To What Avail Scripture?

In spite of what many people think, I have a liberal dose of St. Thomas’s genes deposited within me. Likely for that reason and no other, I tend to be skeptical when it comes to asking God to point me to specific scripture. Yet, on many occasions, when I have done that – or when I have been pointed to specific passages without even asking – what I end up reading is so pertinent that it could not be an accident. Last night’s reading left no doubt.

In the late evening, I posted the Pray for Ray button, which Edie had sent me. Then, I quickly answered the question in a comment left by Anne (Imprisoned in My Bones - Releasing My Inner Jeremiah) on the original post about Ray’s heart attack as to how I could maintain strong faith in spite of experiencing challenge after challenge. My response was that the blessings and miracles that have been associated with challenges in the past lead me to welcome challenges as positive, not negative. I find them intriguing. Each time I wonder what the resultant blessings and miracles will look like since I know for sure that they will come.

Right after that and before going to bed, I picked up the Bible for a nightly scripture reading, and it fell open to Job, Chapter 2. Now, I have limited patience for re-reading that which I know well. (Yes, I know; I do need to develop more patience in that respect and many other respects.) I read Job five times a few years back when God told me to do that in order to understand why my children were born with birth defects, and I wrote about my interpretation after each reading in my book, Blest Atheist. So, I was pretty certain that I had Job nearly memorized and was not really in the mood to read Chapter 2 in particular again (not that I remembered specifically what was in Chapter 2). So, I prayed for help in finding a proper passage for my evening reading.

Then, perhaps a little less confident than I should have been that I would indeed find an interesting and useful passage, I rifled the pages with both thumbs, which is not how I opened the Bible the first time – the first time it fell open by itself when I picked it up. Where the thumbs met, I opened the Bible.

I was stunned! I had opened to Job, Chapter 2, the very same page where the Bible had fallen open! So, now, having once again been divinely hit on the head after exhibiting a great deal of denseness, I read Chapter 2. In reading it, I came across this verse (Job 2:10), which was Job’s response to the painful boils with which God had allowed Satan to inflict him: “Shall we indeed accept good from God, and shall we not accept adversity?”

Now that should have been the answer to Anne’s question. I have indeed accepted good from God: the amazing appearance of a doctor from outside our geographic region who knew a new method for curing bone infections that has allowed our daughter Noelle to escape an amputation, our granddaughter Nikolina’s extraordinary growth from a disassembled infant to a pretty and happy 8-month-old interested in the whole world and right on target for all developmental milestones (Stanford University Hospital is calling her their miracle baby of 2009), our grandson Nathaniel’s development as a perfectly healthy and extremely bright school child following five surgeries for hydronephrosis as an infant, the myriad of miracles we experienced with Shura, my being pulled out of danger upon multiple occasions, and on and on and on, including Ray’s awakening from an 8-month coma two years ago. Yes, indeed, given all the remarkable good that has come the way of the Mahlou clan, who are we to complain about accompanying adversity. More important than any balance between good and bad, which I am not sure I could calculate, anyway, since God always turns the bad into good is the fact that both the good and the bad have given us the skills to help other people in ways that have, in some cases, been very important and in other cases have changed professional practices.

So, in conclusion, I am forced (how sad that God so often has to “force” me) to conclude that God does have a hand in what scripture we end up reading when we consciously or unconsciously allow Him that hand.

7 Quick Takes Friday #11

Time again already to contribute to the 7 Quick Takes Friday meme hosted by Jennifer at Conversion Diary, but first let me report on Ray's condition after thanking all of you for your prayers. The doctors told Noelle this morning that Ray's eyes were moving, and therefore they believe he is dreaming, which is a sign of brain activity even if he is not yet conscious or responsive. One day at a time. We wait and pray for what is best for him.

It had been so quiet a week, relatively speaking (all things being relative), until Ray had his heart attack that I had to consider whether or not I even had seven “takes,” quick or otherwise, to share. I finally decided that yes, possibly, I did. Here they are:

(1) Saturday evening I attended, as is typical when I am in town, the Saturday evening mass at Old Mission. Fr. Terry, of whom I am very fond and who has been my de facto spiritual advisor, was the visiting priest. I had not seen him for some time, so it was a delightful surprise to find him there; we made plans to get together for dinner after I return from Lithuania and he returns from New Zealand (planned trips for the latter part of January). After Mass, I spent some time talking with Sr. M and this other person, whose name I promptly forgot (my memory is simply not under control lately). This other person has a friend, Cecilia Willis, whose very serious problem I also promptly forgot. I just know that I was asked to pray for her, so I have been doing that. Fortunately, my bad memory is of little concern here. God knows what ails her, so it is not all that important that I remember. I would also ask you to pray for her, too.

(2) Sunday I spent some time talking to an elderly friend who has no local relatives. Donnie and I visited her the weekend before Christmas, and Donnie had to go get some lights the weekend after Christmas, so he visited her again. When I called her on Sunday, she bubbled on and on about that surprise. I try to call every day, but I only succeed in talking to her a couple of times a week at best because of my travels. When I blogged about her deteriorating and isolated condition in October (7 Quick Takes #5), Pinksy 82 (Stranger in a Strange Land), who is a social worker, suggested a geriatric assessment. Wow! Thank you! We asked her daughter for permission and were given it. The assessment was done, and now the county sends someone there every day for a couple of hours to check on her, help with the housework, and assist her with daily living needs. In addition, the family has now set up a person to check on her every evening and bring her medicine and groceries. After work, a neighbor couple, who works with me and gives me a periodic report, comes by for socialization. And then, there is my daily (uh, weekly) phone call. The situation is much better now.

3) On Monday evening our prayer group at the Old Mission met. There I learned that Sr. M was planning to travel to Idaho. I asked her about how warm a coat she had, and she said she had no winter coat at all. In fact, she had not given a thought to the fact that Idaho would have winter weather that differed from California's sunshine. I have a very warm goose down coat that I wear in places like Siberia and Lithuania, and I would not need it until the 18th, when I have to leave for Lithuania. So, after the group finished our prayers for the evening, I ran home, then dropped by the convent to give the coat to Sister.

(4) Tuesday at the end of the work day, I had an appointment with a cardiologist. There is a bit of a story behind that visit. When I went to the clinic a few weeks ago to get some medicine re-prescribed, there was a new doctor who heard a heart murmur. It is not big deal. I have had a heart murmur all my life, including the eight years I spent in the military service. I have a strong heart. The murmur is functional, not structural, and therefore innocuous. The doctor would not listen to me, however, and sent me to a cardiologist, who panicked at my EKG, and wanted me to get an echo cardiogram and a blood test to check cholesterol level. The conversation went something like this:

Beth: "My heart murmur is no big deal. It's a functional thing. I've had it all my deal. It is innocuous."

Doctor: "Well, your EKG shows that your heart is not keeping up with you." (Hah! Donnie says that nothing and no one can keep up with me! Silly guy!)

Beth: "I'm really sure it's nothing, but okay, you're the doctor; I'll get the echo cardiogram."

Doctor: "And a blood test to check cholesterol level."

Beth: "Oh, I don't need that. My cholesterol level is fine."

Doctor: "You told me your heart was fine!"

Beth: "Okay, give me the details, and I'll go." (Actually, I knew that my cholesterol level was okay because I had had a test about a year ago, but the doctor was only doing his job, so off I went.)

Tuesday I was back in the doctor's office for the results. It turns out that the cholesterol level was on the high side of normal, but the doctor prescribed a diet change rather than medicine. As for my heart, he told me in surprise, "The echo cardiogram shows that you have a very strong heart." (Yeah, I knew that -- even if it does not keep up with me!)

That experience reminds me of the time that Noelle fell at school many years ago. The story is too long to repeat here, but if you have a bit of a sense of humor about medical matters, you can find it on Clan of Mahlou: The Episode of Noelle's Wrist. Sometimes doctors know best, but sometimes patients know best.

(5) On Wednesday, I found myself on a plane once again and once again with no notice. This time I had to make an urgent trip to Washington. Donnie listened to the weather reports for Washington. Oh, oh! Unseasonably cold temperatures – and I had just given my warmest winter coat to Sister, already enroute to Idaho. Well, I did have a winter-ish jacket that would keep me from freezing, and I could use taxis, rather than the metro and walking although I generally prefer the opportunity for some exercise. Regardless of the changes in my itinerary, Sister did need the coat more than I.

I had more important issues to worry about, anyway. As the plane from San Jose landed in Phoenix, I tried to pull out my Phoenix-Washington ticket, but could not find it. I had only one ticket: San Jose-Phoenix. I involved the man sitting next to me and the people in front and back in looking on the floor to see if I had accidentally dropped my follow-on ticket. Nothing. Then I realized that I should not have the San Jose-Phoenix ticket. That should have been taken at the gate in San Jose. Ah, hah! Powers of deduction told me that the ticket agent took the wrong ticket. (I’m no Sherlock Holmes; Holmes would have realized that the first time he pulled out the San Jose ticket.) That, I was pretty certain, would be an easy fix once I got to the gate for DC. It was.

However, as in most cases where there are problems of some sort (at least, with me), a number of people had become involved in my ticket issue. As we were all standing in the aisle, waiting to debark, everyone started talking about my ticket dilemma and similar things that they had experienced. Of course, there was some concern that I had been able to get on the plane with the wrong ticket!

(6) In Washington, I had two days of meetings. On Thursday, I visited our Washington office and laid to rest some potential animosities and certainly some unbased suspicions coming from the head honcho there. It always feels good to change a potential enemy into a current friend. Then, on Friday, I visited the organization where I worked when I was an employee of the U.S. Department of State. Actually, the call was not personal but work-related. I wanted to introduce one of our new supervisors to people who had greater knowledge of some of the international issues with which she was dealing. Of course, though, I took the opportunity, being an extrovert, to renew old acquaintances. After the formal meeting with that head honcho, it was on to informal meetings, with hugs and kisses all around!

(7) And now Friday is drawing to a close. I have all my business done, and I will be off in about an hour to visit a dear friend, the person who helped me with the spiritual needs of Shura when he was having his surgeries at the University of Virginia Hospital. Oh, and it's not just a Friday evening that we will be enjoying together. My friend is on vacation right now because is Orthodox Christmas. We will have yesterday's Russian-Christmas-specialties leftovers tonight. So, I will have two Christmases this year! Now how could this week end any better even with the worries about Ray! A second chance to celebrate a special birth! How often does that happen?

So, in this case, in closing, I will wish all of you a merry Christmas -- again!

Time Out from Blogging in Reverence for Life

You may have noticed a lack of blog posts this week. There is an explanation beyond the fact that I am once again on the road, this time in Washington, D.C. (or more accurately, Arlington, Virginia). I will probably be able to post Quick Takes tomorrow evening since I wrote most of them on the plane here. However, anything else may take a few days.

Upon arriving here, I received an urgent phone call from Noelle. Her significant other of ten years' duration had a heart attack during dialysis (he has no functional kidneys) and is currently unresponsive. X-rays show a swollen brain, and doctors would like to have permission to pull the plug. Noelle, our hopelessly hopeful, never-say-never, that-empty-glass-will-soon-be-overflowing child, wants to wait. Probably Lizzie will be the one to make the decision for everyone, as she did in her grandmother's case ten years ago. That time she decided that keeping her grandmother alive artificially was in no one's interest, including her grandmother's, since even if her grandmother came out of the coma, she would not be able to care for herself or even think since all functional brain tissue had been destroyed by a brain bleed. Since Lizzie is a professor of cognitive neuroscience, doctors are willing to share records and test results with her that they would not normally share with family members; they know that she will look at them dispassionately and make an objective and measured judgment as a professional colleague.

Lizzie has conditionally weighed in on Ray. Not having the x-rays yet and just listening to the description of what has occurred and considering his comatosity, she has informed her sister that in her opinion the situation is "bad." However, she won't give any final advice until she sees documentation.

A little background: Ray lost kidney function in 2006 and was comatose (without brain swelling or damage) for several months, then was on life support in a city five hours away until December 2007. It was a wonderful Christmas present to have him be taken off life support and breathing on his own. Then, in December 2008, he was released into a care facility and transferred to Salts where he was just a few minutes away from Noelle. That was another wonderful Christmas present and a prayer answered. Ray and Noelle have had a full year beyond what they hoped for together (or as together as they can be, considering that Ray cannot even come home to visit).

Until Lizzie weighs in with an informed opinion, we wait and pray. I have asked for Ray to be put on the Old Mission prayer list, and I would ask you to pray, too. It is difficult to know what to pray for since Ray, even if he regains consciousness, will never be able to come home, will always be tied to a dialysis machine, and will likely be in pain much of the time. Since God knows better than I do in all cases, I personally am praying that God will do what is best for Ray. No matter what we personally would like to see happen, the rest of us really are insignificant in this instance. I am sure that God will take good care of Ray without prompting, but I like to pray about it, anyway. I love the support and guidance.

So, with the exception of the Quick Takes and the MMM, I plan not to spend time blogging but being available to my family and to Noelle. (I will be home on Saturday.) Life itself is special, and we should take time to acknowledge that and show our reverence for what God has given us. It is unfortunate that we tend to do so only when Death looms or has completed its reaping. Nonetheless, better now than never.

Monday Morning Meditation #23: God Chooses Whom He Wills

Writing this week's MMM is a sheer pleasure, coming on the heels of my attending the Sunday noon Mass at Old Mission. The Sunday noon Mass is in Spanish, and it generally is packed. It was no different this time, except that I arrived just a couple of minutes late and so felt the full impact of being in an overflowing church. All seats were taken, and standing room was shoulder-to-shoulder, back-to-front, hardly any squeezing-through room and only a little more than that of breathing room. The unheated church on a cold winter day was warmed to a comfortable temperature by all the bodies, including that of Phinean, Fr. Ed's adopted feral black cat, who was sleeping contentedly in the creche. Mixed emotions coursed through me: (1) the wonderful sense of community in seeing so many people coming together in worship and (2) the difficult of hearing through the crowd our multilingual priest, Fr. Milich, who celebrates the Latin Mass and substitutes when needed for other priests for the Spanish and English Masses, along with the distractions from enjoying God's presence that came from the constant movement among the standing crowd as people made way for other people, children squirmed, and parents adjusted their babies' positions. Nonetheless, everyone was in a supportive mood. That, along with the deep spirituality of the Spanish Mass in general, led to a warm feeling of well-being that remained with me the rest of the day. Now, I hope I can pass along that same feeling to readers and retain it myself as the Monday slew of high-stress meetings at work hits in just a few hours.

I read more chapters in Joshua. (Thank you, readers, who have told me that Joshua is one of your favorite books. That has helped me to savor it more and to spend more time looking under the surface a bit more than I might otherwise do as I read.) I read as far as the story of Rahab, the woman who saved Joshua's two spies who were conducting reconnaisance prior to the battle of Jericho. At the end of the story, where Joshua's men save Rahab and her extended family in return, I particularly noticed the Biblical description of this woman: "But Rahab the harlot, and her father's household, and all that she had, did Joshua save alive; and she dwelt in the midst of Israel, unto this day; because she hid the messengers, whom Joshua sent to spy out Jericho." The harlot?

Reading: Joshua 6:25

Meditation: God ensured that Joshua's men saved a harlot? Is not a harlot an unredeemable sinner? I have noticed as I have learned more about Christian and Jewish history that God uses the less-than-perfect people of the world to carry out His will. So often I have asked, "Why me? There are so many who are better suited or more qualified or even at times, it would seem, more willing (or at least, a little smarter at recognizing an 'assignment')!" Then I look at those whom God has chosen in the past: orphans, fishermen, fraidy cats, persecuters, and, yes, harlots. It would appear that God is not looking for someone "special" but for someone "common," even an inveterate sinner.

After my conversion, I did a careful review of my life and found many occasions where God had used me as a Good Samaritan to help someone in need or as the stage hand putting into place some small setting leading to a miracle (e.g., taking Shura to a moleibin [prayer service prior to a significant life event] prior to his surgery, where he meet in a surprising way the only person, otherwise unreachable, who could solve his immigration issues). Why on earth, I wondered, would God use an atheist as an instrument. After all, I did not even notice the miracles although others around me did, and when others pointed them out, I would try to find some other explanation although I was never successful at finding a satisfactory one. Still, I would ignore the miracle and label it serendipity, happenstance, chance, luck, and the like. So, why would God even want to involve me in His wondrous work? The Book of Privy Counseling, which is my favorite spiritual book, gave me an answer that rings true because of its simplicity. "Why would God use an atheist?" asks the book's unknown author, who answers his/her own question with three words: "Because He can." How aptly those three words speak to the remarkable power of God!

As for the person who is willing to listen and carry out God's will (even if the obedience is not fully conscious, as in my case until recent years), in most of the cases with which I am acquainted that person's life subsequently becomes uncommon as a result of trusting and obeying God. Following God, I have personally found out, leads one into terra incognita and introduces one to all kinds of people and places. Perhaps that is the reward for obedience, or perhaps it is a kind of faith formation. Maybe it is both. In any event, one is never the same again after having been an instrument of God's choosing.

And that is far as I can go with you on this Monday morning. I must retire to prayer to repent for those times that I have been too dumb to recognize God's leading me to something that He needs accomplished, to thank God for my life and the ways in which He has changed and enriched it, and to give praise for the extraordinary power that allows Him to use even the least of people as His instruments and His uncommon kindness in choosing those that others would not choose. After that, I will spend time in contemplation, which I eagerly anticipate -- how delicious to spend time with a great Someone who loves and chooses a flawed person like me, who wants to spend time with me even though I have so little to give in return.

I will now leave you to your prayer and contemplation, but first, I would like to bring to your attention a Monday morning prayer post that you might enjoy:

Fr. Austin Fleming, priest of the Archdiocese of Boston and pastor in Concord, Massachusetts, posts a prayer each Monday morning that he calls "Monday Morning Offering." I enjoy his prayers very much. I hope you also will find them inspirational. He has graciously given me permission to include a link to his blog on my Monday Morning Meditation posts.

For additional inspiration throughout the week, I would point out two sets of blogs: (1) the list of devotional blogs that follow the enumeration of Monday Morning Meditations on the sidebar of this blog and (2) my blogroll, where I am following a number of inspirational priests and writers about spiritual matters. I learn so very much from all these people. I highly recommend them to you.

Sunday Sabbath #7: The Positive Power of Failure

Fr. Christian Mathis (Blessed Is the Kingdom has made the suggestion that we "rest" on the Sabbath by taking a break from our normal blogging and sharing an older post of which we are particularly fond. Rest? Gladly! I don't get to do that very often, but now, thanks to Fr. Christian, I get to do it at least once a week -- and it gives me more time to spend with God, which is a wonderful gift.

The older post I chose this week is "The Positive Power of Failure." This may sound like a strange topic for the first Sunday of the new year when everyone is wishing everyone else a happy and successful new year. However, I think we focus too much on success in our culture. God did not tell us to go out and be successful. God told us to love one another, to be kind, to be servants, to feed the hungry, clothe the naked, and be humble. I have achieved a fair measure of earthly success. Like money, though, where will that get me in the last 30 seconds of my life and thereafter? If we do succeed and/or if we are wealthy, it is what we do with that success and wealth that matters far more than just having it. I don't mind at all having some money to give away to St. Francis Retreat, on the H2 challenge to feed and otherwise help the hungry and homeless (and get to know them), in support of our wonderful old mission here in San Ignatio, or in putting charges that I later have to pay for on God's credit card. Actually, having the money to do these things is wonderful. Likewise, I don't mind having success if I can use it to help my employees who are caught in difficult situations work-wise (as did the extra manager at the meeting that I talked about in the older post I selected a few Sundays ago), who just cannot seem to "fit in," who are hurting in other ways, perhaps even dying (as was the case with Tareq, whose story I also told on this blog), or in some way contributing to world peace. In short, money and success are meaningful, in my mind, only if they help promote heavenly causes on earth or are useful tools in carrying out God-given assignments.

Failure was a topic that was very important to me when my children were growing up. Given two highly gifted children (Lizzie skipped two grades and Shane skipped four) and two talented children among those we took in (Ksenya in music/acting -- she attended the Child Actor's Studio in Hollywood as a teenager and Shurain art -- he was accepted to the Virginia Center for Creative Art as a teenager, the youngest person ever to be accorded that honor), I yearned for them to fail for it is in the failing that we learn how to live; it is not in the succeeding. Success makes us feel good about ourselves, but it does not teach us how to pick ourselves up from the ground when we have fallen or how to learn from mistakes. Moreover, while it does not preclude us from walking with God, sometimes success makes us think that we did it all and don't need God. So, I badly wanted my gifted children to fail, and, thank God, I got my wish for it has changed their lives for the better.

I am re-posting the earlier post here to make it easier to access, but the link will take you to the post plus comments.

The Positive Power of Failure

Something wonderful happened to my daughter, Lizzie, her 8th grade year when she return to her Arlington, Virginia high school after spending months living and attending school in Russia: she failed algebra and band. Until then, she had not only always been an A+ student but also, with a fall birthday, she had started kindergarten as one of the youngest children in the class and then proceeded to skip second grade and then seventh grade. Promoted to the eighth grade at the age of 11, she was placed in the high school, college-prep classes for high achievers: algebra, freshman English, French, earth science, and music (band). While Lizzie could keep up with her other subjects during her time in Russia, learning to play the flute was not a possibility. Russian schools are either regular schools, i.e. a little bit of everything, or specialized schools (spetsshkoly). Music schools, math schools, foreign-language schools, and sports schools are among the choices. Lizzie attended a foreign language school. Her knowledge of humanities and science did not suffer at this school; it blossomed. Music and math, however, were another story. The math "deficit" was actually a surprise. At the time, Soviet students were significantly outperforming American students in math, according to United Nations' statistics. And therein lay the problem. Lizzie also could outperform her peers in her American algebra class because they had not yet been taught the mechanics for performing algebraic operations whereas Lizzie and her Soviet peers had been practicing solving equations all year. Actually, the Soviet children had arrived already knowing how to do basic equations, so over there Lizzie had had to play catch-up, which she did rapidly, thanks to the encouragement of the math teacher, who never withheld approbation for even the slightest improvement and on the first day that Lizzie walked to the board and successfully explained the solution of a problem rewarded her with a warm molodets (an untranslatable positive label for a person who has done something remarkable; in English, "Way to go!" might come close). In her American classroom, however, Lizzie's peers had not begun the mechanics of algebra; they had been concentrating on theory and concepts.

So, when Lizzie, returning home for the last six weeks of the school year, tried to learn a year’s worth of of algebraic concepts, the formidable task overwhelmed her. A series of Fs was all she could pull on weekly tests until the last two weeks of class when the teacher, who happened to be the junior high school principal, introduced calculations. Whiz! Lizzie’s scores soared to A+. “I don’t get it,” the principal confided to me. “She does not know the principles of calculation, yet she never gets any wrong!” Yes, that would be true. Practice makes perfect, and she had had much practice in calculation.

Of course, Lizzie had to attend summer school to make up her never-acquired conceptual algebra skills. It was a fast-track class – 5 mornings a week for 6 weeks. At the end of the course, her summer school grade replaced the F on her report card. She had learned her algebra lessons well enough to earn an A. More important was the other lesson she learned: Don’t fear failure; it can be the first step toward success.

That lesson was reinforced as she took steps 2, 3, 4 and more. In the fall, as an entering freshman, she took the geometry course. Another A. By senior year, she was out of math classes and was allowed to take a calculus course at the local community college; another A. And, of all things, one day she ran into the junior high school principal there. He had retired and was now teaching at the community college. He was considerably surprised when he learned what Lizzie was doing in the corridor of the college.

Band class had been an equally miserable failure for Lizzie. She returned, still trying to figure out how to get actual tones, rather than wispy puffs of air, from the flute, to find her band class playing ensemble music. There was no summer school course for band, and the F would remain on her report card. The question was about her freshman year. The junior high band teacher emphatically stated that there was no hope for Lizzie to be part of the high school band; it was too late. Band instruction began in earlier years, and 8^th grade was the last chance to get initial instruction.

Yet, Lizzie really wanted to learn to play the flute and was willing to practice, and I don’t believe in a no-hope scenario. So, we advertised for a tutor, and the most marvelous person appeared on our doorstep: a flautist from the US Marine Corps band who was stationed in Washington, DC. He came two evenings a week, and our house was filled with beautiful flute solos. Surprisingly soon, Lizzie was playing awkwardly along with him, then better and better. When the school year began, Lizzie talked to the high school band director and asked if he would let her audition. He agreed, she did, and she was in!

Over the next four years, she played ensemble and solos with the marching band, the school orchestra, and the drama club’s pit orchestra. Her junior year, she won third place in a national flute competition. The following year, the marching band was one of several nationwide selected to play in the inauguration of President Bush (the father). She did not play the flute there, though. She played the saxophone. At the end of her junior year, two senior-year saxophone players graduated, and there were no incoming saxophone players to take their place. So, she and a friend volunteered to teach themselves to play the saxophone over the summer, and they did. When Lizzie graduated from high school, she received that year’s Most Valuable Player for the band.

The sax and flute now lie forgotten in a closet somewhere in Lizzie’s apartment as she busies herself with the daily work of a college professor of cognitive neuroscience. However, Lizzie has never forgotten failure’s lesson in hope, risk-taking, and perseverance that dynamited her past what she might otherwise have settled for.

PS. An interesting development of Lizzie's life experiences, including failure and likely because of it, is that she became a very compassionate and involved teacher. This was a surprise to me because she never wanted to teach. She wanted to be a researcher, but now she helps her students be researchers and involves elementary school girls in science clubs and brain science activities, showing them that they, too, can succeed in what is still essentially a boy's and man's world. Last year, she was voted professor of the year in her department. Not bad for someone who never thought she would make a good teacher and feared her first teaching assignment as a graduate student. Oh, yes, thank God for those early failures (and others along the way)!

2010: A New Beginning

Now that is about as mundane a title for a new year's post as there possibly could be. Except... This morning when I picked up the Bible for a lectio divina that I try to do each morning (although I do not always succeed), it fell open by chance to Psalm 78, "A New Beginning in Zion and David." A long psalm, Psalm 78 was not one with which I was previously familiar. It gives quite a wonderful recounting of the past, where God was present, what God did, and how the people sinned, and ends with change and hope for the future. Wouldn't it be a wonderful beginning to this year to recount our past, remembering the moments where God was with us, what God did for us, and how we sinned, and ending with a resolution for change and knowledge that we do have a reason for hope?

Perhaps 2010 will be a year that is different from past years. At least, it started that way for me. First, there was the blue moon! And then Donnie and I welcomed in the year together. Now, we were doing that quietly at home, which sounds pretty routine. Except...This is the first time in 40 years that I have been awake at midnight on New Year's Eve!

I just returned from New Year Mass and am delighted that I still have a half-day left without having to report to work, just in time to wish all of you Happy New Year! Best wishes for blessings and a gentle year!

Note: Blue moon photo by Ernest Coleman
. 2010 photo from Associated Press, Taiwan.

Thankful Thursday #5: I Love This Town

Early this evening (New Year's Eve), I arrived home after letting my employees leave early for the day. I stayed on a bit because it is only after the hundreds stream home that I have time to catch up on the introverted tasks that need to be done. (If I were to change my open-door policy, I might get more of that kind of task done during the day; however, on the other hand, it might make no difference at all because many employees think that "open door" policy means "open the door.")

The kinds of things I am dealing with at work these days, as I explained in last week's Thankful Thursday post, are highly visible and highly challenging. To build a new office with various programs, managers, and employees in other states in a matter of one month is nigh onto impossible, but there is no option to fail. The work we are doing is in direct support of the US government efforts to bring peace in place of war. God has blessed me incredibly in putting me in this job and insisting that I stay in it. Now I understand perhaps why: with my many languages and experience in working in 23 countries, including the Middle East, I can bring some expertise to the process. In return, it is such a reward to be among those watching peace develop before the rest of the world sees it. (See my post on the wonder of being in the Soviet Union during the Cold War and perhaps contributing just a tiny bit to changes in that country.)

At my office (perhaps I should say offices, since I travel from one site to another routinely), I deal with the world at large, the international scene, the big cities, the places where one often ends up alone in a crowd, where interactions and relations are highly formal and formularized. (Of course, I do have close friends in the various places where I have lived and worked and a warm working relationship with most of my employees. Nonetheless, the mindset is big picture, process, strategic thinking, and impersonal implementation of programs.)

When I come home to San Ignatio, however, I enter an entirely different life. More than being in a different world, my whole life changes. I drove off the local road entering town and turned into the parking lot where we have our only set of stores, driving past the sign at the edge of town that says "Welcome to History." That sign about sums up our town; we still speak Spanish, we still attend daily Masses at the mission, we still very simply and supportively -- or at least, that is how I imagine people lived here 200 years ago.

I parked in front of the post office, which is a small wooden building with a wooden sign -- we are too small a town to merit home mail delivery. After picking up our mail, I called Donnie to see if he would like to order dinner from Pizza Factory, which is next door to the post office, while I went into the small grocery story, The Windmill Market, a few steps across the parking lot from the Pizza Factory, to pick up some dessert and small items for tomorrow. Yes, he wanted to do that, and so he called in the order.

As I stood in line at The Windmill Market about 15 minutes later, the Pizza Factory manager, one cucumber in hand, jumped into line in front of me. "Hi, Steve," I said, yielding room to him.

"Hey, Beth," he said, "I had to run in to get a cucumber for your salad! I'll see you over there in a few minutes. Your pizza is almost done."

After I put the groceries into the car, I started down the wooden sidewalk that connects all the wooden buildings that make up our tiny shopping complex. (I purposely do not call it the town center because the town center is the Old Mission; even the fire station and city hall, such as it is, are located across from the mission -- all of it walking distance from The Windmill, or perhaps I should say that The Windmill and everything else in town, including my house, is walking distance from the mission.) Rolling down the sidewalk on a scooter was a member of the city council.

"Hi, Beth," she called to get my attention. I walked over to hug her, and we got talking about her latest plan for feral cat rescue, an interest we share. We also both are members of Old Mission church; just about everyone in town is, and Fr. Ed is as much the town's leader as is the mayor, serving as chaplain for the fire department (there is no police department -- we are so blessed as a town not to need a police force) and acquainted, it seems, with every person in town.

After finishing the conversation with the city councilwoman, I finally popped into Pizza Factory to pick up my now-ready pizza. The owner was there along with four employees.

"Hi, Beth," the owner called out.

"Happy New Year," I responded. Elizabeth, the daughter of a woman who co-teaches the First Year Confirmation catechism class at Old Mission church with me, smiled. The other two, who were in the back room and whom I know from birthday parties held at Pizza Factory and many other visits there. (Pizza Factory is the only pizza shop in town and the closest thing we have to fast food -- nope, we have no McDonald's, Burger King, or Wendy's, etc.) As I paid for the food, I handed four $5 bills to Steve, one for each of the employees for New Year's. It is a very small amount, but it goes further here than in some other places. My special tip for the Pizza Factory employees is now a New Year's tradition, and for all of us, it is the thought that counts.

The Windmill is on the south edge of time, and my house is on the north side of town. From The Windmill to my house is a one-minute drive and a ten-minute walk. The one minute, though, is wondrous this time of year. The main street lights are decked out with Christmas wreaths that look like halos at night and pictures of saints. (This year they went up in October because City Hall is being renovated and there was no place to store them. City Hall, which is a two-room building, is still being renovated, and so the decorations may stay up for some time yet. That is okay; they are part of what contributes to the feeling of holiness in this town. (My retarded son, Doah, when he first set foot in town after God clearly led me here, stopped, took assessment, and pronounced, "God here!")

As I was carrying the pizza into the house five minutes later, our next-door neighbor showed up with some apples. I thanked and hugged her. She departed as quickly as she had arrived, leaving Donnie and me to our dinner.

I love this town! I am overwhelmingly thankful to God on this Thursday for putting me here.
More information about the Thankful Thursday meme can be found at the website of Grace Alone.