On being UNDAMNED

“Damn you, Rebekah!” someone told me today.

“You can’t,” thought I. “I can’t, and neither can anyone else.”

I didn’t tell this person what I was thinking. But I was thinking, “I’ve already been undamned, by someone with much more authority than you or I.”

Damn

  1. To pronounce an adverse judgment upon
  2. To cause the failure of, ruin
  3. To condemn as harmful, illegal, or immoral
  4. To condemn to everlasting punishment
  5. To swear at

It just so happens that I have already been undamned. The adverse judgment that once was upon me has been removed. My failure has been removed. My condemnation as harmful, illegal, and immoral has been removed. My condemnation to everlasting punishment has been removed. So the last definition of damn, “to swear at” has very little hold over me. “What can separate me from the love of God which is in Christ Jesus?” Certainly not man’s damning.


Forty Pounds of Fresh Spinach

Have you ever contemplated how many spinach leaves there are in 40 pounds of fresh spinach? I hadn’t. At least, not until I was given the task of stemming 40 pounds of fresh spinach.

If you didn’t already know, spinach isn’t very dense–a small weight fills a very large container. We had four cases, each with four 2.5 lb bags inside, to stem. We chose the largest tabletop mixing bowl and got to work. We filled that with half a case. We started on another. Then we realized that at this rate, we would require 8 large mixing bowls to complete the task. We pulled out the big guns. We drew out the freestanding “Big Bertha” mixing bowl and set it beside the table we were working at. I’m not sure how many times we filled that, because the cook’s kept coming in and taking a small (big) mixing bowl full of spinach from it to cook off immediately.

I didn’t count how many leaves there were in 40 lbs, but I do know that it took two people at least 4 hours and 45 minutes to complete the task. That’s 9 1/2 man-hours. That’s a LONG time. But in some ways, it was a wonderful time. After the first hour, I asked permission and permission was granted me to drag a stool up to the prep table. So I sat and stemmed spinach. It reminded me of my growing up years, sitting around the kitchen table with all the kids, stemming beans Mom had just picked. It wasn’t that bad, although it was a long time and a little monotonous.

What made it all okay though, was the company. One of our custodians offered to help me when the other cook had to go off to do his thing. I didn’t know Lien that well before we started stemming spinach together, but now I feel as if I know her well.

I learned that Lien and her family escaped from Vietnam in the 1970’s when the Communists were attempting to forcibly conscript her into their army. They escaped on a boat–and were lucky to be picked up by an American boat. Lien said that others were picked up by other boats–and that men did awful things to the women they picked up.

Lien was 19 when she arrived in the US, but instead of going to school, she went out and got a job. She was the oldest daughter of 9 children, and they needed something on which to live. Her mother stayed at home with the children. Her father had a job that paid $2.75 an hour. Lien worked from 9 in the morning until 11 at night seven days a week to support her family.

Lien learned English by talking to her coworkers, and continues to improve her English by listening carefully to how we pronounce words and structure our sentences. She is glad to have a good job at the University, where she usually works only 40 hours a week–and where she receives vacation time. She loves that she now has the opportunity to spend time with her 7 year old daughter.

I’m glad there are so many leaves in 40 lbs of spinach–otherwise I might not have had an opportunity to really know this remarkable woman.


I’ve been waiting

I told you only a few days ago that I was waiting for someone to flock Anna and myself.

Well, today I rose early so I could get some stuff done around the house before Joanna and I took our walk. The main floor of our house was stuffy so I opened the back patio door to let some air in. A small flamingo stood waiting.

Opening the front door led me to the bulk of the flock. A letter tied around one flamingo’s neck announced:

You've been flocked by: ?

Be forewarned–one of you is next ;)

flock of yard ornament flamingos


An Unexpected Blessing

I got done with work only 40 minutes late today. My attitude, well, it could have been better. I was tired, frustrated, reliving the stresses of the day. Missing paperwork. Feeling rushed. Inconsiderate guests. Not enough to drink. Hot and muggy. Chaotic clean-up. It wasn’t one of my best days.

I arrived at the library only 3 minutes before closing–certainly not enough time to go in to return my books. I dropped them in the book drop. Seeing my friend Joanna’s car parked nearby, I decided on a whim to park next to her and wait until she came out. It was only a few minutes before she emerged.

We chatted. I vented. She asked me if I’d like to go for a walk tomorrow morning. Unexpected blessings. A chance to catch up. It’s been a long time. Something to look forward to. A reason to not spend all night on the computer. Re-awakening friendship. God is good.


Flocked

flamingoI dropped by my folk’s home this evening to borrow a DVD–and discovered that sometime in the last few days, a mini-flock of these
had landed in their lawn.

One in particular caught my eye
flamingo with note around its neck. This flamingo sat right by the front door bearing a peculiar note addressed to “THE MENTERZ”. I talked to Mom later and learned that the letter inside said that we’d been flocked by “You know who. NOT!”

The flamingos are part of a Z-360 fundraiser. Individuals can pay $15 to get a flock of flamingos to migrate to someone’s yard. Z-360 offers free removal of the flock after 48 hours–or the individual who was flocked can opt to send them on to someone else for only $10. What a deal! I keep hoping that someone will flock me so I can get the discount rate. ;-)


Getting Lost in IL

This weekend surely was not my time to shine as a Navigational Star. Debbie and I have gotten lost at least once every time we have ventured out alone.

On Friday, we drove up to Cantigny Park in Wheaton, IL. Uncle Steve had printed out MapQuest directions for us to get there–but sometimes MapQuest just doesn’t do the job. Like when you miss a “right turn onto exit ramp for such and such a street” and loop around back to that street and decide to take a left turn onto it so that you’ll still be heading in the same direction. Except that “right turn onto exit ramp for such and such a street” loops you around so that you’re really heading LEFT from the original direction–and taking a left from the opposite direction will direct you in the opposite way! (My main beef with MapQuest is its lack of directions–it always states R, L, etc., but never E, W, N, S.)

Then there was today. We were going into Chicago for the day to tour a couple of museums–armed with a Metra train schedule, a hand-drawn map from Aunt Rachel directing us to the train station, and a Chicago guidebook I’d checked out of the library back in Lincoln. We arrived at the train station in plenty of time for our 9:48 departure–only to be told that since today was a holiday, the Metra was running on the Sunday schedule and the next train wouldn’t be in until 10:48. We walked over to watch the town’s Memorial Day event while we were waiting and made it back to the train station for the 10:48 train.

We arrived in Ogilvie Transportation Center somewhere around 12:30–and I pulled out my guidebook so that we could make our way down to Field Museum–our first stop for the day. Problem was, I was looking at the map that said “Upper Loop” and it didn’t have “Canal Street” anywhere. So I was trying to ascertain our location based only on “Monroe Street” (or whatever that street was) and a vague thought that a river was located nearby. We started walking. The neighborhood became less and less dense–we saw fewer and fewer skyscrapers. We started to wonder if maybe we were going in the wrong direction. Ducking into a Walgreens for a quick restroom break and a chance to regroup, we discovered that we had been heading due WEST–away from the lake. The more comprehensive map in the back of the guidebook got us straightened out and we finally made our way to Field. We probably only added a mile or two to our already long jaunt.

The ride home was a breeze. Take the train back to Woodstock, drive along this road and that until we get home. We took all the right turns, recognized all the roads. It was great. We were on a roll. Until we got to one intersection that I wasn’t sure I recognized. It was a two way stop with a flashing light, and the intersection was set at a bit of an angle. Debbie thought she remembered it so we continued on. We were looking for the turn off to Rachel and Steve’s neighborhood. It couldn’t be that hard, we knew what it looked like. We knew it was on the right side of the road. We couldn’t miss it. So we drove on…and on…and on. We drove past farm after farm after farm–and were almost certain that we were NOT getting any closer to town. We turned around and called Steve and Rachel. “Um. This is Debbie. We’re on River Road and we’re lost.” Turns out their neighborhood was before the intersection Debbie had recognized and I hadn’t–we’d been too busy talking to notice the turnoff when we’d passed it. And the intersection? Well, Debbie recognized it from when we’d turned onto it to get gas on FRIDAY when we’d gone to Cantigny. Go figure!

I’m really not as bad with directions as this weekend might make me out to be. Honest!


Thanks a lot, Jack

I woke up yesterday with a dozen things to do–finish my morning routine, empty out my car, take the car down to Walmart to get his oil changed and everything checked, grab some last minute groceries, pack everything into the car (including last minute items), clean out the fridge, turn off my computer, vacuum the dirt from the planted pot I knocked over the night before, take out the trash, lock up the house, and fill the car up with gas–all before 9 am when we would be leaving.

I dropped Anna and Debbie off at Mom and Dad’s house to hang out with the others while I filled up with gas at the corner gas station. I filled up and got into the car. I turned the key in the ignition. Nothing. No radio, no lights, nothing. Certainly not the engine turning over. I jiggled the gear shift and repeated. Nothing. I turned the steering wheel and repeated. Still nothing. I called my parents in desperation. Joseph and Daniel came out to help–and discovered that they couldn’t do anything either. Thanks a lot, Jack.

We decided to go in Dan’s car instead. We transferred all our stuff into his car and pushed my car into a parking spot. Mom called Dad to let him know what we’d decided to do–He said, “Good luck. If Danny’s car dies on the way, leave it there.” If you haven’t guessed, my Dad doesn’t have that much confidence in Dan’s car. Nonetheless, we made it there safely–and even in time for Rachel’s homemade pizza before Aaron’s eighth grade graduation.

I mentioned our car situation at the dinner table, and Uncle Steve’s Dad pipes up: “Well, that could be just a loose battery cable.” I said I hoped so. When it was about time to go to bed and I took out my cell phone to recharge it overnight, I saw that I had missed a call from my mom. Her message said that Dad had gone to look at Jack and that it was just a loose battery cable–so it’s all fixed now. Thanks a lot, Jack!

Not that it’s really been that bad. Debbie and I didn’t end up driving ourselves on the way up–Dan drove us instead. That meant we didn’t get good private girl time–but it also meant we didn’t have to drive, or follow Joseph’s less than stellar leadership (that is, as a leader of a caravan). And Dan’s car does get better gas mileage than Jack does–especially a plus once we reached Illinois, where gas prices range from $4.009 to $4.299 per gallon. Ouch! So I suppose, other than teaching me a bit about humility and flexibility and forgiveness, the switch wasn’t that bad. Thanks a lot, Jack.


Love Languages

Looking at “Love Languages” comes and goes in popularity at my church. We hear a bit about it and then hear nothing for a long while before we hear it again. Each of the times it rises again, I take the test again, hoping to ascertain my personal “love language”. Every time, I am disappointed–as with every attempt to categorize myself, I find that I am on the border–or maybe I just want to think I’m different so I intentionally sabotage the results.

Then there are those people you can immediately place into a category–not because they are stereotypical, but because they abound so very much in that certain area. My friend Michelle jumps to mind. I don’t know how anybody who thinks about it could not see that her love language is gifts.

I’ve been helping Michelle move this last week–and as we’ve been packing or unpacking, she’ll find something she no longer wants and offer it to me. Or she’ll think of someone else who could use it. “This will be perfect for…” “I bought this for… but I forgot about it…so now I’ll give it to…” “Do you think … would enjoy this?” She’s so generous with everything–abounding in giving.

She reminds me of the chapter in II Corinthians where Paul speaks of the generosity of the Macedonians “that in a great trial of affliction…their deep poverty abounded in the riches of their liberality. for I bear witness that according to their ability, yes, and beyond their ability, they were freely willing…” (II Corinthians 8:2-3) Michelle is far from rich–she lives on government assistance and disability. She has what she needs–just barely. But even as she experiences want, even as she struggles under huge physical and emotional burdens, she searches out ways to shower gifts on others. She’ll go without so that she can give. That’s just the kind of person she is.

That’s certainly not my love language. I like giving gifts, and I like receiving them. But they’re not a way of life with me. I’m not sure what my love language is. I used to think that it was physical touch. I was always a very physically affectionate child–wanting hugs and kisses and sharing nose juice with Daddy (Eskimo kisses). My brother John’s love language is definitely physical touch–and that hasn’t lessened as he’s grown older. I don’t think my language is acts of service–that’s my Mom’s and I’m nothing like her on that count. I like to do stuff for people–but I generally don’t like receiving acts of service much–or at least, it doesn’t communicate love to me like it does to her. Which leaves quality time and words of affirmation. And those two are hard to determine between. I love spending time with people–I love a good quality chat–a chat of hearts to hearts and minds to minds. I like to do things together–like quilting with Joanna, or scrapbooking with Debbie, or eating lunch with my Dad. But I also really value the words–when someone recognizes something I’ve done, when my Dad compares me to my favorite role models, when I’m told that I matter.

I guess it isn’t so important that I know my own as it is that I know others–after all, what good does it do to know my own love language? A Love Language is something that one speaks involuntarily. I don’t need to learn how to speak my own language. Instead, I must seek to learn others’ languages–so that I can translate the love that I might easily speak in my own language into a language they can understand.

So tell me, what’s your language?


Home Depot or Menards? You Choose

The north side of Lincoln has two big “lumberyards”. They’re located right next to each other with nothing but a Shopko separating them. Home Depot and Menards? It’s a hard decision to make. After all, they’re right next to one another–location certainly can’t be a deciding factor.

So which do you choose? When you need to buy, say, a ten foot length of conduit, where do you go?

[If you haven’t figured it out yet, I’m asking for feedback ;-) For those of you who are new to this whole “blogging” thing, that means you click on the “comment” link at the bottom of this post and say something!]

Now, because I’m an honorable sort of journalist, I will declare my own biases. I have made my decision largely based on the jingles of each respective store. “Save big money, save big money when you shop Menards”–it’s repetitive but catchy. And it appeals to my base inner frugality :-P Home Depot’s on the other hand–“You can do it, we can help”–
seems to be trying at empowerment. But it strikes me as a bit patronizing.

My choice for when I need to buy a ten-foot length of conduit? See for yourself.

conduit in car at Menards

So what about you? Which do you choose?