If you don’t, and you are awakened by a train at 4 am and decide to go to the bathroom, you might end up with a toe that looks like this:
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.
So what about you? Which do you choose?
Coming off the happy pills
It was sometime last November that I realized I needed help. The day was Thursday–it was a day that seemed straight from hell. I woke up and went about my morning activities feeling more than a little off kilter. I ran into a wall, and tripped over my own feet on the way down the stairs. At 6:30, I left for work. My whole body felt tense and my reactions times were slow. I felt sure I was going to hit someone. I parked my car and began my walk into work. I clung tightly to my bag and stepped carefully, sure all the while that I would fall off the bridge and break my head open.
I made it to work, but I was strung so tightly I could have snapped any moment. My boss noticed my tenseness–but I couldn’t tell her what was going on–only that I seemed really paranoid that morning.
It took twice as long as it should have to prepare my assigned recipes because I kept having to search for my ingredients. I was into the walk-in three times before I found my spaghetti sauce ingredients–on the stack in the corner where they always are.
I rushed from work to class–ate my lunch in lecture. Forgot an apron for the cooking lab so I got points docked. Class got out early–I had two extra hours before I had to be at my next job. Usually I only had a half an hour.
I went home and took a nap–and even though I had set my alarm, I overslept. I was awakened by a call from a coworker. I was 45 minutes late to relieve him from his shift. I felt awful. The day kept running through my head until I finally got off at 9.
I got in my car and turned it towards home on autopilot. But I couldn’t go back to my house. I knew that if I did, I would crawl into it as if into a hole–and never come out again. Instead, I went to my parents house and spent the next two hours bawling.
That’s when I realized I needed help. The next day I cut my hours at the one job and gave up as many weekend shifts as I could at the other. And I set up an appointment with my physician assistant.
I came away from my appointment with a diagnosis of depression–most likely seasonal affective disorder–and a prescription for Zoloft. Within a week on the meds, I was coping much better.
This morning I took my last half pill of Zoloft. I’m going off the happy pill for the summer–maybe longer. I don’t know. The questions and judgments surrounding drug treatment of depression–and even the diagnosis of depression itself–rise in my mind once again. I had pushed them down, ignored them during the winter because I couldn’t afford to be philosophical–I needed the pill.
Now, when the sun start shining again and I can wake up without three alarms, when I have energy to carry out my daily activities, and even to dream and plan for the future–Now the demon reemerges to condemn me for my reliance on a drug to see me through. “Don’t you trust God? Can’t He heal you? Depression is all in your mind. It’s all your fault. You weren’t even really depressed–you just didn’t want to face the music. You’re a hypochondriac. You did it to yourself. And now you’re relying on a quick fix drug to ease your pain. How different are you really from someone who drowns his struggles in the bottle?”
Depression is a diagnosis that I’ve feared, hated, and gladly welcomed. Antidepressants are a cure I’ve despised, despaired over, and depended upon.
I fear that I’ll never have a winter of relief–that I’ll have to rely on my happy pills every year. I fear that it’ll extend–and I’ll always be depressed, not just in the winter. I fear that maybe the cause isn’t physiology–that maybe the problem is me. Maybe I just can’t cope, can’t manage. I fear that I’m deficient. I fear that depression is a sin–that all it means is that I’m not trusting God.
But the Bible says that perfect love casts out fear. Lord, may I bask in Your love. May I trust that Your arms will hold me fast even as the enemy attacks my mind with condemnation. “There is therefore now no condemnation to those who are in Christ Jesus.” I believe. Help me in my unbelief.
No more than three times a year
I was showing a friend some of the photographs of old documents that I took while I was at Grandma and Grandpa’s house–and came upon this:
My great-grandpa Pierce’s Social Security Card.
Which reminded my friend that she needed to get a new card, having lost hers.
I whipped open my internet browser to the SS administration website to find her the information she needed to know–and found this useful tidbit: “…You are limited to three replacement cards in a year…” Now I don’t know about you, but that just about saved me from disaster. I had been planning on using the three I’d ordered in the last couple of months in a decoupage project and ordering another. Now I know that I’ll have to wait until next year to get that project done. After all, never know when I might be switching employers and need another SS card.
Additionally, parents should take note that only 10 replacement cards are allowed in a lifetime. So if you’ve been letting little Johnny use his or your cards as a teething biscuit–you’ll have to be aware that unless you legally change names or maybe change immigration status, you will not be able to obtain an eleventh card.
Stories from Korea
One of the things I love best about going to Grandma and Grandpa’s house is the stories I know will greet me there. Some I will have heard before–Many, in fact. But with each retelling, I hear another detail, another glimpse at the history of my grandparents. I’ve learned to keep a notebook handy so I can jot down pertinent details of the stories so I won’t forget them.
This trip was rich in history–both because of the stories Grandpa told, and because of the mementos and photos I found in the basement. Grandpa talked quite a deal about his time in Korea–and this time I got most of it down on paper.
Grandpa was drafted not long after he and Grandma were married. He went away to Basic training, then to mountain school in Colorado. After that, he was sent away to Japan to be a Mountain climbing instructor.
When there were a whole mass of casualties on the front line, Grandma says, they needed more cannon fodder. And Grandpa was sent to the front to be that cannon fodder.
Grandma was at home, teaching school and listening for every report on the war. When she heard that the 25th Division Baker Company had been annihilated–it was the worst news of her life. Grandpa was in the Baker Company of the 27th Regiment, 25th Division. There was no way of knowing whether he had been among those killed. It was the end of the school year, with only the end of the year picnic to go, and Grandpa’s mom had heard the same report. Great-Grandma rushed up to comfort Grandma–or maybe to grieve with her. It took 13 days, 13 long days of uncertainty before a letter reached Grandma–a letter dated after the report.
Grandpa talks of how the war was mismanaged by Harry Truman–how they had no bulletproof vests, and several groups of Korean troops were assembled but had no equipment with which to fight. He says that when “Ike” became president, the first thing he did was get the troops bulletproof vests and equip the Korean troops. Grandpa says that he remembers pulling shrapnel out of his bulletproof vest–and not even wanting to think of how deep that same shrapnel might have gone if it hadn’t have been for that vest.
Perhaps the saddest story of all of Grandpa’s war time stories is how he describes the North Koreans. Grandpa said that there was a valley that was no man’s land–it was good rice land–and while truce talks were going on, North Koreans came down into that valley and started planting. The government said that was a Chinese trick–that they were trying to advance their soldiers by masquerading them as farmers. But Grandpa spent an afternoon watching one old man through his scope–and that was no soldier. It was an old farmer–and he was hungry. Grandpa almost always tears up when he tells this story–and when he speaks of the condition of the North Korean’s even today. The North Korean’s were hungry–and they still are, to this day.
The soldiers got “points” for their service–one point for a safe place like Colorado, one and a half points for Japan (if they were married), and four points for combat zones. There were two and three point zones too–but Grandpa says he couldn’t find a three point zone. Apparently, if you accumulated a certain number of points, you had fulfilled your service and could go home early. Grandpa accumulated quite a few in his stint as “cannon fodder.” And he had the additional advantage that several men in line in front of him had to stay in Korea for treatment of venereal diseases.
Grandpa wrote a postcard–one that I foolishly failed to take a picture of this time. In large block letters, he wrote on the back of the card: “Darling, ON MY WAY HOME. MORE LATER, MAYBE. Ron” He said he wrote it big enough that his mother, who was the postmistress, couldn’t help but hear the news too. It was the happiest news they’d received in a long time. He was on his way.
A few years back, at the 50th anniversary of the end of the Korean conflict, Grandpa received a collection of medals that he shows us grandkids every so often. One from the US with three bronze stars for meritorious conduct. One that indicates that he came under fire–served in active combat. One from the UN that acknowledges his service. One from South Korea that thanks him for his service.
He didn’t talk much about Korea for many years. Wounds from there and wounds from those here who took his service lightly while they played politics to get out of serving themselves took their toll on him. Grandpa was an angry man for many years over some of the experiences there–and from the response of his countrymen here. But God has been gracious, and has allowed that anger to soften a bit–and we hear in Grandpa’s stories the compassion of a man who did his duty. He fought in a war that he considered unjust, that he felt was mismanaged, that ultimately accomplished very little. But, even as he longed for his own home and his own farm, he looked through the scope of his gun and saw the person he was told was his enemy–farming in no man’s land because he was hungry–and Grandpa had compassion on him. The same compassion that I see every time he tells his stories.
Heading Out
You won’t be hearing from me for a few days–I’ll be heading up to my mother’s fatherland immediately after work.
After I get back, maybe I’ll tell you about my day as a football player–or maybe I’ll have some great stories from the fatherland to share with you.
Have a great weekend!
Anatomy of a Nerd
It’s finals week for the students–so it’s Spirit Week for workers. And today is Nerd Day.
Hair-put up in bun per guidelines–but with bumps all along due to not combing after showering
Glasses-nerd glasses compliments of Dad–they were his first pair. I just happen to be able to see through them (having apparently inherited his eyesight.) You probably can’t see the “geek fix” blue wire holding one earpiece on–but that’s an original invention of my dad’s.
Glasses chain-utilitarian nylon rope bought by myself for our family trip to Yellowstone last summer.
Mismatched shirt and sweater vest-my own shirt with my brother Dan’s sweater vest. Note that the vest is tucked into my pants.
Frumpy, too short pants-compliments of my sister Grace, these suckers have me in a perpetual state of painful wedgie. (Sorry, that was probably TMI.)
White Tube socks-stretched out and stained, these tube socks came from the box of socks my brother Tim just can’t stand to throw out.
Gray Velcro hold shoes-another offering from my Dad. He loves the velcro closure for mowing lawns and the like–makes them easier to get off with dirty hands. It just so happens they’re only a size too large for me.
Okay–so now you know our secret. My entire family is composed of nerds. But, at least we don’t (generally) wear all this stuff together. Apart from his sweater vests (which he doesn’t tuck in), Daniel is generally well dressed (for a nerd). Despite his velcro shoes, my dad no longer wears huge glasses with blue wire holding them together. And Grace actually fits the pants she lent me (although I don’t think she wears them often, the waistline being a bit funny.)
We actually tend to look somewhat normal. Well, except maybe me–but that’s another story altogether.
I finally read it
I’ve been dreading the thought of reading Upton Sinclair’s The Jungle since I first heard about it in a food science class many years ago. I knew that it was propaganda and that it was instrumental in the passage of the first Pure Food Law.
I dreaded it even more when I heard Upton Sinclair described in concert with Rachel Carson, author of Silent Spring. Carson’s book was instrumental in the banning of DDT–a move that may have saved some baby birds, but has also reversed the decline of malaria in Africa. For those who don’t know, malaria kills over one million people per year, and is a leading cause of death among children worldwide. So I’m not too into Melody Carson–and Sinclair seemed guilty by association.
However, The Jungle is in Eiseley Library AND it’s in The Book of Great Books, so I knew I would have to read it sometime. That time came about a week ago, when I was searching for a new novel to read and wanted to read one from The Book of Great Books–but didn’t have time to go to the library.
I was therefore forced to choose from among my own library of titles–which left me to decide between Crime and Punishment, Paradise Lost, or The Jungle. I chose The Jungle as the least intimidating of the three. And so I began.
I discovered, much to my surprise, that I really enjoyed reading it. It is propaganda to be sure, but interesting and well-written. While the descriptions of the meat packing plants are graphic and stomach-turning, they are largely accurate–some of the gore still exists, others of it doesn’t. Meat packing has never, and will never, be a pretty sight–but the completely unsanitary conditions described in The Jungle no longer exist (thanks in part to the public outcry The Jungle produced!)
What got me, however, about this novel was the response to it. Sinclair wrote of the public response to his book: “I aimed at the public’s heart and by accident I hit it in the stomach.”
I can’t understand how the only response of the public to this book could have been outcry over meat packing. Sure there were plenty of problems with the meat industry that needed to be dealt with–but what about the real problem, the social problem, described in Sinclair’s book? How could someone read that book without getting up into arms over the social injustices occurring? How could they not be moved to advocate for workplace safety and overcoming the mob bosses and improving conditions for emigrants?
Many of the social conditions that Sinclair described still exist-in the packing industry and elsewhere. Hispanic immigrants (some legal, some illegal aliens) largely staff Nebraska’s meat packing plants–plants where work is hard, boring, and dangerous. Production continues to be “sped up” to the point of being incredibly dangerous. Methamphetamine use has become an enormous problem among packers. Meth allows them to stay awake and calm despite the difficult life they live–but it also kills them.
Immigrants still struggle to find housing, transportation, and food without running into unscrupulous lenders. These individuals are rarely lazy– they are working as hard as they can to pay off enormous interests on low quality homes in awful neighborhoods. They want to keep their families safe; they want to contribute to society; they want to become American citizens–but often, they find that our world is ready to swindle them into bondage.
Of course, Sinclair’s solution–socialism–is not my preferred solution. And perhaps that’s why fewer people took note of the problem. Maybe they were so turned off by Sinclair’s heavy handed application of socialism that they ignored the problems he was attempting to solve. But the problems still exist–and if we are to continue to be a great nation, we must choose to see our problems and work towards solving them.
Do you know any immigrants? Have you educated yourself concerning their plight? What are you doing to help?
You can help by finding some immigrants and becoming their friends. Help them learn English. Offer to read through the fine print with them before they sign away their lives. Tutor their children. Drive them to work or help them arrange carpools and babysitting. Help them learn our laws–ones that they must obey and ones that serve to protect them. You can make a difference.
I’m trying to decide whether I’m excited to receive my economic stimulus payment
I received a letter today from the IRS announcing that I would soon be receiving my economic stimulus payment. I checked my bank account and discovered that it had been deposited last week. I was really hoping I wouldn’t get it–so that I wouldn’t have to decide what I thought about it.
I think it’s a great idea in one sense–and an awful one in another. I am all about putting money back in the hands of the people–and spreading it out over a lot of people at that. The economic stimulus package does that. It’s a better plan than an alternative that might have the government artificially interfering with the economy. In general,my thought is that the closer we can get to a free market, the better off our market will be. Better that the money (and thereby the control) be in the hands of the people than in the hands of the government.
The problem is–it’s even better that the money be in the hands of the people that earned it. And that’s not me. I didn’t pay taxes last year. I earned money. I filed taxes. But I didn’t pay taxes. So the money that just got placed into my bank account? It came from somebody who paid taxes–likely someone who needs it as much or more than I do. It came from somebody who was working for a wage they didn’t get to keep. I kept all my wages.
It’s not fair, it’s not just. It’s government as Robin Hood–stealing from the “rich” and giving to the “poor.” Except that I’m much richer than many of the “rich”. I make enough to live comfortably–to give, to satisfy my needs and many of my desires. I have very little debt–which makes me pretty rich among Americans. If I don’t have enough money, one person goes hungry. If someone else doesn’t have enough, an entire family may go hungry. But I qualify, on the basis of an income bracket and a semi-random lottery, to receive $300 that someone else worked for and was forced to hand over to the government.
But what can I do? I can’t right the injustice. It was deposited into my bank account. I can’t just rip it up as I might have been able to with a paper check. I can’t return it. And I don’t want to. After all, better that the money be in the hands of the people than in the hands of the government. It’s just that it doesn’t belong in my hands. I already earned my money–and I got to keep it all.
Well, Lord, injustice or not, I have received this money. Help me to use it in a way that would bring honor to Your name.
Living Life Together
Almost everyone in my Life Group was out of town this weekend, so we canceled our meeting tonight. Instead, I joined another Life Group for the evening. After a bit of trouble finding the house (my fault for assuming that the street one block from 33rd would be 32nd!), I arrived just in time to begin.
I was welcomed warmly into the group–that was small that night because several of their members were also gone. It was myself, one of my good friends, our youth pastor and his wife, and another couple that I don’t know very well.
It was wonderful–I love that I belong to a church that opens their lives to one another. Our little “catchphrase” is “Living Life Together”–and that’s truly what occurs. Even though I didn’t “belong” to that group, I still belonged. I was welcomed. I was given the freedom to share, to cry, to pray. We chatted for quite a while afterward, informally. We talked about marathon running and the origins of the band “Black Sabbath” and teased about women always spending forever talking (while the men kept asking each other question after question after question.) After our youth pastor and his wife left, my friend and I could just chat on the couch for a while longer–our hosts didn’t mind.
We got to catch up on life–talk one on one. It seems we don’t get that too often anymore now that I’m not sponsoring at Z-360 with her any more. Now almost all our visiting time is with little siblings or quasi-siblings hanging around. Nothing like how we used to be able to chat while setting up the room for Wednesday night services. So it was nice to just enjoy conversation.
This is just one of the many things I love about my church–I love my own Life Group, but I love that I can drop by any other one and be with people who care for me and will pray for me. I love that I have a family and quasi-family within my church that “hangs out” all the time. I love that I have sisters like my friend who I can be real with. I love that I can share my heart with the body and know that they value and guard my heart.
That’s what the church is–it’s people, living together, together being conformed to the image of Christ. None of us individually can truly reflect the glory of God–but as we all live together in Christ, God begins to reveal Himself to, in, and through us.