Hey Brain! Simmer Down!

I have mentioned before that I have a very chatty brain.  I wish I could say that all my brain chatter was intellectual, productive, or even interesting, but often it’s not.  It’s typically a whole bunch of random babble about past memories, future plans, and hypothetical conversations.  Today I wrote a lesson plan in my mind when I found 10 minutes of uninterrupted time.  This morning I had so much chit chat in my brain I had to turn on an audiobook on my car stereo just to shut up the silly brain banter. 

I wonder if I am not the only one who has a lot of noise in her life.  Really, we humans are bombarded with a lot of stimulation throughout our days.  I wonder sometimes if we have forgotten how to just sit.  Just sit and observe and think. 

I had the privilege of watching and evaluating several senior project presentations this month.  Our seniors researched every topic under the sun, wrote extensive essays, then culminated their findings into 10-15 minute oral presentations.  I have learned about the dangers of wheat, dogs that can smell disease, shift schedules of emergency/rescue workers, eating disorders, the danger of GMO’s, the harmlessness of GMO’s, and on and on.  Today I heard a presentation about how we communicate these days.  I learned that Facebook, email, and texting are the primary forms of communication.  Face-to-face communication was a teeny-tiny little smidge of conversation modes that are in use today.  Our gadgets rule us these days.  I admit that I am intrigued by the “smart phones” I see people carrying around.  I’ll bet it’s pretty fun to have a phone that is also a computer, camera, calendar, television, and general lifeline.  They look fun, they come in cool colors, and you can get the Siri app and she’ll talk to you by name!  I kind of want one.  But I know that if I had a smart phone, it would slowly take over my life.  I would be powerless to its siren charms.  I would be one of the people I see at every restaurant, mall, or park I have been to….swooshing away on my phone instead of paying attention to life. 

My Tracfone prevents me from becoming one of the tech-dependent…at least in public places, but I have already become victim to my IPad.  I get home from school, scoop up the tablet, and swoosh the night away.  Usually it starts out productive; I’m multitasking while relaxing and watching a show on TV.  I check emails and accomplish school-related tasks.  Then it becomes less productive:  Facebook, random internet searches, and (yes, I blush to admit it) my current addiction to Candy Crush.  (I am confident the addiction will end soon.  For a while it was Wordament, then Chicktionary, then Hungry Shark, then Tetris….my addictions come and go with alarming regularity).  Suddenly I look at the clock and realize that it’s 7:00, and I have work to do, kitchens to clean, pets to take care of.  Where does the time go? I lament. 

Oh yeah.  It flew away on the wings of a technological bird.  Sigh. 

Part of the problem is connected to multi-tasking.  I have realized that I don’t just sit and enjoy one activity at a time very much.  When I’m at home, I’m usually doing more than one thing at a single time:   Reading, talking with my husband, swooshing on my tablet, throwing a toy for the dog.  When I am out and about, I might actually sit on a bench and just observe.  (My cute little Tracfone doesn’t have the siren’s call that other fancy phones would have.  The poor thing usually sits snugly in my Subaru’s cubby, waiting for a phone call).  This morning I stood out in the February wind, holding the leash of my corgi mix, Noel (we call her a “Corgi Cocktail” because we don’t know what she’s mixed with).  Noel has this….quirk…where she likes to stand outside and think about things before heeding nature’s call.  So, this morning I stood in the winter “breeze” in my poorly-insulated pajama pants and jacket, waiting for her to make her move.  Noel let the wind waft through her hair, found snow to chomp (she really enjoys eating snow), and cocked her head at every rustle and creak in the forest.  I was being patient (I have progressed through the five stages of grief related to standing outside in inclement weather.  I am officially at the “acceptance” stage).  And then I heard it:  a singular Redwing Blackbird call.  In my still-sleepy state I nearly missed registering the significance of that moment.  A REDWIND BLACKBIRD CALL?  THIS CAN ONLY MEAN ONE THING – SPRING IS COMING!

Noel finally got down to business, and as I was walking into the house I realized that the three-minute morning solitude had produced quite a gem.  The Redwing Blackbird is our first harkening of Spring.  I would have surely missed that, had Noel not forced me to just stand there in the snow and BE. 

The Bible has a lot to say about quietude.  Peter noted that a woman’s truest beauty was in her “gentle and quiet spirit.”  He wrote, “…let your adorning be the hidden person of the heart with the imperishable beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which in God's sight is very precious.”  I think this is precious in God’s sight because it is so very good for us to experience quietness and to exercise gentleness.  I think quietude is something our souls crave.  I know I do.  So my goal in the next few months is to unplug a bit, simplify my daily activities, and find some moments of tranquility.  I came up with this idea during one of my brain’s chat-fests, so I guess not all of my brain noise is worthless.

"The Sunday Girls"

I was drawing a blank for what to write this week.  It's been a busy time at our church, as we are calling a new pastor.  My participation on the call committee has been eye-opening.  I have learned a lot.  We have been meeting with the final three candidates (one through Skype, and two who are visiting our church in person).  Last night we met with the second candidate, and I was just struck with the realization at what a wonderful thing it is to be a part of a church.  It really is an extended family.  I have learned so much from the people I have worked with on the committee; I have had wonderful conversations of people of all ages; I am blessed to know such a diverse group.  With that in mind, I am sharing with you an essay I wrote nearly 10 years ago.  It's not finished, and to be honest I am not sure where this essay is going, but it captures the essence of why Sundays are such a bright spot in my week.  I hope you enjoy it!

"The Sunday Girls"

It takes several tries to parallel park my Honda in the shade of elm trees that line the sidewalk on the west side of Christ the King Lutheran Church.  Even though it is only 10:45 in the morning, the July heat already hangs thick and heavy in the air.  “At least the car will be cool when we come out,” I say as I unbuckle the seatbelt and secretly congratulate myself for finding a spot near the entrance.  Gramma is still unbuckling her seatbelt by the time I’m out of the car and around to the passenger side to offer my arm when she’s ready.


"Waiting for this slow old lady,” she says while she swings one leg onto the curb, reaches for her black cane, and swings the other leg out.  “You’re always waiting for this slow old lady.”

            “We’re not in a hurry.”


            Gramma thrusts her cane toward the sidewalk, grips the car door, and pulls herself onto the pavement.  After she takes a second to gain her footing, she pushes the door shut.  “Lend me your arm, darling.”  I crook my right elbow, she links hers through, and we make our way into church.


            Gramma is little – “petite” is the word she likes best – and she always remarked that she wished she had my long legs, which must have come from my grandpa’s side of the family because he was so tall he had to duck to avoid hitting his head on the archway into the dining room.  But despite her small stature, Gramma was a speedy walker in her day.  When I was young we used to go for a walk every day during the summer, and neighbors would marvel at our fast pace.  At eighty-two years old she has slowed down, which has become a daily frustration for her.

            After we make our way up the sidewalk, I pull open the heavy wooden door and anticipate the cool blast of air conditioning, but the air feels the same inside as outside.  I presume that it is because of all the people gathered in the foyer after Bible study.  After answering several inquiries about the missing third member of our trio – my mom, who is spending the week at a cabin on Pend Orielle Lake – we turn toward the “tunnel” that slowly descends into the church sanctuary.  The passageway that leads into the sanctuary is lined entirely with cedar – walls and ceilings – and has a quieting effect whenever I walk the 100 feet or so before it bends like an elbow and opens into the back of the triangular sanctuary. 

If the passage is like a tunnel, the sanctuary is like the sky.  The ceilings rise maybe 40 to 50 feet up to a point just above the altar, where a large but simple pine cross hangs behind the altar.  Rock walls topped with rectangular windows flank the entire room showing glimpses of blue spruce and dark green pine outside.  The rest of the room is lined with cedar, including the ceiling.  Though it isn’t grand in size, it is grand in effect.  It’s a gasp of wide space against the closeness of the passage.  Sunlight trickles in through a thin band of skylights that run both horizontally and vertically in the roof.  From the center row of pews where we always sit, the skylights form a cross that spans the entire sanctuary. 

Gramma and I sit in our usual section while the choir practices the day’s music, though today we are two rows closer to the altar than normal.  There are only a few people seated, so we open our bulletins to read the announcements that are printed after the order of the day’s service.  I note that the first song is a little calypso number that always makes me want to dance, and I’m about to point it out to Gramma when one of the elders approaches us.  “Hey, sorry about the heat today.  The air conditioner isn’t working and it’s going to be a little warm in here.”

“Oh, we’re tough.  We can take it,” I say, and when he moves to the next group I lean over to Gramma and say, “Well, at least the car is in the shade.”

Every Sunday my mom, gramma, and I meet at a little cafe called “Down the Street” for breakfast, head to Bible study at 10:00, and then attend the praise and worship service at 11:00.  Every Sunday I eat the same thing – two poached eggs and burned white toast – and drink several mugs of Pike Street tea, which they brew to perfection.  But this Sunday I change my routine and order two poached eggs and a homemade cinnamon roll.  Three bites into the sticky plate-sized roll I groan. 

More families begin settling into the pews, most in the same places as every Sunday, just like us.  We again explain to the husband and wife behind us that Mom is at the lake (I think our little three-generation trio has become quite a fixture after all these years) but will be back next week, and then I wave and mouth “hello” to one of my students and her parents.  Gramma leans over and says, “I’m not feeling very steady on my feet today.  I hope I can get down there for communion.”  I once suggested that rather than walk down the center aisle to kneel at the altar for communion, she should have one of the elders bring communion to her pew.  “Oh no, I’m not that bad yet!”  So when Gramma expresses this fear today, I just say, “You’ll do fine.” 

Service begins and things progress as usual through the first two songs, including the calypso number (which one year ended an Easter service and caused my mom and me to not walk, but dance out of church).  Maybe it was the extra bodies, the singing, or my wiggling to the music, but man was it hot in there.  I try to act tough.  After all, church-goers 100 years ago didn’t have air conditioning. 

I don’t like to make a spectacle of myself at all.  I prefer to blend into my surroundings and watch what other people are doing, and I don’t feel comfortable breaking general rules of decorum.  So no matter how badly I want to, I don’t wave my church bulletin wildly in my face like a southern belle to cool the film of perspiration that was beginning to appear under my hairline.  Tough it out, kid, I repeat through the third and final song.

Pastor Hemingway begins the opening prayer, so I decide that while all eyes are closed in reverent prayer, I will go ahead and be that southern bell and wave my bulletin wildly, first on my face, then in Gramma’s direction.  The prayer ends and I immediately cease flailing.  To my relief we sit for the reading of the epistles, and I am glad that I don’t have to stand in front of the congregation this week to read the two sections of scripture.  Instead, I lean over to Gramma and whisper in my best southern drawl, “Why, ah feel just as though I am deep in the heart of southern Geo-ja.”  Gramma begins to giggle. 

Gramma and I have called each other “two peas in a pod” ever since I was young.  While my socially-active older sister was at her Brownie meetings, Gramma and I would “shop” at the grocery store and not buy one thing; we’d just walk up and down the aisles, looking at all the items on the shelves.  When I lived with her for a few years earning nearly a pauper’s wage teaching at a private school, we could practically read each other’s mind.  I’d come home from work and say, “How about dinner at Applebee’s?” and she’d say, “That’s exactly what I was thinking!” and we’d order the Chinese chicken salad and each have a Long Island iced tea just to be a little scandalous.  After my first long-time boyfriend broke up with me she told me about her first love and said, “When I look back, I shudder to think what my life would be if I had married him.”  I did survive.  And she was right about that, too. 

My southern belle routine isn’t that funny, but we’re both suffocating our laughter and trying to be reverent in our maroon-cushioned pew.  The giggles have us though, and our shoulders quake silently until Pastor Hemingway stands and faces the congregation to read the New Testament passage.  I sober up, stand up, and try to be an adult.  Throughout the rest of the service my feet feel clammy, so I slide off my shoes.  I don’t know how God would feel about being barefoot in church (He probably wouldn’t care much at all), but I worry that the man sitting in the pew across the center aisle will think me irreverent, so I hide my bare toes under the pew in front of me.  Each time I cross my legs a puddle of sweat forms under my knee, so I cross and uncross my legs throughout the message.  But I don’t wave my bulletin, not once. 

After the message comes communion, and when the elder nods to our row to proceed toward the altar I can feel my Gramma’s apprehension return.  Last winter she was exiting a grocery store and became frozen with fear when she attempted to cross an icy parking lot to her car.  She said, “I just stood there and couldn’t move.  And then I prayed Lord, help me to cross this lot to my car, please, and forced one foot in front of the other.  Somehow I made it to my car.”  Since that time Gramma has had trouble finding her balance and feeling confident on her feet. 

The ushers motion for each row of pews to proceed to the altar for communion.  I watch a parade of shoes this week until the usher gives us the nod.  We step into the center aisle.   Usually my mom handles this, and I know that Gramma, though she has fears, doesn’t want to appear needy.  I am in front of her, so I put my hands behind my back in case she needs to grab on.  My movement is smooth and casual, and after the first steps toward the altar I can feel her small, cool hands grasp mine.

All We Need Is Love!

Happy Valentine’s Day to you all! 

Frequently around Valentine’s Day I hear the argument that the holiday is merely hype and an opportunity for card companies to sell product and chocolatiers to make lots of money on sweet treats.  This, of course, is true.  A friend and co-worker emailed us facts about Valentine’s Day today.  Apparently around 145 million valentines are mailed and over 189 million roses are purchased every year, a total boon for card companies, floral shops, and post offices!  My favorite fact?  Over one billion (that’s billion with a “b”) is spent on chocolate each year.  This year I contributed to the job security of chocolate sellers everywhere by buying my hubby a heart-shaped box of chocolates. 

But I think the argument about Valentine’s Day being overrated isn’t entirely accurate.  I mean, I get it…we don’t need a national holiday to celebrate the ones we love.  We should be doing that every day.  But I love the way Valentine’s Day concentrates our focus on love.  We make plans for how we will surprise our loved ones.  We take time to write in a card or even create a card and write a poem.  We wander the aisle at Hallmark trying to find the perfect words to encapsulate our feelings.  We stretch our imaginations to think of new ways to say what we (hopefully) say every day:  I love you!  We reach out to our sweeties, our parents, our grandparents, and our friends with little notes of affection and gratitude.  We think outside of the heart-shaped box to find new ways to express long-standing feelings.  What is overrated about that? 

So soak up the love, gang!  Wallow in the gushy, mushy feelings; bask in the affection of your friends and loved ones.  And enjoy some sweets!

Small Struggles....Great Rewards!

If you haven’t read Victor Hugo’s Les Miserables, then you really should.  Believe me, I understand the fear and intimidation that a veritable brick of over 1,000 pages inflicts.  When I first set the book down on my desk, it made an audible “thunk.”  Despite the fact that I am morally opposed to abridged versions of any book, for the sake of expediency most of my seniors and I have been reading an abridged version of roughly 830 pages.  Logistically we couldn’t afford the number of reading days it would take to get through the unabridged version.  At 30 pages a day, 7 days a week, it will take us roughly 27 days to finish the novel….the unabridged would take us around 46 days.
 
Despite reading a shortened version, Hugo has inspired me with his stellar storytelling skills and his passion for the plight of the poor.  His elaborate novel follows the newly-released prisoner, Jean Valjean, who is on the razor’s edge of being an embittered, lifelong criminal.  After stealing bread to feed his sister and her children, Valjean is thrown into prison.  After a handful of escape attempts, his prison sentence reaches the double-digits.  When he is finally released, he despises the “system” and those in charge.  He trusts no one.  But he is brought to salvation by the Christ-like Bishop Bienvenue, who passes the light of redemption to Valjean with an iconic (and symbolic) pair of silver candlesticks.  From then on Valjean lives a life of benevolence, saving a desperate Fantine and her enslaved daughter Cosette and helping the poor.  The story follows the lives of the suffering and the villainous; we watch as characters struggle in a world that is designed to exploit the poor and reward the rich.  Some characters (the Thenardiers) turn to crime and deception; other characters (Marius and little Gavroche, for instance) struggle to live morally upright lives in spite of it all.  This novel is the story of struggle.  Some characters succumb, others sink into the mire, and still others rise above their misfortunes. 

You will find yourself in Hugo’s tale.  You will recognize your own struggles, even though this isn’t the 1800’s, and we are not in the middle of the French Revolution.  And Hugo’s writing is incredibly captivating.  Though I am a typically slow reader, the pages turn quickly for me (especially as Jean Valjean is about to be buried alive in a coffin or is trying to escape the dogged police officer Javert, or Marius is tormented by his love of an unnamed girl in the park who we know is Cosette). 

This week I found a little piece of myself in Les Miserables.  Let me set the scene for you:  Before Marius lays eyes on the young beauty Cosette, he had a fight with his grandfather.  They disagreed with each other’s politics for one thing.  For another, Marius’ grandfather had kept him from his own father, Pontmercy, due to political conflict.  Marius’ father supported Napoleon.  He even fought in the war for Napoleon’s army.  Marius’ grandfather was so opposed to this, he kept Marius away from his father his entire life.  When Marius discovered this deception, it was too late.  His father had died and Marius never enjoyed a reunion.  But he discovered his father’s devotion to Napoleon (and his father’s devotion to him…each week Pontmercy had snuck into the church to watch his son Marius sing).  Marius took up his father’s Napoleonic devotion, which caused a rift with his grandfather.  Marius ran off to Paris and lived in poverty.  He sold his possessions for food, often went days without eating, struggled to find a roof over his head, and lived like the poorest of the poor.  These experiences gave the once privileged Marius a new look at life, and an up-close view of the plight of the poor.  His sufferings made him a better person in the long run.

Hugo tells us of Marius, “For there are many great deeds done in the small struggles of life.”  This is true of Marius.  He manages to earn a law degree, he manages to find love…but I don’t want to spoil it for you.  Most importantly, Marius avoids becoming an embittered young man.  Despite his conflict with his grandfather, his “abandonment” by his father, and his extreme poverty, Marius fights for what he believes in.  His small battles don’t break him; they make him stronger. 

I’ve had some small struggles recently.  In the grand scheme, my struggles are what they call “first world problems,” really non-essential, non-life-threatening things that we who live an overall good life consider problems:  dogs not getting along with cats and chewing up innocent books, piles of papers to grade, not enough hours of sleep, car repairs…nothing mind-blowing.  But, big deals or not, the small struggles of life can be discouraging.  I should assure you that things have gotten a lot better.  In fact, just the other day I was thanking God for hearing and answering my pathetic little pleas for help.  After all, there are a lot of suffering people in the world, and the fact that my God heard my cries in the midst of all the others is quite amazing.  But I shouldn’t be surprised….He’s a creative and powerful God. 

Our struggles can teach us a lot of things if we are willing to listen.  They make us more empathetic.  We can understand the suffering of others when we ourselves have endured suffering.  Struggles make us more creative.  I’ve learned a lot about dog obedience ever since Noel has come into my life.  We have quite an impressive gate system in our house, which prevents impromptu cat chases.  And I’m crazy impressed with my successful scheme to teach Noel to poo outside.  Struggles help us forge deeper relationships.  When my husband saw that I was having difficulty, he stepped alongside me as a support system.  My family and friends offered assistance and a listening ear.  My dog Noel and I are closer now that we go to obedience school together every Saturday and learn sit, stay, heel, and come.  Yesterday I lay on the floor with her and giggled for five minutes as she stuck her nose in my ear, licked my face, and took a short nap on my hair.  Without the gray days of struggle, we can’t fully appreciate the sunshine.  They give us patience and endurance.  They often produce good fruit if we look hard enough.          

Most importantly, though, my struggles are a reminder that I need others, that I need God.  I often resist revealing my struggles to others.  I don’t want to look weak or flawed or needy.  But when I reach out to others (usually when I am at my wit’s end), I am reminded just how many friends and allies I have.  I have family to offer sound advice, friends to empathize, a husband to make me laugh, and a God who hears even the smallest prayers in a veritable ocean of prayers, and reaches out His hand to rescue me.

Beat Back the Busy Beast!

I don’t know about you, but the world sure seems to be spinning at an alarming rate.  It’s a wonder I don’t go flying off into outer space from the centrifugal force.  When I was little, we went to the city park where I always loved to play on the merry-go-round.  You remember this one, right?  A metal disk with railings in each of the quadrants like sections of a pie.  There was a space in the center where one lucky soul would sit, protected by the railing poles with their feet braced against the force of the spin.  The other, less fortunate, kids (usually I was this kid) were stationed along the outer edges of the disk, clinging to the railings for dear life.  Our fear was centered on the one kid who was to spin us into oblivion.  Usually this was an older, stronger child, and he usually had a devilish look on his face right before he threw every ounce of effort and energy into spinning our merry-go-round.  Meanwhile, the centrifugal force would latch onto our scrawny little bodies, threatening to fling us into the pine shavings or pea gravel of the playground. 

While it seems like only childhood playground fun, this is how I feel pretty much all of the time these days.  Clinging for dear life to whatever hand-hold I can grab, straining against the sucking force of deadlines, duties, and just life in general.  I am sure that my busyness is somewhat self-generated.  If I got serious, I could analyze how I budget my time and where I am wasting minutes.  I could determine where the priorities lie and sort out my to-do list with the most pressing things at the top.  Maybe I will someday, but I don’t feel like being that analytical just yet (and who has time for all that?). 
 
I’ve caught myself passing on social invitations because I am so busy.  This past week I had two after-school meetings and a book club get together; on Saturday alone I have morning meetings and an hour-long obedience class with my dog, a wedding, and a birthday scrapbooking fandango for my best friend of almost 30 years. And we don’t even have kids!  (God bless all you parents out there…I couldn’t do what you do).   I had to decline the wedding invitation because it conflicted with the birthday celebration.  I nearly skipped Thursday’s book club altogether.  I didn’t have time to read the book, and I hate being the one slacker in the room.  But I realized that I just couldn’t say no to book club.  First of all, I had passed on last month’s book club for the same reason.  Honestly, if I let busyness be my guide, I’d never go to book club again.  So, I raced home from work, shoveled in my dinner, and raced back out the door (after kissing my patient husband and begging his forgiveness for the guilt I felt over “abandoning him”).

I arrived at my friend’s house and apologized profusely for failing to read the book, dug into a bowl of gummy bears, and decided that I would still find a way to contribute to our group’s discussion.  And we had a great discussion.  My inability to discuss the book specifically was frustrating (at least it was frustrating for me), but we talked about a lot of life issues that the book brought up, which was where I could weigh in.  In an hour and a half we laughed a lot.  We shared stories about our own lives; we talked about courage; we talked about growing up.  I met new people.  We loved on my friend’s dogs.  We ate yummy snacks.

I made sure to leave before 8:30 so I could get home and at least kiss my husband goodbye before he went to work (he has a crazy work schedule, too).  On the drive home I realized that as busy and hectic as I felt earlier that day, I was glad that I took a couple hours from my evening to spend with friends.  In that short time I was inspired by my tablemates, encouraged by them, and I was lighter in spirit.   So I cemented that lesson in my brain:  Don’t sacrifice gathering with good people because you’re “busy.”  Let’s face it:  I couldn’t be at a wedding in Spokane and a birthday celebration in Sandpoint at the same time.  So yes, there are times when busyness wins.  And sometimes you just have to say “no” for the sake of your own mental and emotional health.  And sometimes (let’s be honest) the invitation just isn’t what excites or inspires you (in which case, decline!).   But if you find yourself constantly declining invitations because of busyness, you might be missing out on life.  You might miss making wonderful memories or being encouraged or being inspired or learning new things. 

Life is too short to let the beast of busyness beat you down!

Sit! Stay! Stop Being Such a Wimp!

This is embarrassing to admit, but I am learning a lot about myself in Basic Dog Obedience class.  Noel and I attended our first class last Saturday.  Our instructor, who is a longtime member of the Coeur d’Alene Dog Fanciers Club, is a spit-fire little woman who informed our class of five dogs and their humans that she has been doing this “since before any of you were born.”  She has a commanding presence that is packed into a small package.  Her name is Doris. 

I hope Doris doesn’t flunk me.

Noel learned some basic skills:  sit, stay, heel, and come.  Well, she hasn’t actually learned “come” yet.  I was practicing with her on Sunday when she was off leash outside and she just stared at me quizzically.  When she didn’t move, I stepped toward her and she shot straight up in the air and bolted three cabins away.  So, we have some work to do. 

But I’m learning a lot.  As I was standing on the floor with my four other classmates, trying to teach Noel to sit, she kept sitting facing me.  The key is that she must be sitting at my left and facing out the same way that I am facing.  Noel just wouldn’t do it.  She would sit sideways and look up at me.  Doris tried to teach me to use the training treat to get her to turn properly, but I flailed and Noel just looked at me strangely.  “Here,” said Doris, “hand me the leash.”  With a few deft moves, Doris had Noel sitting precisely as prescribed.  I tried again and, as usual, Noel sat sideways.  Alas.

To help expedite Noel’s transition into our house, I have been reading and reading everything I can about dog training.  One thing I have learned is that dogs thrive when they have a clear sense that their human is the “pack leader.”  According to Cesar Millan, the Dog Whisperer of television fame, dogs are often nervous and uneasy if they think that they (the dog) are the pack leaders.  The quicker humans can make it clear that they are the leaders, the more comfortable and relaxed their dogs will become. 

Here’s what I learned at last Saturday’s class:  My lack of conviction in myself is instantly detectable by Noel.  I am hesitant, timid, and I question myself constantly.  When I watched Doris teach Noel a proper “sit” in thirty seconds, I realized that my lack of self-confidence is traveling right down the leash.  The question is, who else is picking up on my uncertainty?  My students?  Their parents?  My boss?  Cesar Millan teaches his clients to be the leader.  “Just convey confidence,” he says, “and your dog will respond.”  I need to work on this, not only for Noel’s sake, but for my own sake.

Because I’ve been ruminating on this issue all week, I have caught myself apologizing for things that I shouldn’t apologize for.  I had a computer glitch and sent an email to our tech guru.  I began my email like this:  “I’m really sorry to bother you, and this isn’t an emergency, but…”  Wow.  Talk about letting my lack of self-confidence travel right out my fingers and onto my keyboard.  (For the record, I deleted the mamsy-pamsy opening).  Our neighbors above us found themselves in a real pickle last night.  Their car slid off the side of their driveway, was tilting at a precarious angle, and their tires couldn’t get traction on the ice.  I happened to hear them spinning their wheels, so I went up to see if I could help.  After I wrangled up some de-icer and sand and gave their car a push, they were home free.  “I’m so sorry this happened to you,” I said.  Well, I was sorry for them, but the way I said it, you’d think I was the one who drove their car off the road.  If someone bumps into me, I swiftly apologize.  I nearly banged my head on my desk when yesterday I said to my students, “I’m sorry, but you have some homework for tomorrow.”

I’m sorry, self, but you’re way too sorry for your own good.

Our minds are incredibly powerful.  Our thoughts run rabbit trails in our brains, and I wonder how much of what we think is actually detrimental to our confidence.  I wonder how many times a day I criticize myself without even consciously realizing it. I think Cesar Millan is right:  I need to walk like I’m confident and make a concerted effort to change these subtle bad habits that are actually making me not a pack leader but a shrinking violet.  I want to be strong and confident like the feisty Doris.

More importantly, I am trying to remind myself that I carry the power of Christ within me.  Why wouldn’t I be eager to tap into that power He freely gives me?  One of my favorite Bible stories is from the Book of Joshua.  God has directed Joshua to lead the Israelites to Jericho, and their job is to march around the city until the walls fall down.  It’s a crazy task.  I’m sure they felt silly.  They had to do this for seven days.  I’d feel like a complete nerd walking around the walls.  And if I were Joshua trying to lead a whole group of people in this endeavor, I would question my own sanity.  But they did it, and on the seventh day they even blew horns and trumpets.  They had confidence in their God, so that was enough to keep them putting one foot in front of the other.  Joshua certainly tapped into the strength of God.  And I bet he had one thought fixed in his mind.  Prior to their march, God had said to Joshua, “Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be frightened, and do not be dismayed, for the Lord your God is with you wherever you go.” (Joshua 1:9).

So, my goal is to keep this thought fixed in my mind as well.  I have a deep well of strength right within my heart, thanks to the incredible grace of God.  I am going to tap into this power and become the pack leader, and Noel is going to stop chasing the cats.  And ultimately I am going to guard my mind against these thoughts that ever-so-subtly imply that I am “less than.”

Who knew taking Noel to obedience training would prove to be so enlightening?

Dear Me: Don't Throw in the Towel Just Yet!

You know it’s going to be a tough week when your cat is radioactive and your dog blew a breaker by chewing a computer wire.  Yes, my friends, it has been one of those weeks.  And I’ll be honest:  I didn’t necessarily handle it with grace, charm, or patience.  I broke down crying at least twice, threw a couple of really childish fits (fortunately no one had the joy of seeing those), felt overwhelmed with doubt and regret, and thought about throwing in the towel.   

For me, change is very hard.  I like my life to be exactly as I have arranged it.  I’ve always been this way.  I’m not proud of it; I wish I was more emotionally flexible, but I just find deep comfort in a predictable environment.  We have thoroughly disrupted our humdrum (happy) household with an 8 month old dog.  She is fantastic in every way…except she can’t resist chasing our cats.  That and, because of my husband’s crazy night schedule at the railroad, our blissful sleep is being interrupted with great regularity when Noel wants to go outside or play or… chase our cats.   

Speaking of our cats, my oldest kitty is currently radioactive.  I’m not being metaphorical here, as English teachers are prone to be.  Boy, my 16 year-old senior citizen tabby, is actually Geiger counter-able.  After discovering that he was hyperthyroid, we put him on medicine that generated a horrible allergic reaction called “excoriations.”  In plain English, he was scratching himself until his neck was bald and bleeding.  After trying every alternative imaginable, we decided to have his thyroid destroyed with radioactive iodine.  The procedure took four days at a lovely cat clinic in Spokane called The Cat’s Meow, and when his radioactivity lowered to an acceptable level he was released back into our care.  “Don’t let him sleep with you or sit on you for three days,” said the veterinarian.  But Boy was quite shook up from his ordeal, and I confess that I just didn’t have it in me to shut Boy out of the bedroom.  Therefore, I invited sleep that was interrupted with the regularity of Chinese water torture.  Every hour I would wake up with a start to find Boy staring into my face.  It’s my own fault, I know.  I just didn’t have the heart to isolate him.  The good news is that he is now safe to sleep with us, and I don’t wake up flailing for the other side of the bed to get away from our “glowing” cat.  But we do have to store two weeks of cat litter for 90 days before we can dispose of it.  Otherwise various and sundry alarms will go off at the city dump and they’ll have to call in hazmat to find the radioactive material.

Throw in a major car repair and a very busy week into the mix, and it’s been a bit overwhelming around here.  While I wish I could say I just rolled with the punches, I didn’t.  While I wish I could say that I kept a positive outlook, I didn’t.  I wish I was more like my husband, who can make anything funny.  I wish I wasn’t so internally rigid and such a perfectionist. 

So what did I do about all of this?  I just grabbed a shovel and started shoveling.  Literally.  I put on my winter shoes and jacket, grabbed the shovel from the garage, and went to work on our icy, slushy, cruddy driveway at 10:00 at night, when I really just wanted to go to bed.  And with every shovel full of slush, I complained and cried to God.  Thank goodness we have the Holy Spirit to translate our prayers, because they were surely a jumble of words laced with emotion and certainly incoherent. 

Now here’s the metaphor (you knew it was coming…it is me you’re dealing with after all):  Sometimes shoveling is all we can do.  Just suck it up, pull on your gloves, and get to work.  Have faith that after a while your work will pay off and the slush will be out of your way.  It may take a while to clear a path.  It may take effort to get it done, but at some point the work will produce results.  Sometimes I wish that having faith meant just stepping back and letting God step in and fix it.  If only praying, “Please stop Noel from chasing our cats!” would result in a great cosmic “zap” from God that would instantly change this behavior in our new dog.  Don’t get me wrong, God could certainly do just that.  But what I knew deep down is that God needs me to be an active worker in my relationship with Noel and within my own life.  That’s why she and I are going to dog obedience training starting today.  Noel has some things to learn, and I suspect God has some things for me to learn as well.  By getting to work in my own life, I have faith that God will answer each one of my jumbled, desperate prayers.  Here’s to a straight A report card for Noel as she learns how to be a good dog, and for me as I learn how to be a good owner.