Today is October 24, 2013. My last blog post was on June 17, 2013.
I entitled this blog entry, what have THEY missed, because I haven't missed a thing. I've been through every single moment of these past nearly five months, and endured it. Might have forgotten some of it, though.
But this blog isn't really for me. It's for my grandson Heath. It's for Kenneth and Alicia. And perhaps it will also be valuable to my adult contemporaries as well.
But I didn't write it down; and, if you don't write it down, it didn't happen.
So, I can say: since my last post, I thought we had found the perfect pain med, a patch that managed my pain very well, and didn't goof my head. And then in September I developed an allergy to it, and had to stop it, and got to experience withdrawal again.
But what I missed, by not making a daily record of my experiences.
And I can also say that I was asked, once again, to serve on a Tres Dias weekend, made the last team meeting, packed all my clothes in a backpack, and rode up to the mountain on Thursday. And got sent home on Friday. That was only two weeks ago. But if I had been writing daily, there would have been a great message about "What am I doing here?" that might have been a benefit to some.
See, right now, as I think about the past five months, I can see all the possible opportunities to reach out and share my life; and I just realized this is JUST LIKE IT WAS FOR ME IN SCHOOL! Always trying to play catch-up; it's SO aversive, and so I dropped classes, changed career focus, and dropped out of degree programs.
Months ago, Pastor John told me to write every day. He said it at the same level of emphasis as he told me I had to be in church each week unless I was in the hospital.
Last night I made it to choir practice, because Vanessa was meeting Anne and Tina at the church to drive to Mississippi. The night before, I think, I had written an email to Pastor Shelia talking about me NEED to sing.
What can I do?
Well, physical stuff is right out.
Pretty much any catch-up is right out.
But I ought to be able to write every day.
And I'm listening to praise & worship while I'm doing it, and will be doing so while I'm on the computer, as long as I can make that work.
Just do the next right thing.
This might not be a coherent statement to the uninitiated reader. It does, however, emerge out of this tarpit I seem to be in. Now, if I could just get tossed into the briar patch...
Thursday, October 24, 2013
Friday, June 7, 2013
Listening to what you already know
I was listening to a teaching on Joshua this morning, called 'Rotate Your Gifting.' And I was thinking, groan. I already KNOW all this stuff. Why do I have to listen through this? Why not just skip this one, and go on to the next teaching?
And I found reasons.
Of course, I first had to find a reason before I even began to listen to the teaching, even before I realized I already knew what the teaching was about. That's a pretty simple reason. It's so simple, it's an embarrassment to say. I did it for the same reason I breathe: because that's what you do to keep alive. Not a whole lot of need to explain that one, is there? Except to say this: if I were to choose to hold my breath, at some point I'd either give up, or pass out, and if I passed out, my body would start breathing again whether I wanted to or not. Can't really say the same thing for my spiritual life; I suppose that if I refused to do the things I need to do to stay alive spiritually, I would just wither away. SO FAR THOUGH!!!!! .every.single. time. I've done that, I give this great big gasp and start living again. So I guess there is some sort of survival mechanism at work. And it makes me wonder what I must look like to those who can see with spiritual eyes: "Look, the moron is holding his breath again. When is he going to stop doing that? Idiot."
So, anyway, that's reason number one, and it's good enough to get me started. Reason number two: It's a good example. How am I going to tell my offspring to listen to things they already know, to repeat them over and over, if I don't do the same thing? Maybe there ARE some people or animals somewhere who learn something after the first time. I don't think I ever met one. This morning, I trained my obstinate cat to rear up, put a front paw on my chair, and take a yummy treat from my fingers. But that was based on first training her to come when she heard the package rattle. And it took the LONGEST time to get her to take the treat from my fingers. And so forth. The point is, repetition matters, and unless I'M willing to do it, hard to require it of others.
Reason #1, reason # 2, and now for reason #3: I don't know as much as I think I know. Sure, the first part was basic; repeated lessons I'd learned not only in church but in my professional training and in years of recovery from alcoholism. But then: I learned something about Joshua I never knew: while Moses was up on the mountain, Joshua was waiting for him in a cave. The whole time. Not so the elders; just Joshua. And that's pretty huge. And because of time constraints, I'm not going to talk any more about that point.
But the FINAL (I think it's the final) reason for listening to what I already know is: rabbit trails. There are some AMAZING ways that new thoughts, new plans develop. I think it's because once you start stirring up, you just get momentum going, and it's entirely lovely. I have about, I don't know, four or five new things that are pretty much unrelated to Joshua cooking right now.
I think I love it when I'm wrong.
And I found reasons.
Of course, I first had to find a reason before I even began to listen to the teaching, even before I realized I already knew what the teaching was about. That's a pretty simple reason. It's so simple, it's an embarrassment to say. I did it for the same reason I breathe: because that's what you do to keep alive. Not a whole lot of need to explain that one, is there? Except to say this: if I were to choose to hold my breath, at some point I'd either give up, or pass out, and if I passed out, my body would start breathing again whether I wanted to or not. Can't really say the same thing for my spiritual life; I suppose that if I refused to do the things I need to do to stay alive spiritually, I would just wither away. SO FAR THOUGH!!!!! .every.single. time. I've done that, I give this great big gasp and start living again. So I guess there is some sort of survival mechanism at work. And it makes me wonder what I must look like to those who can see with spiritual eyes: "Look, the moron is holding his breath again. When is he going to stop doing that? Idiot."
So, anyway, that's reason number one, and it's good enough to get me started. Reason number two: It's a good example. How am I going to tell my offspring to listen to things they already know, to repeat them over and over, if I don't do the same thing? Maybe there ARE some people or animals somewhere who learn something after the first time. I don't think I ever met one. This morning, I trained my obstinate cat to rear up, put a front paw on my chair, and take a yummy treat from my fingers. But that was based on first training her to come when she heard the package rattle. And it took the LONGEST time to get her to take the treat from my fingers. And so forth. The point is, repetition matters, and unless I'M willing to do it, hard to require it of others.
Reason #1, reason # 2, and now for reason #3: I don't know as much as I think I know. Sure, the first part was basic; repeated lessons I'd learned not only in church but in my professional training and in years of recovery from alcoholism. But then: I learned something about Joshua I never knew: while Moses was up on the mountain, Joshua was waiting for him in a cave. The whole time. Not so the elders; just Joshua. And that's pretty huge. And because of time constraints, I'm not going to talk any more about that point.
But the FINAL (I think it's the final) reason for listening to what I already know is: rabbit trails. There are some AMAZING ways that new thoughts, new plans develop. I think it's because once you start stirring up, you just get momentum going, and it's entirely lovely. I have about, I don't know, four or five new things that are pretty much unrelated to Joshua cooking right now.
I think I love it when I'm wrong.
Thursday, June 6, 2013
Lessons from a donkey
In Numbers, there's the story of Balaam, a sorceror-type, and his donkey. I won't go into the rest of it, but Balaam sets out on a journey the LORD doesn't want him to, and an angel stands in front of him with a sword to kill him. Balaam doesn't see thee angel, but the donkey does, and twice turns aside, then lies down in the road. Balaam beats the donkey fiercely, and then God opens the donkey's mouth.
"Why are you beating me ? Haven't I always been a good donkey? Have I ever acted like this before?"
And then Balaam sees the angel, and the angel explains everything to him, and he goes about his business.
Have I ever acted like this before?
Pretty important question.
How HAVE you acted before? Because that's pretty much going to determine the response you get today, for good or for bad.
I wonder what my father said that day that I missed hearing him speak. I didn't hear him speak because it was in a Sunday School class of his age group, the 60+, and I was low 30s. He had brought me to hear him speak, and I knew that; but as I looked around, I saw I was the only 30s guy there, and I commented on that. He gave me a funny look, and asked me if I wanted to go to a class my age; and then he took me there.
So I don't know what he said that day.
But I wonder: even if I had heard him speak that day: Could I have heard it? I just don't think i could have gotten the message. See, my father was a mean old man. And yes, in his old age, he was working on finding peace with God, and by the time he died twenty years later, I could talk to him about spiritual things, because he was dying and we all knew it. And the worst part of the meanness just wasn't showing up at that point. But on that day, now thirty years ago, there was no way I was going to be able to hear a spiritual message from a mean old man. So I played the youth card, and got out of there. I know it disappointed him, but I just didn't care. I wasn't gonna listen to spiritual words coming from a man who had made fun of my pants that morning, who had been a tyrant to me his entire life.
Now, I can play the donkey scene over in my head; sometimes I'm the donkey, sometimes he is; depends on how I want to cast the story. It works both ways.
I'm NOT, definitely NOT, arguing against a late-in-life conversion. All I'm saying is, if you wanna be treated like a good donkey, you better have been a good donkey all your life. And there's more to that, but all I'm gonna write now.
"Why are you beating me ? Haven't I always been a good donkey? Have I ever acted like this before?"
And then Balaam sees the angel, and the angel explains everything to him, and he goes about his business.
Have I ever acted like this before?
Pretty important question.
How HAVE you acted before? Because that's pretty much going to determine the response you get today, for good or for bad.
I wonder what my father said that day that I missed hearing him speak. I didn't hear him speak because it was in a Sunday School class of his age group, the 60+, and I was low 30s. He had brought me to hear him speak, and I knew that; but as I looked around, I saw I was the only 30s guy there, and I commented on that. He gave me a funny look, and asked me if I wanted to go to a class my age; and then he took me there.
So I don't know what he said that day.
But I wonder: even if I had heard him speak that day: Could I have heard it? I just don't think i could have gotten the message. See, my father was a mean old man. And yes, in his old age, he was working on finding peace with God, and by the time he died twenty years later, I could talk to him about spiritual things, because he was dying and we all knew it. And the worst part of the meanness just wasn't showing up at that point. But on that day, now thirty years ago, there was no way I was going to be able to hear a spiritual message from a mean old man. So I played the youth card, and got out of there. I know it disappointed him, but I just didn't care. I wasn't gonna listen to spiritual words coming from a man who had made fun of my pants that morning, who had been a tyrant to me his entire life.
Now, I can play the donkey scene over in my head; sometimes I'm the donkey, sometimes he is; depends on how I want to cast the story. It works both ways.
I'm NOT, definitely NOT, arguing against a late-in-life conversion. All I'm saying is, if you wanna be treated like a good donkey, you better have been a good donkey all your life. And there's more to that, but all I'm gonna write now.
Monday, April 29, 2013
I should, but I can't, but now I can
Monday, April 30, 2013
Today is the last Monday of my middle age. I turn 60 next Sunday and will be officially an old person.
Now, from the outside, that may seem to be a bad thing. Eww. Old. Can't do stuff. Rickety. But the outside view is wrong, wrong, wrong.
(WARNING: VAST OVERSIMPLIFICATION AHEAD!) I chose to take all of the behaviorist classes I could while I was in school. What makes behaviorism different from humanist, or existential, developmental, gestalt, and the other million ways of understanding the human condition is that it focuses strictly on behavior. It's not true that behaviorists deny that there is a soul, or a mind; it's just that the behaviorist says "It's not your mind that gets you into trouble. It's your behavior." The Hollywood stereotype of the psychoanalysist has the patient lying on a couch, talking about dreams, what were the first things he remembered, etc.The behaviorist says: What problem behavior do you want to change, or what desirable behavior do you want to learn or enhance?
And, from the behaviorist view, all behavior is purposeful. We have a reason to act the way we do. You can't always tell the purpose of the behavior until you see the results, and sometimes those results are long - term. From this perspective, the reason I am sitting in this chair, right now, typing on this blog, is a result of my behavior throughout my previous life. Everything I have done so far has been to bring me to this point. Even if I didn't know I was going to this point, this is where my behaviors brought me. Now, they back off of the ultimate conclusion, which makes Christians snicker; because they say that the ultimate conclusion is that our behaviors in life lead us to death, which is of course preposterous; to which Christians say NO IT ISN'T ! IT'S THE ENTIRE POINT! WE LIVE OUR LIVES IN SUCH A WAY AS TO BRING US CLOSER TO GOD!
But I'm not dead yet.
And, based on the ages of my parents and grandparents on both sides, I'm gonna make it to my 80's with no problem. So I've got at least 20 years to be a competent (intellectually, at least) old person.
Now, let me tie this together: For my entire life, I've been preparing to be an old person. The character I have been forming is going to flower as an old person. The body I have has become that of an old person, if we look at the rickety crickety painful parts, for the past several years, so getting an old body is something I'm already good at. I'm prepared for retirement, since I had to take early disability retirement some five plus years ago. And old people don't have to do nothing they don't want to do, and I've been working on that for the past several years.
Now, the LAW, which presents us with the "I should, but I can't" dilemma, is no longer a problem for me. See, all my behavior up to this point has been designed to bring me to the place where what I WANT to do is to manifest the LAW in my life. And, of course, I'm not talking about the ceremonial law. I'm talking about "love the Lord your God with all your heart, soul, mind, and strength; and love your neighbor as yourself." I can remember like it was today that awful tension of wanting to get high, but dreading it, and the cycling back and forth until I either gave into it right then, or postponed it and gave into it later. That was really, really awful. And I could repeat the same description about any number of ways to mess up. But: I'm old (or will be in a week), and I don't have the hormones and the stupidity racing through my blood system any more. I'm geared up now to be an old person; an old person who really enjoys being who God has called him to be. I don't have to cut my hair, I can wear blue jeans to church, and I can ask for reproof and receive it and learn from it and grow and prosper, because I am living in the land of promise.
So, har-de-har-har, young men. You've got strength; I've got gray hair. GLORY!
Locusts and wild honey,
Pat
Today is the last Monday of my middle age. I turn 60 next Sunday and will be officially an old person.
Now, from the outside, that may seem to be a bad thing. Eww. Old. Can't do stuff. Rickety. But the outside view is wrong, wrong, wrong.
(WARNING: VAST OVERSIMPLIFICATION AHEAD!) I chose to take all of the behaviorist classes I could while I was in school. What makes behaviorism different from humanist, or existential, developmental, gestalt, and the other million ways of understanding the human condition is that it focuses strictly on behavior. It's not true that behaviorists deny that there is a soul, or a mind; it's just that the behaviorist says "It's not your mind that gets you into trouble. It's your behavior." The Hollywood stereotype of the psychoanalysist has the patient lying on a couch, talking about dreams, what were the first things he remembered, etc.The behaviorist says: What problem behavior do you want to change, or what desirable behavior do you want to learn or enhance?
And, from the behaviorist view, all behavior is purposeful. We have a reason to act the way we do. You can't always tell the purpose of the behavior until you see the results, and sometimes those results are long - term. From this perspective, the reason I am sitting in this chair, right now, typing on this blog, is a result of my behavior throughout my previous life. Everything I have done so far has been to bring me to this point. Even if I didn't know I was going to this point, this is where my behaviors brought me. Now, they back off of the ultimate conclusion, which makes Christians snicker; because they say that the ultimate conclusion is that our behaviors in life lead us to death, which is of course preposterous; to which Christians say NO IT ISN'T ! IT'S THE ENTIRE POINT! WE LIVE OUR LIVES IN SUCH A WAY AS TO BRING US CLOSER TO GOD!
But I'm not dead yet.
And, based on the ages of my parents and grandparents on both sides, I'm gonna make it to my 80's with no problem. So I've got at least 20 years to be a competent (intellectually, at least) old person.
Now, let me tie this together: For my entire life, I've been preparing to be an old person. The character I have been forming is going to flower as an old person. The body I have has become that of an old person, if we look at the rickety crickety painful parts, for the past several years, so getting an old body is something I'm already good at. I'm prepared for retirement, since I had to take early disability retirement some five plus years ago. And old people don't have to do nothing they don't want to do, and I've been working on that for the past several years.
Now, the LAW, which presents us with the "I should, but I can't" dilemma, is no longer a problem for me. See, all my behavior up to this point has been designed to bring me to the place where what I WANT to do is to manifest the LAW in my life. And, of course, I'm not talking about the ceremonial law. I'm talking about "love the Lord your God with all your heart, soul, mind, and strength; and love your neighbor as yourself." I can remember like it was today that awful tension of wanting to get high, but dreading it, and the cycling back and forth until I either gave into it right then, or postponed it and gave into it later. That was really, really awful. And I could repeat the same description about any number of ways to mess up. But: I'm old (or will be in a week), and I don't have the hormones and the stupidity racing through my blood system any more. I'm geared up now to be an old person; an old person who really enjoys being who God has called him to be. I don't have to cut my hair, I can wear blue jeans to church, and I can ask for reproof and receive it and learn from it and grow and prosper, because I am living in the land of promise.
So, har-de-har-har, young men. You've got strength; I've got gray hair. GLORY!
Locusts and wild honey,
Pat
Tuesday, April 23, 2013
Give me your heart, my son
Tuesday, April 23, 2013
Proverbs 23: 26
Give me your heart, my son,
And let your eyes delight in my ways.
I don't know of a scripture that has hit me as hard about parenthood as this one.
Earlier in this proverb, there are a number of admonitions to sons: don't do stupid stuff, son, you'll break yer mama's heart. Said much better than that, of course. And it's all really, really good advice.
But this verse, right here, gets to the fundamental essence of being a parent.
First, Give me your heart. The promise of "I'll take good care of it" is implicit. Give me your heart. Trust me. Give me your heart. Believe in me. What an audacious statement! What parent would DARE to say to their older-than-10 child, "give me your heart?" And yet, isn't that what we are saying to them, with everything we do? Even if we don't ever, ever say those words? Isn't every act of loving and caring for a child saying , give me your heart?
My grandson came over on Friday. He's not quite three months old. And, at the start of the visit, he was fussy. His tummy was upset, and he was cranky, and he didn't want his pacifier, and he didn't want anything. But ya know what? I could hold him, and bounce with him to help him jiggle those burps up, and I quietly sang him nonsense...and he would quiet down. And I nuzzled him, and kissed his head, and told him I loved him, and held him close.
And it was all saying, give me your heart.
Of course, the only way I could say to Heath, give me your heart, is because I have already given my heart to him. He had it before I nuzzled him; he had it before he was born, he had it before he was conceived; he had it when we sat around the kitchen table twenty years ago and I prayed for those my children would marry, and their children, and their children's children. So, because Heath has my heart, I can ask him to give me his heart.
And that's what the Bible says, too; that's what it means when it says, For God so loved the world.
Second, Let your eyes delight in my ways. Watch me closely, son! Do what I do! Enjoy it!
Where is the weight falling with THAT particular transaction? You betcha! It's absolutely falling on me. See what I'm doing! I'm not gonna hide anything from you. I'm not going to keep hidden secret sins; I'm not even going to hide the cookies from you. Well; I MIGHT hide the cookies from you, if you eat too many cookies. But mostly, I'm going to make my life an open book to you, and I want you to turn the pages, and make bookmarks, and notes in the margins.
And speaking of margins: I've read Proverbs more than any other book of the Bible. And I've made notes. And comments. And dated some of them. And I have annotated the verse above this AND the verse below this; why? why? why? why has it never clicked in me before what this verse is saying? I didn't get this from a commentary; I was just reading it. Today is the 23rd of April, and this is Proverbs 23, so I read it. I guess it's just that...I was ready.
And it's a good thing, too. Vanessa and I are raising two of her grandchildren. And I have to make sure I have given them my heart. Because I will be saying to them, give me your heart; let your eyes delight in my ways.
I don't think it's an option.
Proverbs 23: 26
Give me your heart, my son,
And let your eyes delight in my ways.
I don't know of a scripture that has hit me as hard about parenthood as this one.
Earlier in this proverb, there are a number of admonitions to sons: don't do stupid stuff, son, you'll break yer mama's heart. Said much better than that, of course. And it's all really, really good advice.
But this verse, right here, gets to the fundamental essence of being a parent.
First, Give me your heart. The promise of "I'll take good care of it" is implicit. Give me your heart. Trust me. Give me your heart. Believe in me. What an audacious statement! What parent would DARE to say to their older-than-10 child, "give me your heart?" And yet, isn't that what we are saying to them, with everything we do? Even if we don't ever, ever say those words? Isn't every act of loving and caring for a child saying , give me your heart?
My grandson came over on Friday. He's not quite three months old. And, at the start of the visit, he was fussy. His tummy was upset, and he was cranky, and he didn't want his pacifier, and he didn't want anything. But ya know what? I could hold him, and bounce with him to help him jiggle those burps up, and I quietly sang him nonsense...and he would quiet down. And I nuzzled him, and kissed his head, and told him I loved him, and held him close.
And it was all saying, give me your heart.
Of course, the only way I could say to Heath, give me your heart, is because I have already given my heart to him. He had it before I nuzzled him; he had it before he was born, he had it before he was conceived; he had it when we sat around the kitchen table twenty years ago and I prayed for those my children would marry, and their children, and their children's children. So, because Heath has my heart, I can ask him to give me his heart.
And that's what the Bible says, too; that's what it means when it says, For God so loved the world.
Second, Let your eyes delight in my ways. Watch me closely, son! Do what I do! Enjoy it!
Where is the weight falling with THAT particular transaction? You betcha! It's absolutely falling on me. See what I'm doing! I'm not gonna hide anything from you. I'm not going to keep hidden secret sins; I'm not even going to hide the cookies from you. Well; I MIGHT hide the cookies from you, if you eat too many cookies. But mostly, I'm going to make my life an open book to you, and I want you to turn the pages, and make bookmarks, and notes in the margins.
And speaking of margins: I've read Proverbs more than any other book of the Bible. And I've made notes. And comments. And dated some of them. And I have annotated the verse above this AND the verse below this; why? why? why? why has it never clicked in me before what this verse is saying? I didn't get this from a commentary; I was just reading it. Today is the 23rd of April, and this is Proverbs 23, so I read it. I guess it's just that...I was ready.
And it's a good thing, too. Vanessa and I are raising two of her grandchildren. And I have to make sure I have given them my heart. Because I will be saying to them, give me your heart; let your eyes delight in my ways.
I don't think it's an option.
Fools rush in, addendum
Well, yesterday I searched my heart and learned somethings. And, in an expanded form, I think yesterday's blog might be worthy of going further.
But I have to add this addendum, because it is also an illustration of the fool rushing in and paying the penalty.
Background: After months of anti-inflammatory therapy with meloxicam, the day came when my gastro-intestinal tract could no longer tolerate it it. From heartburn to the other end, it seemed like I had nothing but problems. Doctor suggested another, milder NSAID, but it did the same thing. My gut symptoms gradually eased, while my pain symptoms rose up and grabbed me by the throat and shook me like a terrier shakes a rat.
Over time, of a couple of weeks, I began to tolerate the pain better, or it eased, I don't know which. I do know it became less demanding. But the gut stuff never quite went away.
Now, we're in the midst of pollen season here, and the levels are such that if you don't live in it, you wouldn't believe it. So, I thought, maybe that's keeping me inflamed. Makes my eyes burn and my sinus are flaring, so why not my gut? But it became enough of a problem a few days ago, that I decided to take some pepto. It had been a benefit for me last year when I was withdrawing from the morphine. So, I opened the fridge, saw a bottle of generic pepto, and took a swig. Best tasting pepto I ever had.
Didn't seem to help with the symptoms that I could tell. So, Day before yesterday, I re-dosed myself. Nice minty taste. No help with the symptoms. In fact, I had to make a couple of more trips to the bathroom.
So, yesterday, before I wrote my blog entry, I decided to give it another try, and took a BIG slug of the stuff. Not really a trial to do so, it really did have a pleasant taste. Did my study, wrote my blog, had a nap attack...
...and woke up feeling very uncomfortable. Couldn't really pinpoint the problem. Wasn't pain, exactly. But I was decidedly uncomfortable. So after a minute or so, I headed to the bathroom; maybe there was something in my breakfast that had presented a problem.
And as I sat upon the throne, an upside-down volcano erupted from my nether regions. And horrid, boiling noises, as if I had eaten a live bobcat, resounded from just below my ribs. I remained cloistered for quite some time.
What was wrong with me? I KNEW I had not taken any more of the anti-inflammatories that had started the problem. I hadn't started any new medications, and nothing I was taking had ANY gastric upset as a side effect. Pollen? That seemed...ridiculous. I've lived in the South my entire life, except for the Army time. Never had this happen to me before that I can recall.
When I was finally able to disengage from the plumbing, painfully and slowly, I made my way downstairs. A faint thought occurred to me. I followed the light... to the refrigerator. I took out the bottle of generic pepto. Read the label. Not generic pepto, after all.
It was milk of magnesia, a laxative. The fool had rushed in, grabbed a bottle of laxative, and dosed his runny guts with it on three consecutive days, without ONCE bothering to check the label.
Recently, my pastor asked me if I could see how a pattern of rushed decisions had been a flesh pattern in my life. Yeah, PJ, I do believe I'm beginning to get a small glimmer of that.
I think I'm going to eat a couple of pounds of cheese today.
But I have to add this addendum, because it is also an illustration of the fool rushing in and paying the penalty.
Background: After months of anti-inflammatory therapy with meloxicam, the day came when my gastro-intestinal tract could no longer tolerate it it. From heartburn to the other end, it seemed like I had nothing but problems. Doctor suggested another, milder NSAID, but it did the same thing. My gut symptoms gradually eased, while my pain symptoms rose up and grabbed me by the throat and shook me like a terrier shakes a rat.
Over time, of a couple of weeks, I began to tolerate the pain better, or it eased, I don't know which. I do know it became less demanding. But the gut stuff never quite went away.
Now, we're in the midst of pollen season here, and the levels are such that if you don't live in it, you wouldn't believe it. So, I thought, maybe that's keeping me inflamed. Makes my eyes burn and my sinus are flaring, so why not my gut? But it became enough of a problem a few days ago, that I decided to take some pepto. It had been a benefit for me last year when I was withdrawing from the morphine. So, I opened the fridge, saw a bottle of generic pepto, and took a swig. Best tasting pepto I ever had.
Didn't seem to help with the symptoms that I could tell. So, Day before yesterday, I re-dosed myself. Nice minty taste. No help with the symptoms. In fact, I had to make a couple of more trips to the bathroom.
So, yesterday, before I wrote my blog entry, I decided to give it another try, and took a BIG slug of the stuff. Not really a trial to do so, it really did have a pleasant taste. Did my study, wrote my blog, had a nap attack...
...and woke up feeling very uncomfortable. Couldn't really pinpoint the problem. Wasn't pain, exactly. But I was decidedly uncomfortable. So after a minute or so, I headed to the bathroom; maybe there was something in my breakfast that had presented a problem.
And as I sat upon the throne, an upside-down volcano erupted from my nether regions. And horrid, boiling noises, as if I had eaten a live bobcat, resounded from just below my ribs. I remained cloistered for quite some time.
What was wrong with me? I KNEW I had not taken any more of the anti-inflammatories that had started the problem. I hadn't started any new medications, and nothing I was taking had ANY gastric upset as a side effect. Pollen? That seemed...ridiculous. I've lived in the South my entire life, except for the Army time. Never had this happen to me before that I can recall.
When I was finally able to disengage from the plumbing, painfully and slowly, I made my way downstairs. A faint thought occurred to me. I followed the light... to the refrigerator. I took out the bottle of generic pepto. Read the label. Not generic pepto, after all.
It was milk of magnesia, a laxative. The fool had rushed in, grabbed a bottle of laxative, and dosed his runny guts with it on three consecutive days, without ONCE bothering to check the label.
Recently, my pastor asked me if I could see how a pattern of rushed decisions had been a flesh pattern in my life. Yeah, PJ, I do believe I'm beginning to get a small glimmer of that.
I think I'm going to eat a couple of pounds of cheese today.
Monday, April 22, 2013
Fools rush in and pay the penalty
Monday morning, April 22, 2013
Proverb 22: 3 (NASV)
3 The prudent sees the evil and hides himself,
But the [b]naive go on, and are punished for it.
I had a long teachable moment on this topic this weekend. It involved a parable/aphorism and a true story, and what it looked like was Kenneth and I sitting on his bed with the door closed. The aphorism first: "If you poke a dog with a stick, you might get bitten. If you poke a bear with a sick "; here Kenneth interrupted me and said "he'll kill you."
Yeah, I said, he might. He might run, but he might kill ya. You never know.
And then I told him the story.
I was in the Cub Scouts, and I think it was in the 3rd or 4th grade. We wore our uniforms to school, and there was another Scout there, a much bigger, much older boy. His uniform showed that he had been in Scouts for three years, but he only had three merit badges. I thought that was hilarious, and so I proceeded to make loud fun of him. "Three years in the Scouts and only three merit badges! Look at that!"
The next thing I knew, I was upside down in a garbage drum, one of those 55 gallon drums they used to collect litter on school premises. It rolled over, and I rolled out. I wasn't hurt; it happened so fast I didn't even have a chance to get scared.
Now, 52 years later, I realize that it was very likely that the boy who dumped me in the trash would now be recognized as a special needs student. We didn't have special classes for those kids back then; they just struggled along in the lower grades with everybody else, and failed, and when they were old enough, they either dropped out or went to the vocational-industrial school. I know how hard school was for me, as a kid with ADD when nobody knew what ADD was; for the kids who were mentally impaired, it had to be so much worse.
So for the boy I mocked, I realize now the pain he felt was much worse than what I experienced that day. From my perspective today, I can imagine all kind of scenarios that were essential in bringing him to that day of wearing the uniform: a patient pack leader, helping him to slowly do the things he could do; supportive fellow members of his pack, encouraging him; his own frustration as he saw everyone else proceed beyond what he could do.
But he could wear the uniform, with pride; and he had, for three years. And he wore it proudly to school that day; until some snotty little punk started making fun of him.
"Go up, you bald head!"
Bears did not come down and tear me to pieces; that was merciful.
I do hope that the delight of seeing his tormentor upside down in the litter made up for whatever he experienced as a result of my cruelty. I hope he went to his class, and was congratulated by understanding, supportive friends for tossing that kid in the trash where he belonged. I hope that he didn't go home in tears to his parents that afternoon and tell them he was never going back to Cub Scouts again.
But I have no way of knowing.
If I could, I would make amends to that boy. I can't. I never knew his name; I don't know that I ever saw him again.
But what I can do is teach Kenneth.
And maybe I can share the story with others.
And maybe, if I can do that, some of penalty for foolishly rushing in that day will be paid.
Proverb 22: 3 (NASV)
3 The prudent sees the evil and hides himself,
But the [b]naive go on, and are punished for it.
I had a long teachable moment on this topic this weekend. It involved a parable/aphorism and a true story, and what it looked like was Kenneth and I sitting on his bed with the door closed. The aphorism first: "If you poke a dog with a stick, you might get bitten. If you poke a bear with a sick "; here Kenneth interrupted me and said "he'll kill you."
Yeah, I said, he might. He might run, but he might kill ya. You never know.
And then I told him the story.
I was in the Cub Scouts, and I think it was in the 3rd or 4th grade. We wore our uniforms to school, and there was another Scout there, a much bigger, much older boy. His uniform showed that he had been in Scouts for three years, but he only had three merit badges. I thought that was hilarious, and so I proceeded to make loud fun of him. "Three years in the Scouts and only three merit badges! Look at that!"
The next thing I knew, I was upside down in a garbage drum, one of those 55 gallon drums they used to collect litter on school premises. It rolled over, and I rolled out. I wasn't hurt; it happened so fast I didn't even have a chance to get scared.
Now, 52 years later, I realize that it was very likely that the boy who dumped me in the trash would now be recognized as a special needs student. We didn't have special classes for those kids back then; they just struggled along in the lower grades with everybody else, and failed, and when they were old enough, they either dropped out or went to the vocational-industrial school. I know how hard school was for me, as a kid with ADD when nobody knew what ADD was; for the kids who were mentally impaired, it had to be so much worse.
So for the boy I mocked, I realize now the pain he felt was much worse than what I experienced that day. From my perspective today, I can imagine all kind of scenarios that were essential in bringing him to that day of wearing the uniform: a patient pack leader, helping him to slowly do the things he could do; supportive fellow members of his pack, encouraging him; his own frustration as he saw everyone else proceed beyond what he could do.
But he could wear the uniform, with pride; and he had, for three years. And he wore it proudly to school that day; until some snotty little punk started making fun of him.
"Go up, you bald head!"
Bears did not come down and tear me to pieces; that was merciful.
I do hope that the delight of seeing his tormentor upside down in the litter made up for whatever he experienced as a result of my cruelty. I hope he went to his class, and was congratulated by understanding, supportive friends for tossing that kid in the trash where he belonged. I hope that he didn't go home in tears to his parents that afternoon and tell them he was never going back to Cub Scouts again.
But I have no way of knowing.
If I could, I would make amends to that boy. I can't. I never knew his name; I don't know that I ever saw him again.
But what I can do is teach Kenneth.
And maybe I can share the story with others.
And maybe, if I can do that, some of penalty for foolishly rushing in that day will be paid.
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