I have just posted two new segments of the Bible study on desire:
If you haven’t had a chance yet, take a look at the whole study and leave me some comments so we can dialogue together about what Scripture says about desires.
bekahcubed
The day I left my brain…
Yesterday, I left my brain at church.
Yes, you heard me right. I left my brain at church.
I’d been grading papers in the sanctuary while the Rock Solid kids had their classes in the classrooms. My bag was on the floor, my brain–I mean, my book–was under the chair, and my grading portfolio open on my lap. When I got up to leave, I grabbed my bag off the floor and stuffed my grading portfolio inside. I puzzled a bit as I realized that my pen didn’t belong in my bag. But I couldn’t remember where it did belong.
So I packed my bag away and took off for home.
It wasn’t until almost midnight that I realized what I was missing–my brain. I frantically searched around the room before it became obvious that I’d left my book at the church.
Every impulse within me urged me to race back to the church, to retrieve my book immediately. But I resisted the impulse, figuring that I could live without it for twelve hours.
And I was able to survive–but just barely–until noon today when I was finally free to drive all the way out to church.
Lest you think that I exaggerate my dependence on my book, allow me to share how my book serves as my brain.
- When I wake up, my book contains my morning routines which tell me what to do
- When I’m considering purchasing anything, my book tells me whether I have any money for it in my budget
- When I’m at the grocery store, my book contains coupons and usually my shopping list, helping me shop efficiently within my budget
- When I’m heading somewhere unfamiliar, my book contains a map of Lincoln’s bike trails to direct me to the nearest route
- When I need to sign something, my book contains pens (and pencils)
- When I’m losing sight of what’s important, my book contains my vision statement and goals to keep me on track
- Whether I’m scheduling an appointment or planning my day, my book contains my calendar to make sure I don’t double book and that I’ll make it to everything on time
- When I’m juggling multiple tasks and trying to prioritize, my book contains daily and weekly to do lists that give me the essentials
- When it’s time to get ready for bed, my book contains my evening routines to make sure I’m ready for whatever tomorrow brings
- When I’ve got some extra time, my book reminds me of topics I want to write about or read about–or what websites I want to check out
- When I’m at the library, my book has a list of all the Dewey Decimal classifications, of the sections or authors I’ve already read, of the sections or authors I’m currently working on, and of books that I want to read (generally from recommendations)
- When I’m getting something for my car, my book gives me all my car related specs
- When I’m at the doctor’s office, my book keeps my medical history straight
- When I need to make a phone call, send an e-mail, or drop someone a note, my book contains contact information on all my personal and business contacts.
People have been wont to ask me how I do what I do–as busy as I am. My answer? I keep my brains in my book. I don’t have to remember all those things. I don’t have to juggle it. My book does the juggling for me.
There are just two simple things that allow me to keep my brains in my book.
- I tell my brain everything I need to know. I write down everything in its appropriate place within my book.
- My brain tells me everything I need to know. I refer to my book constantly throughout the day.
This is a system that simply works for me–as long as I don’t leave my brain behind anywhere!
Writing histories
Whenever I go to visit my grandparents, I make sure to have a notebook and pen handy. I never know when one or both of them will segue into a story–but I definitely know that my memory is too poor to retain all the details. So I jot myself notes as they talk–or as soon as possible afterwards.
I was not-so-surreptitiously taking notes on Monday when I realized that Grandma and Grandpa might like to know what the intended “final product” of all these notes is. So I opened the internet and dug out this narrative about Rosa May (Butterfield) Cook.
Rosa May was my Grandpa Cook’s Grandma, making her my great-great-grandma. I remember the vivid stories my mom used to tell me about great-grandma–the stories of the opossums, and the skunk, and the telephone. Rosa May is a member of the oldest generation that my mom and her siblings still remember–which made her an ideal target for my probing. A couple of years ago, I started pestering my family for stories about Rosa May–and I looked up as much as I could to corroborate anything they told me. The final result (which is nonetheless a work in progress) was my narrative.
The narrative was from an old version of my website. I had to save the page to my sister’s laptop and tweak the html in order to make it display properly. But I was finally able to open the web page and show Grandma. Grandma was impressed with the results and encouraged me to read it to Grandpa.
And so I did. I read the narrative to Grandpa, half afraid that I’d have gotten it all wrong. After all, Grandpa is the unchallenged family historian of the Cook Clan. Even with Parkinson’s and some dementia, his memory of family history is unparalleled. And he has a great deal of respect for our ancestors, too–a respect that insists that the truth be told down to the last detail.
But when I finished reading my narrative, Grandpa just looked at me and said, “Some others might question some parts, but that’s pretty much the story.” High praise from my Grandpa.
I don’t have the memories Grandpa has–he knew the generations that exist at most as stories for me. And I certainly don’t have his memory for the details of their lives. But my hope is that in my limited capacity, I can preserve some of our heritage–that might otherwise be lost–for the next generation.
I’m interested in the facts–the birth dates and wedding dates and times people moved–but I’m even more interested in the details of my ancestors lives. I want to know how they lived, what they cared about, what their houses looked like, what their favorite foods are, how they impacted others’ lives. I want to know the stories–the good, the bad, the nostalgic and the uncomfortable.
Which is why I want to preserve as much as I can in narrative format. I want to create a family history that is correct–but that is also entertaining. I may be interested in my family history–but I’m not content that I be the only one interested. I want to bring the family to life so that my generation and the generations after me will get interested too.
It’s a slow process–and most of my work is in the form of jotted notes in the dozens of journals kept in my closet. But someday, maybe, my part in the history will be complete–and I’ll pass the history on to the next generation to write. And maybe, if I’m lucky, they’ll write my story too.
A Little Country Church
Yesterday, I attended the morning worship service at the little country church my mother grew up in.
A cousin hands us the program before we file in to the back row, where a shortened pew leaves room for Grandpa’s wheelchair. We open our programs and find the hymns in the hymnal. An older parishioner realizes that the hymn board still lists last week’s hymns. He corrects the board as I idly wonder why Virginia has not yet taken her place at the organ.
My cousin and another man act as the accolytes, and we wait for the pastor to appear. When the vacancy pastor emerges from the back room, my unasked question receives an answer. Virginia is gone, so we’ll be singing with a CD recording.
We sit for the opening hymn and the pastor cues up the CD player with a little remote. As strains of an organ diffuse through the building, I sing unfamiliar words to a familiar tune, played with unfamiliarly correct timing. The timing throws off more than just I and we lose ourselves a couple of times.
Nonetheless, the service flows smoothly enough. The new hymnal throws me off a few times. You’d think that I’d be more flexible than I am. After all, I only worship with a liturgy when I’m here at St. Paul Venus. I am only familiar enough with the liturgy to be distressed when something changes–it throws me off when the words I’m reading don’t jibe with the words my head thinks they should be speaking. It’s the little things that throw me off–a “You” where I remember a “Thee”.
When the service ends, we make our way to the narthex. The men open both doors to get Grandpa’s wheelchair through, then circle at the bottom of the steps to discuss whatever they do. We women bunch up in the narthex, exchanging greetings. One woman says she remembers my older sister from Bible study, but Grandma’s pretty sure she’s actually remembering me. I vaguely remember being rather talkative at an after-church Bible study during one visit.
I remember us kids swinging on the rail along the front steps. We’d play on the green indoor-outdoor carpeting until one of the ladies told us they had Sunday school ready for us. So we trooped down to the basement for Sunday school. At first, there were other kids; but by my later elementary years, we were the only kids in Sunday school. Whoever was in charge of Sunday school had something ready in case some kids showed up, but children were few and far between. I no longer fill the “kid” category–and Marlene and Richard were celebrating their 50th wedding anniversary with donuts in the basement–so there wasn’t any Sunday school following our service.
St. Paul Venus celebrated 95 years this spring. 95 years of baptizing babies, confirming young eighth graders, sending graduates off to school. 95 years of returning children, new grandchildren, great-grandchildren home on holidays. St. Paul reflects the neighborhood–aging, dwindling, reluctantly changing as necessity demands.
It’s a wonder the St. Paul Venus congregation still exists. In a rural community where most of the parishioners are retirees–or would be if they could afford to retire–there’s hardly the money to support a pastor. In fact, it’s been years since St. Paul has been able to pay a pastor’s salary. A nearby parish shares its pastor for an hour and a half every Sunday morning. Tithes pay for heating and electricity.
I don’t know how much longer this little country church will stand. Venus, Nebraska is little more than a historical postscript. Who knows how much longer before St. Paul follows the town.
I can’t help but feel melancholy as I think of this little church someday being forgotten. For when it is forgotten, so will a great deal of my history and my family’s history. St. Paul Venus features prominently in the stories of my past.
Grandpa’s favorite story is of looking at a cute young Carol Pierce on the Sunday school bench. They were both preschoolers, but Grandpa says he looked over at her one week and thought “My, that Carol Pierce is awful pretty. When I grow up, she’s gonna be my girlfriend.” The next week, he looked over and thought a variation on his first thought: “My, that Carol Pierce is awful pretty. When I grow up, she’s gonna be my wife!” And sure enough, when they were grown, Carol Pierce became his wife.
They were married in the very church where at least fifteen years prior Ronald Cook had decided he would like to marry Carol Pierce. They baptized each of their twelve children in this same church–and saw them confirmed there. At least two of their daughters were married at St. Paul, and a few grandchildren were baptized there as well. When Grandma and Grandpa’s progeny expanded to no longer fit within their home, they moved family gatherings to the church.
I remember playing games in the church basement before moving upstairs to sing hymns around the organ or Aunt Nellie’s electric piano. We all rifled through the hymnals, searching for our favorites, while the kids threw out suggestion after suggestion. There wasn’t a dry eye in our familial congregation when Grandpa asked for his favorites: “In the Garden” or “On Christ the Solid Rock I stand”.
I remember Grandpa standing up to tell his stories after dinner. He’d tell us the story of Grandma and him on the Sunday school bench, and the story of the man who encouraged him and Grandma to “Be fruitful and increase”. He’d tell of how proud he is of his sons-in-law–he feels that they take more after his father-in-law than him.
And I remember the slide show Aunt Martha put together for their wedding anniversary celebration one year. We were watching it in the church basement when a reproduction of a the postcard he sent Grandma from Korea came onto the screen. “Turn it over,” Grandpa yelled. Sure enough, the next slide showed the back of the card–Grandpa was coming home. I’m sure I wasn’t the only one crying. He made it back safely after his time on the front lines in Korea–back to his bride.
My memories of the little country church are only the beginning of the histories that building could tell. The photo albums I perused yesterday held few familiar faces–but I could recognize St. Paul Venus in the background, telling the stories of the generations before.
Wamma-Wampa’s
I can’t say when we started calling Grandma and Grandpa’s house “Wamma-Wampa’s”. I imagine it was someone’s early lisping first phrase–a corruption of “Gramma and Grampa’s”. But it caught on and now we rarely call it anything else.
In the past when we’ve visited Wamma-Wampa’s, it’s been at least a half dozen of us–if not throwing in several families together to make a couple dozen. Dozens is the way they come at Grandpa and Grandma’s house. They had a dozen children, and their dozen have been faithful to multiply.
Which is why today’s visit is so unusual. Me and Mom and Dad join Grandma and Grandpa and Aunt Ruth to make only a half dozen even. The three of us arrived less than half an hour ago, after the others were already in bed. Mom and Dad found the bedroom in the basement–and I was left to pick my room upstairs.
To pick. Imagine it. To have my choice of the three upstairs rooms (not including the landing). I didn’t have to determine whether it would be best if girls or boys stayed on the landing, who needed to be in the three-person room or the two-person room or the one-or-maybe-two-if-necessary room. I could just pick. I chose the three person room–the room I’m most familiar with.
At many a previous visit, I slept on the short twin bed by the door while Anna and Grace shared the full by the window. Now, I have set myself up on the full bed, just me. The window is open and I know my head will be congested by morning, but for now I don’t care. For now, I’m just enjoying the quiet that isn’t really quiet of the country.
No train whistles, no traffic, no car alarms, no domestic disputes. I can’t make out a single cricket, but the combined music of hundreds forms a pleasing lullaby, begging me to leave behind my city-folk worries and just be a child at Wamma-Wampa’s again.
Alas, in this too, this trip is different. I’m here on break, but not really. I have fifty papers with me to grade, four texts to peruse, and a sheaf of journal articles to review for my thesis proposal. This is a working holiday, and I’ve borrowed my sister’s laptop for the journey.
Which is yet another way that this trip is different. Instead of being unplugged, I’m more “wired” than I ever have been before. With wireless internet throughout the house–I can now blog whenever I please. But I also have to respond to students’ e-mails, input grades on blackboard, and maybe get some research in.
I’m already weighed down with the tasks I have for this weekeng; but I’m wishing, longing, hoping for something beside. I’m hoping that I can take a moment, just a brief breather, to enjoy some sort of holiday. I’m hoping to just once lose sight of all that must be done and spend some time just being.
As life grows busier, it becomes harder and harder to find that place. But if that place can be found, I’m pretty sure, I’ll find it at Wamma-Wampa’s.
A Truly Empowered Female
As my siblings want to take my car out of town tomorrow, I was forced to FINALLY change my oil. It’s been on my to-do list for an eon, but has not been accomplished, because, well…I’ve never changed my oil before.
Of course, I could take it to Wal-mart to have it done, as I always have in the past. But Wal-mart’s oil changes have become remarkably expensive; and it seems to me that every woman should know how to change her own oil.
So, sometime near the beginning of the summer, I bought myself five quarts of oil and a new oil filter–and I’ve been faithfully writing “change oil” on my weekly to-do list every week since. But I haven’t gotten it done.
After all, if you’ve never changed your own oil before, it’s a daunting process. You have to have someone else to help you (or else remember enough to have a decent grasp on what you’re doing it advance.) Then, if you’re like me, you have to find a way to get all the appropriate tools (my answer? go to my parents’ house.) And there’s the “changing into grubbies” (which I find particularly difficult because I really don’t own anything grubby–honest!)
But I couldn’t let the kiddos take my car to South Dakota for their fancy Christian rock festival when the oil hadn’t been changed in who knows how long. (I haven’t changed it since I bought the car in …was it April?) So, tonight was it. It had to be.
Tonight, after all this long lead-up time, I…
- dressed in my painting pants and a t-shirt I rarely wear (sorry Jeremy!)
- drove my car up onto what I’m choosing to call stilts
- covered my backside with water (it rained today) while trying to locate my oil filter and drain nut.
- borrowed a wrench and some “rags” (aka old undershirts) from my dad
- almost gave myself a hernia trying to loosen the drain nut. (That thing was on TIGHT!)
- watched in wonder as an arc of disgustingly dirty oil spurted from my car
- fumbled with the oil filter wrench a half a dozen times before I got the filter loosened
- dropped the oil filter down my one arm onto the pavement (So sorry for that spill, Dad!)
- fumbled with the oil filter wrench again while replacing the filter
- refilled the oil
It took almost an hour (yeah, I’m a slow learner) and caused my sister’s rolls to raise too high–and got me just a WEE bit messy–but I’ve done it. I’ve changed my oil. I feel like a truly empowered female.
And it’s up…
I’ve been wanting to get my little sib’s blogs onto the menterz.com website for quite a while now. It doesn’t seem reasonable to be paying for a domain with our own name on it and then using free hosting at a different domain.
Problem is, the kiddos (Joshua and Grace) are using WordPress.com for their blogs. They like their blogging platform and don’t want to go through the bother of learning html and using it for their blogging (like I do.)
Thankfully, the blogging platform they are using is open-source from WordPress.org. Which means all I have to do is install WordPress on our web server, configure it for their blogs and get their blogs transferred over.
But I’ve never used WordPress–and I’m not THAT comfortable with programming of the non-HTML variety. So it has taken me a while.
Actually, now that I think of it, maybe it hasn’t been all that long. Was it really just this last Sunday that Dad and I sat down together to install WordPress on our web server? I think it was.
I’ve been spending every spare moment since learning how Worpress Themes work–by creating a them that matches my website. I am in the process of switching the blog portion of my site over to WordPress–as it will make it simpler for me to post from a distance (for example, while in between classes at school). I will continue doing my own html for articles, bible studies, book reviews, and the like.
It seems that this will have the happy effect of allowing me to post on my blog more easily, while maintaining my skills in html and css–and maybe even learning a bit of php and mySQL while I’m at it. I’m pretty excited about the prospect.
And, having worked out most of the bugs (I think) with the whole “WordPress blogging” thing, I am now ready to unveil the newest development in the life of “bekahcubed”. While messing around with our web server, we discovered that we could create a new subdomain for me with just a couple button clicks. So, instead of the old www.menterz.com/bekahcubed, you can now access my website at bekahcubed.menterz.com. This is a much nicer url to share. So, please update your bookmarks to bekahcubed.menterz.com.
In addition, you may want to update your RSS feeds or subscribe to my RSS for the first time. I now have two separate RSS feeds: one for the blog content and one for the (more) static articles.
Also, be prepared for an introduction to Joshua and Grace‘s blogs–coming soon to menterz.com
Dreaming and Doing
Some people dream to the exclusion of doing.
Others do to the exclusion of dreaming.
I vacillate between the two.
Heartsick because of hope deferred, I shut off the dreams and exhaust myself in doing.
Worked to the ground, I look up to the sky and ask “Is this really what I dreamed of?”
I planned to write a post about all the many things I’ve dabbled in, dreamed of, done. But as I started writing, the dreams rose in my throat to cut off my air.
Remember the days, Rebekah?
Remember the days you dreamt big dreams? Remember dreaming of identifying with Christ to the point of sweating drops of blood like He did? You were such a zealous little girl, swinging on the swings at Tanker Hill while the adults in the church prayed. You dreamed of an army of children, passionate for God alone. Remember dreaming of a revival sweeping our nation, transforming every public and private activity? You were such a passionate teen–and you wanted to see the world changed.
Remember the dreams, the plans, the desires of your heart? Remember the designs, the plans you wrote up? A haven for missionaries on furlough. A refuge for those struck by natural disasters. A nursing home that was a HOME instead of a “facility”. A year-round camp. A support school for home-schoolers. A church-based community center. A church without walls, a church that never sleeps.
Remember how you hungered not just for knowledge but for experience as well? Remembering dreaming of traveling to each of those exotic places you read about? Remember wanting to work in the factory, wanting to build the computer, wanting to go into space? Remember wanting to see the animals first hand in their natural habitat? Remember wanting to learn the dance, do gymnastics, figure skate?
Remember when God told you your dreams were too small? Remember when He told you to dream bigger? Remember when God told you to start dreaming again? That wasn’t that long ago–but you became disappointed too soon.
June 10, 2006 passed and you weren’t married. You’re approaching 25 and you don’t own a house. You have school loans you didn’t plan on accruing. You haven’t been all those places you planned on going. You haven’t accomplished what you hoped to accomplish in your first quarter-century. So you immersed yourself in doing and let the dreams die.
O heartsick one, revive again. O downcast head, be lifted up. Awaken to dream, to yearn, to delight once more.
Rise above the busy pit that would never have you see the light. Arise to dance again. Arise to sing again. Arise to dream again.
What’s on Your Nightstand?
5 Minutes for Books hosts a monthly “What’s on your nightstand?” carnival on the fourth Tuesday of each month. The idea is that you let everybody know what you’ve been reading or are planning on reading this month.
It suits me to a T since the books I’m reading are literally on my nightstand. Here’s today’s photo.
Fiction
- The Fellowship of the Ring by J.R.R. Tolkien (I’ve been re-reading this one. Check out my notes on Chapter 1, 2, 3a, and 3b.)
- Dangerous Sanctuary by Lois Richer (A recommendation from my little sister that I haven’t started yet.)
Nonfiction
- How Do Astronauts Scratch an Itch by David Feldman. (Halfway through–just finished reading about why ceiling fans get dusty.)
- Your Two-Year-Old by Loise Ames. (Still trying to finish up that 649.122 Section at the library.)
- Secret’s of the Baby Whisperer for Toddlers by Tracy Hogg. (Ditto above. Only about a dozen books to go in the section–can’t let them multiply too fast on me.)
- Bicycling Magazine’s Complete book of Road Cycling Skills (Now that I’m commuting by bike and training for my big ride next year, I’d like to develop some skills.)
- How to Expand and Upgrade PCs. (Got my new hard drive installed, now I just need to clone my current hard drive over and get everything arranged right.)
- Do it Yourself PC Upgrade Projects. (Do you mean to tell me that you do not routinely check out at least two books on any given subject before attempting to accomplish a task?)
- The Perfect Apron by Rob Merrett. (Felt the need for some cute new aprons for while I’m teaching my cooking-I mean-Scientific Principles of Food Preparation-lab. And these aprons are HARD-CORE cute. I made the bias cut one and wore it to lab today.)
- Get out of that pit by Beth Moore. (My church’s ladies retreat this fall is based on this book. A friend and I decided to read it and discuss it together prior to the retreat. So far, so good.)
- Opposing Viewpoints: Medicine. (With the current Health Care debate raging, it helps to be informed!)
Childrens/Young Adult
- Leonardo, the Terrible Monster by Mo Willems. (Carrie at Reading to Know recommended Mo Willems–and I’ve fallen in love with his cute illustrations and story lines–in that order. I haven’t read this one yet though.)
- Breathing Underwater by Alex Flynn. (I read Alex Flynn’s Beastly and loved the modern-day retelling of Beauty and the Beast from the Beast’s perspective. This one looks to be pretty different, but I’m eager to read it regardless.)
School
It’s too depressing to enumerate these. Suffice to say that I’ve got a biochemistry text and a couple of library biochem primers, a book of lab tests (to study for the RD Exam), a text for my program planning class, and a half dozen texts for my counseling class.
Just finished
- Farmer Boy Days (A very abridged version of Laura Ingalls Wilder’s Farmer Boy for new readers. Unless your child is seriously intimidated by the bulk of the Little House books, I’d encourage them to read the “real thing”. I was reading the Little House books by 2nd grade–and I don’t see why others shouldn’t be able to as well.)
- Nurse Matilda: Collected Tales by Christiana Brand. (I loved Nanny McPhee, so when I saw this book at the library, I snatched it right up. I enjoyed the first novel, but found the second two to be a bit too repetitive.)
- The Contented Soul by Lisa Graham McMinn. (This wasn’t a bad book, but it wasn’t great either. It had nice thoughts of contentment, but seemed a lot more “worldly wisdom” than “wisdom from above”. I can get enough worldly wisdom from worldly books. I don’t want to have to read it in “Christian” books too.)
- Rose Daughter by Robin McKinley. (I LOVED Beauty, McKinley’s first retelling of Beauty and the Beast. In Rose Daughter, McKinley tells the story again–with a completely different twist. I love both. These are books you definitely don’t want to miss.)
Simple Sunday: Nachos
~Thankful for the Mexican leftovers our church sent us home with after the work day yesterday. Nachos are one of my favorite foods, but my frugal outlook rarely allows for a bag of tortilla chips (and topping the chips with gobs of shredded cheddar, like I prefer it, isn’t exactly easy on the wallet either!) Nonetheless, thanks to LCF, I have some nachos to munch on as I read blogs (trying to keep my mind off the fact that I’M TEACHING MY FIRST LAB TOMORROW!)
(Yeah, I know that doesn’t look the most appetizing–but it still tastes pretty good!)
Visit Davene at Life on Sylvan Drive for more Simple Sunday posts.