our campus -- where we meet for worship, to learn, to fellowship, and to celebrate weddings and new babies and souls gone on with beautiful memorial services that celebrate life. We dedicate babies and commit to supporting their nurture, growth and development. We baptize new believers. We pray with an for each other and others. We encourage and commission missionaries who go near and far to spread the Gospel of Jesus. We have fun and food -- fun for the entire family and food that is consistently good.

About 11 years ago I started going to worship at the 8:30 service at that place when I still held leadership positions in music ministry. That was my hour of worship, unencumbered by worry or wondering -- whether "she" would properly execute her solo, or if "he" would be on time, or whether the drummer would be too loud -- too fast -- too slow -- or too much. Some percussionists don't understand that they are most often accompanists for the accompanists (primary instruments [piano and organ]), who are accompanying the real messengers -- the singers. In that hour I was free to commune with God and His family in that place.

It turned out that the family of God in that place are really nice folks. They not only speak to strangers, but do so with a smile, a firm handshake, a pat on the arm or shoulder or back, a real greeting, a there's a seat up there -- it's a little closer -- do you want to come up? kind of invitation. The kinds of smiles, handshakes and invitations that say we're really glad you're here. While I am pitiful about remembering names, there were faces that had become familiar to me, and to whom mine had become familiar as well. Okay, you're probably asking how do you know your face became familiar to them? Well, it's like this: miss a couple of Sundays and then go back. The welcome to South Main greetings are tossed in favor of it's so good to see you again.

When I left music ministry in 2003 I visited a few churches closer to my home, but on that first Sunday in April 2003 I went back to that place where I had been welcomed so frequently. I have been there since. I cannot say unequivocally that there is no other place like it because I have not been to all of God's places. What I can say is there is none other that I know. Yes, our place is a nice campus that's well cared for. But what makes our place special is not the campus layout or the buildings, but the family.

So what happened? I'll spare you the gory details. After having written this, the unpleasant incident is a fading memory. Tomorrow I shall visit my place, commune with my family, have a little dinner, then prayer, Bible study and choir rehearsal. And it will be as if the memory of this evening that is now fading, was an inconsequential blink on the spectrum of eternity.

Let He Who is Without Sin . . . Call the Kettle Black

You've probably heard these before: "Let he who is without sin cast the first stone" and "the pot calling the kettle black." I'll let you decide if the two are relative. They are to me. These are the phrases of which I thought when I started reading one of the many emails I receive daily from some guy (for this piece, I'll call him "CL") who is evidently retired and hasn't figured out that there is more to life than "passing on" his political views via email ad nauseum. Why I haven't blocked him is a writing for another day. Now, on to the subject: the late Senator Edward Kennedy.

As we all will one day, Mr. Kennedy has passed from this life into whatever eternity awaits him. While this writer never attempted to deify or canonize the man, there are some who did. This is nothing extraordinary when it comes to losing a loved one. We tend to want to see and remember what is best in them. That's just the way we are. Seeing the good in a decedent often helps those who are left to better deal with their loss. (I do admit this can get out of hand. Several years ago I went to a funeral, and, sitting next to my brother, asked this question of him when folks stood to speak of the departed one: Brer, are you sure we're at the right funeral? Are they talking about ________? The contrast of what I heard and what I knew of the deceased was so profound that I excused myself and walked home.) Now, moving right a long. . .

The email I received today from CL was a laundry list of events in Mr. Kennedy's life which would tend to detract from whatever good he has done. At least, that appears to be CL's intent. While it is apparent that Mr. Kennedy will have a special place in American history, considering the collective contributions of his family, there is neither a need to deify or demonize him. He was a man, and just like other men he made some mistakes. As we all do. But as privileged as he was, he lacked what most of us have: a great degree of privacy in our lives. When Kennedy made a mess, the whole nation could smell it. For any one of us whose life goes on daily without close scrutiny, when a mess is made, there is no accompanying fuss on a national scale. The mess still stinks, but only a few smell it. Generally we get hose down our messes and scatter them around until they blend into the environment.

What I am saying is this: There are things that I have done in my life of which I am not proud; in fact, of which I am ashamed. Just the thought of them makes me shudder spasmatically, look away from the mirror. At such thoughts, bile rises in my gut to tease my esophagus, threatening to spew its way out to show me once again the ugliness and stench of my wrongdoing. Sometimes I just groan inwardly and hang my head. Get the picture? I dare say that anyone reading this blog, who has any inkling of right and wrong -- whether man, woman, boy or girl -- professional, skilled tradesman or day laborer -- black, white, red, yellow -- Christian, Jew, Atheist, Muslim, Buddhist or Wiccan -- young or old -- or whatever -- may sometimes react in similar fashion at the thought of his or her past deeds. If not he (or she) is probably too narcisistic or sociopathic to think she (or he) may have committed a wrong in the first place.

So? So what? So . . . are you the pot calling the kettle black? Or the milk calling the rice white? Or the one without sin who will try, judge and execute the rest of us? If so, righteous one, cast the first stone. Otherwise get a grip, and be glad you have another day, and therefore another opportunity, to get your own life straight, to act justly, love mercy, and walk humbly.

Am I a Kennedy fan? Not particularly. But neither am I a fan of any self-proclaimed righteous, holier-than-thou 21st century pontifex.

The bottom line is this: there is some good in the worst of us and some evil in the best of us. So put the stone down and do something for good.

Sarcoidosis -- Part III: Why Talk About it Now?

Why not? I know -- you have your hands full with cancer, and HIV AIDS and muscular dystrophy and multiple sclerosis. I understand. I've lost folks to cancer, AIDS, and muscular dystrophy. I know folks with multiple sclerosis. But since being diagnosed with Sarcoidosis 13 years ago, I have met scores of folks in my tiny little circle who either have it, knows someone who has it, or lost someone because of it.

After being diagnosed I learned how little research had been done about Sarcoidosis. It was not until four or five years ago that it was learned how this "orphan" disease, having been discovered more than 200 years ago, functions. It simply does not have widespread popularity and support. And because of the difficulty in properly diagnosing it, there are most likely lots of people who have suffered from it, even for years, without knowing why they feel so crappy all of the time. (From the first "S" book I read, I recall the story of a woman whose doctor told her she would feel better if she stopped being so lazy and got a little exercise. It was 15 years before she was properly diagnosed.)

Finally, while I hope these little snippets have raised awareness of the disease, I want to invite you, and the folks with whom you share this blog (and if you never share my blogs, please share just this one), to participate in a Sarcoidosis walk for a cure. The walk is scheduled for October 24, 2009. Please copy and paste this link into your browser's address window for more information: http://www.jsof.org/events.html

Or contact me.

Thanks for reading.

Sarcoidosis -- Part II: What the Heck is It?

Here's the short answer: Sarcoidosis is a multi system disorder characterized in affected organs by a type of inflammation called granulomas.

Here are a few tidbits I have learned about "S."

In North America it occurs among a higher percentage of folks of the darker nation. In northern Europe it occurs among a higher percentage of folks of the paler nation.

It generally is found in people between the ages of 20 and 40. I was 42 when I was diagnosed.

While any organ can be affected, in 80% of the cases there is pulmonary involvement. Skin, liver, spleen, bone marrow and lymph node involvement are common. It's in my lungs and left eye. (Why, then, are my bones, joints and muscles affected?)

It manifests itself in different ways but the formation of granulomas is a common element.

It is considered an "orphan" disease and was discovered more than 200 years ago.

What happens in the body: The blood cells that are supposed to defend the body against infectious diseases and foreign materials, surround those enemies, and instead of killing them, give them a place to stay. Welcome! Come on in! Make yourselves at home. Be fruitful. Multiply. And when you outgrow this space we'll just add another room to the house.

Chronic fatigue is a huge factor.

High blood pressure comes with the package.

It is not contageous.

It is unpredictable.

----------------- to be continued

Sarcoidosis: Part I -- Her Story

She was almost 42 (folks generally thought she was perhaps in her late 20s), working on the biggest project of her career. And she had her music. And her favorite downtime activity was walking -- about 30 miles a week. Life was okay. And then . . .

Around the first week of April in 1996, she began experiencing discomfort in her right hip. She thought it was another malady, courtesy of some genetic strain. (She tends to experience stuff that other family members have experienced, but much earlier in her life than they experienced the same malady in theirs.) She saw her doctor, who gave her a prescription and sent her home. By the following week, the right side of her body, from the neck down, did not function properly. She was literally dragging her right side!

Second trip to see her doctor: more questions, a few tests. No, she did not have lupus, lymphoma, lyme disease, or HIV. More prescriptions and an order to take a week off from work. When she returned the following week, she was terminated.

One day while dragging around the house, in a quandry, wondering what was going on with the old 'bod, she announced with a degree of preemptive defiance, that she was going for a walk . Yeah. Right. She lived four houses down from a nice little park and walked there frequently. She made it to the edge of the park and could go no farther. She sat on the curb, not knowing if she could make the walk home. After her pity party she managed to utter a short prayer: Lord, I don't know what's happening to me, but whatever happens, just let me play. She sat on the curb until someone came to fetch and take her home.

By the following Sunday, her size 9-1/2 AAA feet were the size of footballs. And when she tried to stand, she felt as if she was standing on billiard balls. Somehow, she dressed and made it to the 11:00 a.m. worship service for the church where she served. As she played the piano, daggers ripped through her clothing, pierced her skin, and sliced her muscles into slivers of flesh – or so she thought. After that she went to a Bellaire hospital. She could no longer ignore her feet. The tingling was more like a swarm of wasps or bees. The skin was so tight she thought it would pop. (Unlike the gradual swelling of the belly during pregnancy, the change was overnight.) She stayed overnight at the hospital (the food was pretty good) and was then transported to a hospital near Houston Baptist University (where the food was pretty bad -- leave it to an insurance company to mess up a good thing).

As she lay in bed the next morning her thoughts were consumed by theories and outlandish ideas of what could be happening to her. It was at that time that she felt something on her left knee -- a lump about the size of a jumbo bubble gum ball (you know -- the ones that come red, green, purple, orange, blue and speckled in a package [her favorite]). Thinking there should be another on her right knee (you know, balance, symmetry, whatever), she searched but found none. She was discharged without any answers.

Then more tests "outpatient" style: a bone scan (Have you ever seen your own skeleton? Pretty weired.) revealed big spots on her lungs. Then there were MRIs, CT scans, and a lung biopsy. Then there was a diagnosis: Sarcoidosis. Sarco-what??? We'll come back to that in Part II.

Despite the prescription medications, which were supposed to treat her symptoms, her condition worsened. Anti-inflammatories did nothing to ease the swelling and discomfort in her ankles. Pain pills did nothing to ease her pain. For several weeks her feet remained swollen beyond the capacity of any shoe. Having functioned well on 4-5 hours of sleep, this former human dynamo could not raise her hand above her head without assistance. Groping for a silver lining, she said at least I can catch up on my reading. Wrong.

She began experiencing new symptoms -- the twitching of her toes and eyelids. The eye movement was so disturbing that she could not read. Off to see an ophthamologist. You have blepharospasm. BLEPHARO-WHO??? You need to get more rest. BUT I DON'T DO ANYTHING BUT READ AND WATCH TV. Then read less and watch less TV. Okay, that's it. She's been sentenced to PRISON -- FOR HOW LONG??? Who knows?

During one of her doctor visits, the guy decided to prescribed steroids. She found it amazing that a tiny white pill could make her feel as if she would either eat a side of beef at one sitting, or was about to breathe her last breath -- all at the same time. Being her own person, she ditched the Prednisone.

While in prison, for the next year or so, the one constant in her physical life, was pain. Dull, sharp, shooting, constant, intermittent, all varieties. Other than for trips to see her doctors (the purpose of which she questioned, as nothing ever changed), she was released every Wednesday evening for choir rehearsal and every Sunday morning for worship, which she never missed (if you ever really get into doing music, you will understand playing in pain), except for one weekend -- an intentional trip to Wimberly and Southwind (her favorite bed & breakfast). The one constant in her spiritual life was God -- the glue that held her together (and does now).

About 18 months after the onset of the disease, she began to improve. She discovered the scariness of driving alone and suddenly, while on Loop 610, wondering what was her intended destination. Short-term memory was a really serious problem and accounted for opened or unlocked doors, overrunning bathtubs, clothes left to "dry" in the washer, who was just on the telephone, etc. She slowly regained some strength and a bit of energy. The pain dissipated but never stopped. Her body never lost the feeling that she had just been run over by an 18-wheeler.

Someone else finished the biggest project of her career. She tolerates people who look at her sideways when she parks in a spot designated for vehicles with "Accessible" (the new politically correct word for "handicapped") parking credentials. She rarely wears shoes with "high heels," and, being vertically challenged, that is a disappointment. (Finally, her feet shrank to a 10 AA.) There are frequent inspections for new lumps. Always there is foraging for natural remedies, anything to energize. And in choir, she sometimes cheats -- sneaking breaths in the wrong places.

The old "normal" never returned. Even after 13-1/2 years, her body is sometimes foreign to her. Still, as she takes her one daily pill, she realizes that many who live with Sarcoidosis would gladly trade places with her.

-- to be continued

Soundbite Solution: Pull the Plug on Granny

PREEMPTIVE MEASURE: The writer treads into this sensitive area knowing that some may be offended or hurt. Please know that the writer's intent is not meant to cause offense or pain, but to (hopefully) encourage one to take proactive measures about this emotionally-charged problem.

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Unless you live in a tropical rain forest, you are probably at least marginally aware of the current hoopla regarding healthcare reform. This writing is not so much about healthcare reform as it is about facing a fact of life -- though unpleasant for many of us.

FACT: as sure as we were born we are all sure to die. What happens between those two points on the spectrum of eternity is for another time.

No matter how invincible one may delude oneself into believing one is, without regard for race, color, creed, socio-economic status, or class (or lack thereof) -- whether rich or poor, young or old, Christian, Jew, Muslim, Agnostic, Atheist, or Confused -- one day will be the last.

So why all the fuss about pulling the plug? Many have agonized over such an ordeal. Some have envisioned a vegetative state in which there is no possibility of recovery and believe such a state of being is undesirable. Others want to "live" regardless of their quality of life -- or lack thereof. (Perhaps they are afraid because of their acts of omission and/or commission, by thought, word or deed, against the divine majesty of whatever god in which they believe. [God forbid if they believe in mine. ] But that's for another time and another blog.)

If you are of the former mindset, I urge you to take the necessary steps to protect yourself from being subjected to having your body maintained by unnatural means if there is no possibility of recovery. (NOTICE TO LAWYERS AND UPL [unauthorized practice of law] ZEALOTS: consider the foregoing suggestion as practical, ministerial advice as opposed to legal advice.) By taking proactive steps yourself, you will free your family or friends from 1) agonizing over the decision to "pull the plug" and 2) free yourself from family members who just cannot "let you go." And to those who cannot "let go:" consider the suffering of your loved one. For whose benefit would you have one remain? His/hers, or yours?

If you are of the latter mindset, and believe that as long as you are "breathing" you are "alive," consider this:

Is this life?

Lying still in bed

Never aware -- no way to know

That others care

No means to

Let go a giggle

Stifle a yawn

Shed a tear

Rise early by the dawn

See the sun shine

Spread warmth and cheer?

Is this life?

Day in and out

Always alone

With every thought

Up and down

Work all day

Home to hear

No one say

How did it go?

I hope it was great

But must have been busy

Since you're so late

Just couldn't wait

To have you home

Time for us

To be alone.

Is this life?

Through manmade power

Making hearts beat

If just another hour --

Or day week, month or year

With eyes, arms or ears

Too blind to see

Nor touch, nor hear

Nor can feel

A bird in a tree

A buzzing bee

Screaming sirens in the night

Noisy crickets out of sight

Trains on tracks

Keyboard-thumping computer hacks

A hug

What is life -- without a hug?

(©1995 Andrea Hoxie)

Only in America

A. NOT-SO-RANDOM RANTS

1. In Fall 2008, I started this blog out of sheer frustration from listening to the pundits, talking heads, and frenzied crowds who were touting Sarah Palin as the next best hope. While I respect her supporters' right to take whatever stand they choose, please respect my right to say this: What absolute and utter nonsense.

POINT: Only in America can a lame-brained fast-talking woman of the paler nation quit a job in midstream and declare it a success, and go on to pursue bigger and better things with the support of so many because of her paleness, quasi decent look, and/or snappy eyeglasses, while being totally unable to construct a sentence that: a) is concise; b) is confined to one idea or concept; and c) is understood by persons of average intelligence who understand English, more so than by infants and toddlers whose vocabularies consist of two words.

2. When Bush 43 was elected President, he inherited a budget surplus. While some may argue this point, it is safe to say that the country's financial situation was definitely not what it was when he left the office.

POINT: Only in America can a man who could not be an effective owner of an oil company or a baseball team be charged with the responsibility of upholding the Constitution of the United States and carrying out its executive responsibilities.

3. Bush was given his second term of the Presidency by the Supreme Court, during which term he continued to sink this country in more debt with creative accounting to finance a war the purpose of which still begs justfication.

POINT: This country's economic woes did not begin on January 20, 2009. And many of the folks who profited from the war are long gone while at least one left behind an adult daughter who has taken to the airwaves, whining in defense of her father whose machinations are in part responsible for God only knows how many thousands of lost lives and broken families.

4. At a town hall meeting this week, a woman asked President Obama when he would restore the Constitution as our founding fathers intended it.

POINT: If the Constitution was restored as our founding fathers intended, Obama would never have become President of the United States, and millions of people, including this writer, would never have had the opportunity to vote for or against him, or anyone else.

5. The general election is long over and I am still being inundated with emails trying to convince me that the 44th POTUS is unqualified for office because he was not born in the United States.

POINT: I have no doubt that all who opposed Obama have overturned every rock, and peered in every nook and cranny for a way to discredit him, long before the first Tuesday of November 2008.

B. WHY THE BURR IN MY BUTT TODAY?

1. I have had my fill of hate/fear-mongering and negativity.

2. Obama is much more intelligent, more knowledgeable of the Constitution, and basically just more fit to the executive position than the imposter who just moved out of the Whitehouse.

3. Having been in a similar situation on a much tinier (microscopic) scale, I can identify with on of Obama's problems, and here is the first:

There are folks who are blinded by their on dislike of what comes natural for people like me, while they have to buy tanning-bed time and risk skin cancer to get it. Many of them don't have a clue, or perhaps are just unwilling to see their prejudice for what it is: prejudice. These are the same folks who hired the blond-haired, blue-eyed, pretty young thing who made a mess of the place, then called me to clean up the mess when the PYT didn't "work out."

And the second is this:

There are folks who are really miffed because their team did not win. Since I've never been a "party" person, I can say that some of my candidates won, some of my candidates lost, and some of my candidates were the victims of theft. (Yes, there was some thievery going on in Harris County, Texas on the first Tuesday of November 2008, and I'm not talking about the foreclosure sales -- I'm talking about the polls.) But now that the contests are over, factionalism will get in the way of any meaningful progress if we let it. Unfortunately, there are folks who stupidly pray for Obama's failure because their team didn't win. That's really stupid, since in the grand scheme of things, there is only one USA.

4. Bush 43 sacrificed how many lives in pursuit of what in Iraq?

5. And, dare I ask, was the pivotal point in the Bush 43 era -- "911" -- a domestic production? Or could it have been prevented?

C. NOW WHAT?

Search your heart. Look in the mirror and ask yourself:

1. Was 43 one of the brightest bulbs in the chandelier, or was he a few watts (or more) short? Come on, now. Didn't you sometimes hang your head in shame when you saw him on television?

2. What does Sarah Palin really have to offer other than gibberish?

3. Are the folks on Capitol Hill, regardless of party affiliation, trying to work together to formulate meaningful and effective legislation? (Okay, I know, there is the Pelosi factor [barf]).

4. Do you really think this Country is going to hell because the 44th POTUS looks a tad different from the first 43? Really? The truth be told, this Country has been in a downward spiral for a long, long time -- when it was solely controlled by people who don't look like me and who are not of my gender (you know, the rough drafts).

5. Look at your own elected representatives. Some have been around longer than you've been alive. Are you really that pleased with their service? Oh -- you didn't know they are there to serve you?

D. AND FINALLY --

I DO NOT SUPPORT ALL OF THE OBAMA ADMINISTRATION'S POLICIES. For instance, even though I have been without health insurance for all of this century (sounds more dramatic than saying for the past 10 years), I am concerned about any attempt to eventually eradicate private health insurance. Am I saying this because I am a licensed insurance agent? Absolutely not! What I do believe is that we should have a choice. Right now, my choice for health insurance is something far beyond my budget, so I try (most of the time) to take care of the old 'bod and I budget for regular checkups (which for me, are quarterly, not annually).

FAMILY FEUD: Like it or not, there is but one United States of America. And just as in any family, we have disagreements. But at some point, the family unit has to come together -- to unite -- to move forward. Otherwise, the family unit disintegrates.

STILL, ONLY IN AMERICA can I write this blog without fear of my door being broken down and my being handcuffed/shackled, pushed into a vehicle with no interior door handles, hauled away to some dark, dank cell that smells of old urine and has a partition of tin behind which there sits a really nasty toilet.

ON THE OTHER HAND, I might get some strange looks when I go out tomorrow. That's okay. I have lived with strange looks all my life.

Remembering Glenn Edward Burleigh

Since finishing Ayn Rand's Atlas Shrugged, a mammoth work comprised of more than 40 CDs, the time spent in my Jeep (which is more than I care to think of) has been made bearable by some odd music CDs -- a mixed bag including Il Divo, Rodrigo, Shirley Ceasar, Frank Sinatra & Quincy Jones, Michael Bolton, the Chicago soundtrack, Mozart's 41st Symphony (I don't know what orchestra or conductor, nor do I care to know) and Part II of Glenn Edward Burleigh's Christmas cantata, Born to Die. I listed Bureligh's recording last because once I reached that one I have continually pressed its disc number to restart it from the beginning once it has played through. And one must dispell the notion that Born to Die is fraught with songs of tinkling bells, hay rides, snow and other such nonsense. Born to Die is pure Gospel -- Good News -- about the coming of Jesus, the Christ, the Messiah, the Savior of the world. Born to Die tells not just the who -- the story of the birth of Jesus -- but the how and the why -- the suffering, death and resurrection of Jesus so that the world might be saved. [see John 3:16-17, The Holy Bible]

For those of you who are not familiar with Burleigh's music, his lyrics are well grounded in the Holy Bible, sometimes verbatim (depending on the translation), and his writing style is all over the musical spectrum. While he may be best known as the composer of Order of My Steps, a traditional gospel song, Burleigh's musical compositions are infused with many different genres. He was classically trained in music and reborn of the Holy Spirit. That is a tremendous combination! Some people are of the school of thought that there is a tedious sameness about music of the faithful. Not so. Hymns and anthems are dull and plodding, old and stale, only if one refuses to see that the words give them new life whenever sung by those who understand and appreciate their meaning. While this writer believes there is no tedious sameness to the music of the faithful, she recognizes well that only very infrequently someone like Burleigh comes along, sharing his faith through his fingertips in a way that is foreign to most. (That is, because folks tend to expect the dull, plodding, old, stale, and tedious sameness ad nauseum, of "church" music.) In fact, she knows of only one other, whose musicianship she has experienced from a performance perspective, but has yet to experience his compositions or arrangements. Perhaps one day . . . but for now, back to Burleigh.

I first experienced Glenn's music when he was the Minister of Music at Good Hope Baptist Church here in Houston, Texas. That was a couple of decades (and then some) ago, as my very much now grown up daughter was just a child. While we had never met, I remember approaching him after a concert at Good Hope and telling him that his music is timeless and I believe it will be sung for decades and decades to come. Several years later it was my blessed pleasure to meet him face-to-face and work with him on his music catalog. After he left Houston we stayed in touch, though infrequently. That was okay, because his music was always near. Picking up a familiar piece of Burleigh's music was like picking up a telephone for a brief conversation with him. Picking up a new piece of Burleigh's music was like learning something new about him. In that way, even though I spoke with him only occasionally, saw him perhaps once or twice a year when he came to Houston, and exchanged emails now and then, he was as near as sitting at a piano and playing one of his songs, or just singing one, even in my head, only to be heard by me and my God.

And God is a fitting subject on which to end this writing. For it is not so much Glenn Burleigh as it was his willingness to empty himself and allow the Spirit of God to fill him in such a way as to express and live out his faith through his music, touching countless lives, even those who know not that the music is of his hand, from his mind and heart, and even those who are yet to hear it.

Thank You, God, for Your unmerited favor that manifested itself in the life of Glenn Edward Burleigh and Your gift to us through him -- music for now and years to come.

Into the Woods

Every year my church's music ministry does a summer musical production one weekend in August. We call it "Bach to Broadway." It started in our Fellowship Hall (long before my time) on a small stage and subsequently moved to the Activities Building on our campus with a larger stage, props, and the whole package. A relative newcomer (this is just my sixth year at South Main Baptist Church in Houston, Texas), I have not seen many, but the ones I have experienced have been top-notch productions, including Man of La Mancha, Hello Dolly, and The Sound of Music. This year's offering, the 20th, Into the Woods, is no exception. In this work, Stephen Sondheim weaves a tapestry of fairy tales -- Cinderella, Jack and the Beanstalk, Little Red Riding Hood and Rapunzel, sprinkles in some notable mentions (Snow White and Sleeping Beauty), and uses that foundation for the story of a baker and his wife who want to start a family. And, of course, there is a witch. There's always a witch.

What is so blessedly amazing is how easily one can be caught up in the moment of this artistic work, and the spirit of authenticity the cast of 31 brings to the stage. Yes, Into the Woods is about fairy tales. The Woods, for this writer, symbolized a place of refuge, assistance, turmoil and transformation. It seems that when one goes into the woods, one emerges as not quite the same person as before. And there are lessons to be learned from Into the Woods. What makes it possible to hear and see those messages is not being distracted by self-centered, indifferent or negative spirits. The members of the cast, even those who never uttered a word, gave themselves over to their characters, and brought me into their story. I felt the dismay of the baker and his wife who wanted a child. I saw the ends to which the baker's wife would go to get what they needed to break the witch's spell. (Not unlike the way we excuse unethical, immoral and treacherous behavior -- you know -- the end justifies the means. Not!) I saw the straying eyes of the two princes as they forsook their respective wives in search of something/someone different. Now, that's really hitting home, don't you think? I saw a crowd willing to sacrifice the life of another -- in order to save their on skin.

Being a fan of performing arts (especially opera) for decades, I am most appreciative of live performances. While the seating in Jones Hall and the Wortham Theater Center in Houston may be cushier and more comfortable, I cannot say that the performances are any better. (And the refreshments at intermission cannot hold a candle to our cookies, cupcakes, fresh fruit and punches, whether from the perspective of price and quality [free and fresh at SMBC].)

How dare I compare my church's musical offerings to that of professional performances? Like this: They may build bigger sets, but that's about it.

Entitlements -- Part II

Part I of this writing mentioned Ayn Rand's Atlas Shrugged, a massive work of fiction, which I finished listening to yesterday evening. While the book is a work of fiction, it is very much grounded into reality. It is also one of the reasons I started this series on Entitlements. Another reason, the catalyst that exploded my sense of NOW, was a CNN story posted by a Facebook friend (thanks, Phyllis T), about a young woman who is suing her college/university for $70,000 tuition and $2,000 for emotional suffering, because she ("the Graduate") has been unable to find a job after graduating.

When I first heard of the Graduate's story and read, presumably in or own hand, her accounting of why she is suing for $72,000, my mind was bombarded with so many questions. My sensibilities were outraged. And, I was embarrassed, in the same way that whenever the previous POTUS (Bush 43) opened his mouth to speak, I would cringe. After all, what school GUARANTEES any student a job? And to what kind of job, if any, does the Graduate feel she is entitled?

For years there has been some trend afoot: a conspiracy to reward mediocrity as the best one has to offer. My father called that "hitting it a lick and a promise."

to be continued.