A controversial topic. Why haven't I learned not to post these things on Facebook? Inevitably one person will comment and then a whole avalanche of comments will appear, advocating each side of some issue that they feel strongly about. Tonight it was a petition to have a book removed from Amazon's listing. The book, written by conservative fundamentalists, advocates disciplining children to the point of child abuse. This is something that I have zero tolerance for, hence why I signed the petition and posted the link.
Then the comments came. Someone said that if we asked Amazon to remove this book, it would lead to other books similar to it being petitioned, and then we wouldn't be able to discipline our children in the Biblical way. Someone else said it wasn't such a bad book, it was the people who used it. I replied, then I went off, emotionally too fragile to process it logically.
Why is this such a hot button for me? Perhaps because children have no one to speak up for them, therefore we are tasked with that responsibility. Perhaps because I also have zero tolerance for those who are afraid of "upsetting the fruit basket" in fear that if we do so, we will have our rights taken away from us. I realized, though, that the core reason is deeper than that. It is because the spiritual values are being distorted.
God's kingdom is a kingdom of love, grace, mercy, peace, kindness, and gentleness. Ah, you say, but you forgot one key aspect: self-control. True, I did not include it in the list, but I did not for a specific reason. To contrast the first six with self-control is not accurate, it must be included with the first six to make sense. I have heard pastors say that the fruits are progressive, with self-control being the ultimate goal. I have heard pastors say that it is a singular fruit, therefore self-control would be part of the package. I have heard countless sermons on the value of self-control, stating that the possession thereof will ultimately lead to perfection Regardless of the semantics, however, one thing is clear. God's kingdom also includes self-control. However, is self-control akin to other-control?
The topic of child discipline is one that has been hotly debated for years. The liberal camp suggests guidance while allowing the child to determine their own pathway; the conservatives firmly believe that corporal punishment is the only way. There are those who live inbetween. I am not a parent, but I was raised by a mother who did not hesitate to spank me if I needed it, and I admit there were times I did. My parents had a variety of ways to discipline, with spanking being only one of them, and as I grew older and they were able to reason with me, they took away privileges that I dearly loved. It was a far greater punishment to sit home and watch my sister enjoying Thursday night social with all my friends than it was to have a spanking. As I began to associate choices with consequences, I quickly learned to make better ones.
God has the task of parenting an entire world and He does so in love. We do suffer consequences to our ill choices; if you smoke regularly you will likely die from lung cancer, and other such similar things. However, God also gives us the freedom to determine our own destiny by making those choices. He does not require us to follow a strict pathway led out in precise measurements in order to reach heaven; He gives us guidelines and then we are free to choose whether or not we will follow those guidelines, interpreting them as we understand them through prayer, Bible study, logic, and counsel. This is a frightening thought to the conservative because they far prefer to refer to the little red books as an exact set of rules to keep them on the straight and narrow. This is also unsettling to the liberals who would rather believe there are no guidelines and they can happily sail through life as they wish, just as long as they proclaim their love for God. Balance is often far from either camp and they struggle to understand the concept of self-control within the context of freedom.
Self-control is a learned and God-given habit. We acquire it by consistent positive choices, repeating them over and over until they become automatic. We are given the strength to make those choices, however, by the Holy Spirit. Whether we acknowledge it as Christians or not, lasting self-control is a gift of the Holy Spirit. We are given the freedom to choose self-control. This is not to be confused with other-control, however. The book in question advocates parents controlling their children to the point that the child no longer has a will of their own. According to a review by the BBC, "Parents must assume that part of the child's moral duty which is not fully developed" disciplining them to the point of subjection. It is self-evident that the authors believe parents are commanded to assume the role of the Holy Spirit in their child's life. This is not the role that God has given parents, however. To guide them to make wise choices, yes. To determine every choice for them, claiming infallible authority, and disciplining them into unquestioning absolute obedience, no.
My biggest struggle is learning God is love. When I react emotionally to people's comments, it is because I do not see His love but rather a fearsome being who will not protect. This is not a god I can serve or even associate with. I must believe that God is angered when a child is abused, that He sets out to rescue, and that He who said it would be better for a millstone to be put around the neck of someone who causes a child to sin and that that person be thrown into the depth of the sea meant every word He said. God is love, but His love is not silent. This is why I too, must speak out.
Saturday, December 14, 2013
Saturday, September 28, 2013
Marbles of Glass
She stumbled out her bedroom door, blearily blinking the heavy sleep out of her eyes. It was difficult to wake up that morning, though it had been like that for most mornings the past week. Her mother and brother sat at the kitchen nook, eating their breakfast and chattering away. They had likely been up for an hour already and were ready to face the day. She, on the other hand, was not.
After she fumbled for a glass of water, she headed back to her room to find something appropriate to wear for church. Her mother's voice called her back. "Did you want to take a look at the Bibles on the table? They're ready to give to Elsie if you are okay with that." Elsie, a 90+ year-old lady was very active in ministry and her project of the month was collecting Bibles to send to people in prison. She'd put a little notice in the bulletin so people could gather up their unused, gathering dust, Bibles lying around the house, bring them to church, and give them to her so she could pass them on to the organization that coordinated it all.
She stepped back into the kitchen and headed for the lace covered table in the family room where a stack of 4 Bibles lay. She picked up the first one, then the second, and the third. "You can't give this away, it's my Bible from Egypt!" she exclaimed. "And this one used to be Mr. Stevens'." Her mother jokingly replied, "You can make a photo copy of the inside cover," as her brother said, "But you're trying to get rid of things." She gathered up the Bibles as she managed to say, "Yes, but not these," and hurried to her room before the tears came. She wasn't fast enough; the emotion had caught her before she could put up her requisite guard, and the words choked in her throat.
She turned to face them and said, "Yes, I am trying to get rid of things, but not things that are important to me." Her mother reassured that it was okay to keep things, that they were not trying to guilt her into giving away her stuff, as she replied, "but you were! by telling me I could make a photocopy or was trying to get rid of stuff." Her brother later apologized, saying he didn't mean to make her upset. She tried to explain why she felt the way she did, but wasn't sure even she understood.
That evening she stood in the room carefully turning the pages in the Bibles. She remembered now that the one she'd used in Egypt was a Bible she'd given to her mother because it was a New King James and had formatted highlighting inside that annoyed her. In reality she'd given the Bible up long ago but in that moment she'd forgotten. It symbolized a happy time, a time when she'd gently carry her Bible with her to church, feeling proud that she owned her very own Bible and could look things up when she needed to.
She reached for the children's Bible, another one she didn't even read, but her name was signed in large pink cursive letters on the front page. It had beautiful pictures inside and she vaguely remembered looking at it when she was younger. She wasn't even sure when she received it, or why it was so important to keep it, but she wasn't ready to let go.
Finally she picked up the last Bible. This was a New Living Translation, one that was severely frowned upon by the conservative organization she worked for. She slowly turned the page and stared at the words written inside in red pen. Dave Stevens. There was an addendum in black, "and his daughter, Maria Lombart." She thought about how there were many blended families where the daughter did not carry her father's last name. The irony of the inscription, however, was that she was not his daughter. Not by blood, at least. She was in his heart, though. His heart that had stopped beating so many years ago.
She reverently stacked the Bibles on top of her dresser and pondered whether or not she would give them away to someone who needed them. Perhaps she might be able to give up the highlighted one and the children's one. She wouldn't be able to relinquish the New Living Translation, however. There were far too many memories attached to those words, words that he had never seen but he had always known. She found the Bible among other books for sale in the library and had snatched it up before anyone else could claim it. Now it was hers, one of the few links she had to someone who had cared so much and loved so deeply.
Perhaps that was why she couldn't give up the bobbing green turtle with the missing leg, the little figurine of the girl and boy sitting on a log and he was missing an ear, the tall green candle that had lost its scent and most of its wick, or the ragged t-shirt with Egyptian hieroglyphics. Each precious piece had a lifetime of memories wrapped around it, almost palpable, almost visible, yet not quite. She held tightly to them for fear that if she let go, she would lose herself as well.
She slept well that night. She dreamed of cream covered cakes, guitars and family singing, riding a train through the countryside, late night football games, learning to ski, and running through the African rain. And softly, quietly, each memory wrapped itself around her and held her close.
After she fumbled for a glass of water, she headed back to her room to find something appropriate to wear for church. Her mother's voice called her back. "Did you want to take a look at the Bibles on the table? They're ready to give to Elsie if you are okay with that." Elsie, a 90+ year-old lady was very active in ministry and her project of the month was collecting Bibles to send to people in prison. She'd put a little notice in the bulletin so people could gather up their unused, gathering dust, Bibles lying around the house, bring them to church, and give them to her so she could pass them on to the organization that coordinated it all.
She stepped back into the kitchen and headed for the lace covered table in the family room where a stack of 4 Bibles lay. She picked up the first one, then the second, and the third. "You can't give this away, it's my Bible from Egypt!" she exclaimed. "And this one used to be Mr. Stevens'." Her mother jokingly replied, "You can make a photo copy of the inside cover," as her brother said, "But you're trying to get rid of things." She gathered up the Bibles as she managed to say, "Yes, but not these," and hurried to her room before the tears came. She wasn't fast enough; the emotion had caught her before she could put up her requisite guard, and the words choked in her throat.
She turned to face them and said, "Yes, I am trying to get rid of things, but not things that are important to me." Her mother reassured that it was okay to keep things, that they were not trying to guilt her into giving away her stuff, as she replied, "but you were! by telling me I could make a photocopy or was trying to get rid of stuff." Her brother later apologized, saying he didn't mean to make her upset. She tried to explain why she felt the way she did, but wasn't sure even she understood.
That evening she stood in the room carefully turning the pages in the Bibles. She remembered now that the one she'd used in Egypt was a Bible she'd given to her mother because it was a New King James and had formatted highlighting inside that annoyed her. In reality she'd given the Bible up long ago but in that moment she'd forgotten. It symbolized a happy time, a time when she'd gently carry her Bible with her to church, feeling proud that she owned her very own Bible and could look things up when she needed to.
She reached for the children's Bible, another one she didn't even read, but her name was signed in large pink cursive letters on the front page. It had beautiful pictures inside and she vaguely remembered looking at it when she was younger. She wasn't even sure when she received it, or why it was so important to keep it, but she wasn't ready to let go.
Finally she picked up the last Bible. This was a New Living Translation, one that was severely frowned upon by the conservative organization she worked for. She slowly turned the page and stared at the words written inside in red pen. Dave Stevens. There was an addendum in black, "and his daughter, Maria Lombart." She thought about how there were many blended families where the daughter did not carry her father's last name. The irony of the inscription, however, was that she was not his daughter. Not by blood, at least. She was in his heart, though. His heart that had stopped beating so many years ago.
She reverently stacked the Bibles on top of her dresser and pondered whether or not she would give them away to someone who needed them. Perhaps she might be able to give up the highlighted one and the children's one. She wouldn't be able to relinquish the New Living Translation, however. There were far too many memories attached to those words, words that he had never seen but he had always known. She found the Bible among other books for sale in the library and had snatched it up before anyone else could claim it. Now it was hers, one of the few links she had to someone who had cared so much and loved so deeply.
Perhaps that was why she couldn't give up the bobbing green turtle with the missing leg, the little figurine of the girl and boy sitting on a log and he was missing an ear, the tall green candle that had lost its scent and most of its wick, or the ragged t-shirt with Egyptian hieroglyphics. Each precious piece had a lifetime of memories wrapped around it, almost palpable, almost visible, yet not quite. She held tightly to them for fear that if she let go, she would lose herself as well.
She slept well that night. She dreamed of cream covered cakes, guitars and family singing, riding a train through the countryside, late night football games, learning to ski, and running through the African rain. And softly, quietly, each memory wrapped itself around her and held her close.
Monday, September 16, 2013
To Fill the Fall Air
My room is filled with books. I've spent my life writing. And yet, when I find myself facing a simple requirement of a 300-word post, my mind freezes. I'm terrified I won't be able to create in academic terminology what they are looking for. If you ask me to describe, to feel, to experience, to express in words the blink of a moment, that I can do.
I hurried into the building, blowdryer in one hand, phone & keys in the other. I'd parked in the disabled parking space temporarily, even though I knew I shouldn't, but it was private property so I figured 3 minutes wouldn't make a difference. I found her room on the ground floor, knocked loud enough so she could hear, then handed her the appliance through the cracked door.
Deciding to take the back door out since it was closer to where I'd parked, I found myself stopping my rapid pace to descend the steps slowly. It was dark and I didn't want to twist an ankle or stumble. The door had thrown me out into the fall air, though, and I inhaled as deeply as I could. I was searching for something. A scent of yesterday, perhaps. Smoke from burned cookies in a microwave, a man's cologne, Soft Scrub from when the ants invaded my old studio apartment, the heater's coils. There was nothing.
Only the feel of hard packed dirt beneath my sandals as I fought gravity to make it up the little hill to the right. I knew that dark hill; I had rushed up it many a night from my front porch to reach the safety of the streetlights. I instinctively ducked to miss the low-hanging branches of the tall shrub, though those branches were now well-trimmed. My sandals slipped, but I had moved rapidly enough to make it to the top before I slid.
As the keys turned and I opened my car door, mourning the scents of forgotten memories, I brightened at the thought that came to comfort. It was fall. I would create new memories. This was how life went.
I hurried into the building, blowdryer in one hand, phone & keys in the other. I'd parked in the disabled parking space temporarily, even though I knew I shouldn't, but it was private property so I figured 3 minutes wouldn't make a difference. I found her room on the ground floor, knocked loud enough so she could hear, then handed her the appliance through the cracked door.
Deciding to take the back door out since it was closer to where I'd parked, I found myself stopping my rapid pace to descend the steps slowly. It was dark and I didn't want to twist an ankle or stumble. The door had thrown me out into the fall air, though, and I inhaled as deeply as I could. I was searching for something. A scent of yesterday, perhaps. Smoke from burned cookies in a microwave, a man's cologne, Soft Scrub from when the ants invaded my old studio apartment, the heater's coils. There was nothing.
Only the feel of hard packed dirt beneath my sandals as I fought gravity to make it up the little hill to the right. I knew that dark hill; I had rushed up it many a night from my front porch to reach the safety of the streetlights. I instinctively ducked to miss the low-hanging branches of the tall shrub, though those branches were now well-trimmed. My sandals slipped, but I had moved rapidly enough to make it to the top before I slid.
As the keys turned and I opened my car door, mourning the scents of forgotten memories, I brightened at the thought that came to comfort. It was fall. I would create new memories. This was how life went.
Monday, September 9, 2013
A Sip of Life
She stood on the corner, a familiar sight, holding a cardboard sign. I couldn't read the words scrawled in thick black pen, my car was too far back in the line of many waiting impatiently for the obnoxious light to turn green. I didn't need to know, though, what it said. I already knew.
It was a rushed afternoon, that day. I'd left my GPS at home, couldn't find the charger in my muddle of belongings, so I'd looked up the general vicinity of it all and taken off. I had to do two pickups before 5 pm, then shuttle the materials back to their destination by 6. I was hoping the hour commute wouldn't be extended too much with the jam of weekend traffic.
As I swerved into a parking spot directly in front of the last business, picked up the two heavy boxes, and retraced my tire tracks back to their return route, I thought about how hungry I was. I wanted a snack, something sweet, and I remembered a great little cupcake store just three blocks down. If I popped in I could pick up something for the drive home. . .
It was then that I saw her. She was dressed in shorts and a blue shirt, sweater tied around her waist. It was too hot for September, yet she stood unfaltering in the sun's heavy rays, holding up her sign and facing traffic. I breathed an inward sigh of relief that when the light changed I would be able to speed right by her, rather than waiting, parked a foot away while she stared at me, waiting for humanity to register.
I thought about my cupcake. I thought about the hundreds of cars, thousands perhaps, that had passed by this woman today. She stood there, unashamed, brave, strong, a piece of cardboard conveying her only thoughts. We closeted ourselves in metal containers, hid behind dark glasses, and kept our faces turned so we wouldn't see. We sped past to Starbucks, McDonalds, and Wendy's to spend more on a cup of coffee than we were willing to squeeze out a 3-inch-rolled-down-window. We would repeat the process daily, whether we saw a cardboard sign or not.
Celine Dion sings a heart-wrenching song, Love is all We Need, and one line in there haunts me. "Why don't people seem to care at all, as long as it's not about them?" That woman who was standing there needed help. Sure I don't know whether she was looking for money for drugs or alcohol or cigarettes, or whether she was hoping for a few dollars so she could have a simple meal. Yet in that moment that each of us was faced with the opportunity to surround her with love and compassion, we pretended we couldn't see her need. It was easier that way.
I don't know how I can change the way I react to the needy, whether deserving or not. As a single woman I often find myself fearful to help, afraid that if I do I will become the next statistic on the ten o'clock news. Yet it seems we should be taking some form of responsibility and turning that into concrete actions. Why is our cup of coffee more important than a life?
It was a rushed afternoon, that day. I'd left my GPS at home, couldn't find the charger in my muddle of belongings, so I'd looked up the general vicinity of it all and taken off. I had to do two pickups before 5 pm, then shuttle the materials back to their destination by 6. I was hoping the hour commute wouldn't be extended too much with the jam of weekend traffic.
As I swerved into a parking spot directly in front of the last business, picked up the two heavy boxes, and retraced my tire tracks back to their return route, I thought about how hungry I was. I wanted a snack, something sweet, and I remembered a great little cupcake store just three blocks down. If I popped in I could pick up something for the drive home. . .
It was then that I saw her. She was dressed in shorts and a blue shirt, sweater tied around her waist. It was too hot for September, yet she stood unfaltering in the sun's heavy rays, holding up her sign and facing traffic. I breathed an inward sigh of relief that when the light changed I would be able to speed right by her, rather than waiting, parked a foot away while she stared at me, waiting for humanity to register.
I thought about my cupcake. I thought about the hundreds of cars, thousands perhaps, that had passed by this woman today. She stood there, unashamed, brave, strong, a piece of cardboard conveying her only thoughts. We closeted ourselves in metal containers, hid behind dark glasses, and kept our faces turned so we wouldn't see. We sped past to Starbucks, McDonalds, and Wendy's to spend more on a cup of coffee than we were willing to squeeze out a 3-inch-rolled-down-window. We would repeat the process daily, whether we saw a cardboard sign or not.
Celine Dion sings a heart-wrenching song, Love is all We Need, and one line in there haunts me. "Why don't people seem to care at all, as long as it's not about them?" That woman who was standing there needed help. Sure I don't know whether she was looking for money for drugs or alcohol or cigarettes, or whether she was hoping for a few dollars so she could have a simple meal. Yet in that moment that each of us was faced with the opportunity to surround her with love and compassion, we pretended we couldn't see her need. It was easier that way.
I don't know how I can change the way I react to the needy, whether deserving or not. As a single woman I often find myself fearful to help, afraid that if I do I will become the next statistic on the ten o'clock news. Yet it seems we should be taking some form of responsibility and turning that into concrete actions. Why is our cup of coffee more important than a life?
Sunday, August 18, 2013
A Speck in the Universe
It's late, I've running on a rather minimal amount of sleep, and I must be up with the sun to trot around the loop with our new class. Yet, as is often the case when it really isn't the time to be writing, I feel the need to do so. People asked me today what my hobbies are. I quickly threw out the usual, reading & writing & eating out. I added, "and ethnic foods" just to make me sound a little more interesting. Reality is, though, that writing is what drives my soul.
So tonight I look at my blank screen, watching the words form as my fingers reach for the necessary keys to create the meaning, and I wonder why I feel the need to write. I know, but I'm not sure I'm brave enough to say so.
I read an article today that someone else posted a link to on FB. It was a controversial article on a site known for its controversial stance. The author seemed to be struggling between asking to be understood and an ego trip in their new-found freedom to leave organized religion. Or so it seemed. People's comments were flying back and forth on my friend's posted link, discussing the author's intent and purpose in writing such an article.
I said a few words, still carefully edited as I have not yet found that I can share freely on spiritual matters without fearing that there will be repercussions. Perhaps the environment I grew up in, that I still exist in at times, created the barrier and forced me to limit my searching to a small circle of trusted friends who are on a similar journey. I understood, though. Oh how I understood.
The author was blunt, too blunt at times perhaps. They were trying to reconcile the sanitized, part of the 144,000, following the blueprint, converting the world in the end-times picture of the perfect Adventist with the reality of life. The examples they gave made me cry. They wanted to know why the foster mom with the $500 diamond ring was kept out of church office while the pompous lawyer who drove a $50,000 BMW chaired the nominating committee.
I sat on the nominating committee at my home church once. They were asking for names for elders. I carefully read the description of elders in my little red NIV Bible, then asked, what about Bob? (not his real name) Everyone sort of bemusedly pushed my suggestion aside and went on to nominate the CEOs, the lawyers, and other acceptable people. Bob had the biggest heart of anyone I'd ever known, he loved his kids, he was genuine in his love for God. But he never went past grade school and he was divorced. I sat there, watching as the nominating committee played the politics game, placing the chess pieces strategically on the board, protecting the queen, while leaving the pawns defenseless. And I cried inside.
My heart breaks for the searching. It breaks for the earnest who sincerely want to do the right thing in the best way they know how. I know we are each on our individual journey and we cannot prescribe to one what they must do, but I long to see more of a seeking to understand each other's experiences in ways that we can encourage rather than destroy fragile hearts.
I too have been where I desperately wanted to fit in and be accepted, but no matter how hard I tried I never felt like I quite measured up. There seemed to be something wrong, and it always seemed to be me. I tried to account it to my sinfulness, as I heard many times that there was nothing good in me. It took me years to re-translate that thought into: God has created me and I am a beautiful creation. It took me years to realize that the wrongs were with the system and faulty reasoning.
I still haven't arrived at a perfect understanding of Who God is and how I fit into this world. Some days though, it is enough just to accept that God is God. And Love.
So tonight I look at my blank screen, watching the words form as my fingers reach for the necessary keys to create the meaning, and I wonder why I feel the need to write. I know, but I'm not sure I'm brave enough to say so.
I read an article today that someone else posted a link to on FB. It was a controversial article on a site known for its controversial stance. The author seemed to be struggling between asking to be understood and an ego trip in their new-found freedom to leave organized religion. Or so it seemed. People's comments were flying back and forth on my friend's posted link, discussing the author's intent and purpose in writing such an article.
I said a few words, still carefully edited as I have not yet found that I can share freely on spiritual matters without fearing that there will be repercussions. Perhaps the environment I grew up in, that I still exist in at times, created the barrier and forced me to limit my searching to a small circle of trusted friends who are on a similar journey. I understood, though. Oh how I understood.
The author was blunt, too blunt at times perhaps. They were trying to reconcile the sanitized, part of the 144,000, following the blueprint, converting the world in the end-times picture of the perfect Adventist with the reality of life. The examples they gave made me cry. They wanted to know why the foster mom with the $500 diamond ring was kept out of church office while the pompous lawyer who drove a $50,000 BMW chaired the nominating committee.
I sat on the nominating committee at my home church once. They were asking for names for elders. I carefully read the description of elders in my little red NIV Bible, then asked, what about Bob? (not his real name) Everyone sort of bemusedly pushed my suggestion aside and went on to nominate the CEOs, the lawyers, and other acceptable people. Bob had the biggest heart of anyone I'd ever known, he loved his kids, he was genuine in his love for God. But he never went past grade school and he was divorced. I sat there, watching as the nominating committee played the politics game, placing the chess pieces strategically on the board, protecting the queen, while leaving the pawns defenseless. And I cried inside.
My heart breaks for the searching. It breaks for the earnest who sincerely want to do the right thing in the best way they know how. I know we are each on our individual journey and we cannot prescribe to one what they must do, but I long to see more of a seeking to understand each other's experiences in ways that we can encourage rather than destroy fragile hearts.
I too have been where I desperately wanted to fit in and be accepted, but no matter how hard I tried I never felt like I quite measured up. There seemed to be something wrong, and it always seemed to be me. I tried to account it to my sinfulness, as I heard many times that there was nothing good in me. It took me years to re-translate that thought into: God has created me and I am a beautiful creation. It took me years to realize that the wrongs were with the system and faulty reasoning.
I still haven't arrived at a perfect understanding of Who God is and how I fit into this world. Some days though, it is enough just to accept that God is God. And Love.
Saturday, August 10, 2013
Stepping Forward
I hate change. To the point that I will postpone it as long as possible. For example, I bought a new toothbrush. I actually purchased it about two months ago, but it took me a month to take it out of the box. I really wasn't convinced that I needed it, even though my current one loses its charge after 3 brushes and is cracking down the side. Plus I got the new one for a really good price.
I've finally managed to plug it in but now it sits, waiting for me to use it. You're probably laughing at me, wondering why it's so difficult to switch toothbrushes. Such a simple thing! My life would be easier; the new one even comes with a 2-minute timer! Yet I find myself hesitant to move forward.
It's kind of interesting that the change symbolized in my toothbrush is also reflected in my life. I find myself facing a major change and I'm rather hesitant about taking that first uncertain step into it. Starting master's studies is serious. I know this time I have to commit and finish it, regardless of how difficult it makes my life. I sort of feel like I'm facing a rather scary dragon and it's not backing down. One of us has to move forward and the first one to do so wins the challenge. It has to be me.
Change also comes in relationships. That perhaps is the hardest of all to realize. It is easy to stay in status quo, whether life is more painful or not. Yet sometimes you have to take a moment, reevaluate, and realize that it's time to take that step forward. In doing so you may lose what you thought you had but perhaps you'll find an understanding that was missing. You won't know, though, until you embrace the uncertainty, relinquish the hopefulness, and reach for change. This time maybe it will be beautiful.
I've finally managed to plug it in but now it sits, waiting for me to use it. You're probably laughing at me, wondering why it's so difficult to switch toothbrushes. Such a simple thing! My life would be easier; the new one even comes with a 2-minute timer! Yet I find myself hesitant to move forward.
It's kind of interesting that the change symbolized in my toothbrush is also reflected in my life. I find myself facing a major change and I'm rather hesitant about taking that first uncertain step into it. Starting master's studies is serious. I know this time I have to commit and finish it, regardless of how difficult it makes my life. I sort of feel like I'm facing a rather scary dragon and it's not backing down. One of us has to move forward and the first one to do so wins the challenge. It has to be me.
Change also comes in relationships. That perhaps is the hardest of all to realize. It is easy to stay in status quo, whether life is more painful or not. Yet sometimes you have to take a moment, reevaluate, and realize that it's time to take that step forward. In doing so you may lose what you thought you had but perhaps you'll find an understanding that was missing. You won't know, though, until you embrace the uncertainty, relinquish the hopefulness, and reach for change. This time maybe it will be beautiful.
Friday, August 9, 2013
Schizo Stalker
I have a stalker. It's nothing to worry about, the guy sent me a rather friendly hello on FB, called me gorgeous, said he wanted to get to know me more if I didn't mind. It wasn't creepy or anything. I wouldn't have even noticed it if I hadn't seen a message in a filter in my inbox. After reading the message I decided to turn the tables on the guy. I stalked him.
Did you know that there is a handy way to search for a person using a picture? If you go to Google Images, instead of the regular Google Search, there is an icon of a camera in the search bar where you can click and upload the picture you want to search for. Google will then match it to any identical pictures on the web and you can quickly and easily get information on the person you're tracking.
I was lucky, there was only one link that popped up, but it was for a guy with a completely different name. I clicked on the link which took me to a social networking site similar to LinkedIn. Here my friendly stalker had all his bio information, so I searched for the university where he teaches at. Found his bio, read his CV, then looked for him on FB using his real name. Sure enough, up he popped. Along with photos of his wife and 4 kids. I will give him the benefit of the doubt, as he is likely divorced, from the trend of the photos.
It was rather an amusing afternoon, using technology to avoid and avert what could have easily been a case of mistaken identity, or rather cloaked identity. I felt quite proud of myself for sleuthing it out!
Did you know that there is a handy way to search for a person using a picture? If you go to Google Images, instead of the regular Google Search, there is an icon of a camera in the search bar where you can click and upload the picture you want to search for. Google will then match it to any identical pictures on the web and you can quickly and easily get information on the person you're tracking.
I was lucky, there was only one link that popped up, but it was for a guy with a completely different name. I clicked on the link which took me to a social networking site similar to LinkedIn. Here my friendly stalker had all his bio information, so I searched for the university where he teaches at. Found his bio, read his CV, then looked for him on FB using his real name. Sure enough, up he popped. Along with photos of his wife and 4 kids. I will give him the benefit of the doubt, as he is likely divorced, from the trend of the photos.
It was rather an amusing afternoon, using technology to avoid and avert what could have easily been a case of mistaken identity, or rather cloaked identity. I felt quite proud of myself for sleuthing it out!
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