I really hoped it wouldn't be this way. But it is. I'm going to have to give some things up.
I didn't want it to be church. But it's an hour travel time either way, 3 times a week. I've just got to come to terms with it: I'd be prudent to cut out midweek services. I'm running myself into the ground, and it hasn't even been a full week since school started.
Here's how the week looks.
Monday, get up at 4am, go to the hospital, work clinical till 2:30 or 3:30, home between 3pm and 4pm. Write up Nursing Process Papers on each patient till time to sleep. (around 10pm) Supper, shower, and devotions in there of course.
Tuesday, get up at 6:15am, pick up carpoolers, drive to school. Pharmacology 8am to 10am. Med-Surg Theory 10:30am to 12:30pm. View assigned audiovisual materials. Try to work out and study at the same time. Voice lesson from 3pm to 4pm. Go home, read my brains out till I go to sleep.
Wednesday, same routine, only without the Voice Lesson.
Thursday, catch up on Pharmacology and Med-Surg Reading. Finish Care Plans and Clinical paperwork. Read assignments for Clinical Sleep.
Friday, up at 4am again. Same drill as Monday.
Saturday, try desperately to read assignments for coming week's Pharmacology, Clinical, Med-Surg Theory, finish clinical paperwork
Sunday, go to church, finish clinical paperwork. Bury my head in my books. Try to sleep.
Pass Go, collect grades, stool specimens, bloodied paperwork by the pen of the preceptor.
Not sure where I'm going to fit in the hour and a half of voice practice in there.
My posts have greatly deteriorated, however, I have no time for anything more literary.
Goodnight. Peace to you, dear reader.
Showing posts with label frustrated and despondent. Show all posts
Showing posts with label frustrated and despondent. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Note to Self
Note to self:
Write down what you do and what you win in 4H unless you want a huge headache when applying for 4H Scholarships! You can't just look at a ribbon and guess what year it was given and for what activity...
And do it for your children, because they'll probably be just like you...
Write down what you do and what you win in 4H unless you want a huge headache when applying for 4H Scholarships! You can't just look at a ribbon and guess what year it was given and for what activity...
And do it for your children, because they'll probably be just like you...
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Meltdown Mode
So, (trying hard to comment objectively, aloof from myself)
I'm kind of in emotional meltdown mode today. I should be studying, but I'm not. I know it will pass, it always does (Praise be to Christ!), but that doesn't make it any easier when it does come, this churning sea of emotional turmoil. Maybe it's the fact that I discussed these pieces of art (among) in my art exam this morning.
Morning in the Riesengebirge - Caspar David Friedrich
On the Sailboat - Caspar David Friedrich
Or maybe I chose to discuss them because of this mood. At any rate, they were the paintings I found most simple to explain at length last night and today.
Good grief! I think I just want to cuddle into some solid warm sympathetic something and weep a little. I'm not sad, I'm just, I don't know. It sounds very silly and childish, but I've come to accept tears as an honorable outlet rather than a shame. They are substitutes for the words I can't say, don't even know how to say.
Some day, maybe I'll learn to be the strong woman I've tried to be since I was little. Back then, it was so easy to be Joan of Arc, Molly Pitcher, or other female patriots or saints of my fancy. Then, bang, something hit me at about 13 years old, started throwing me around at 15, and totally disoriented and hung me up by my thumbs at 16-17. Coming out of 17, I learned to ride the waves, predict them, and even to occasionally keep my mouth shut when the sea starts pitching. Now, I've become familiar to the point that the emotional upheaval is like an old annoying aquaintance. I know each feeling and what sorts of things it feels when it comes. I've learned to recognize that my reason does not control my "rational" thought during certain phases of my life. I'm becoming better at riding out the torrent, and waiting for a better day.
This is perhaps, my biggest point of contention with the Thomists I know: namely that man's thoughts and actions are rational (This may or may not reflect Aquinas: I can't even think about him right now.). You see, my thoughts were once rational. But sometimes, it is as if something else has hijacked my mind and completely turned my senses haywire. I'm in control, but it's not my rational me, or at least, it's a different rational me that's not rational. Then, say those Aristotelian men who've probably never undergone such an ordeal, it's your passions getting the better of your reason. But it's not. It's not a drive or a desire or a seeking the good. It's a whole different way of reasoning where logic doesn't satisfy or console, where this unreasonable reason takes control of one's mouth while the other reason cries in the background, "I don't really mean that. I'm so sorry. How, why does this other reasoning control me for these brief spans?" Deep down inside, I realize that my thoughts are incoherent and my words even less so.
It is so frustrating to live with two reasons - a reasonable and an unreasonable. Right now the unreasonable one wants me to unreasonably mourn a road I didn't take. But even that will pass, by God's grace.
TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
Robert Frost.
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
Robert Frost.
Thanks to ODLBN for his wisdom and encouragement.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Save me from Mrs. P!: Or, I'm so, so sorry and guiltily ashamed of myself...
I'm upstairs cringing in a corner. Yes, I am, all 18 years of me.
Worse than that, it's not even my own corner I'm hiding in, it's Samantha's room. I'm too scared to hide by myself.
Why, you ask, am I - a college student - shamefacedly hiding in an upstairs room?
Because I didn't do my kitchen chores.
Laugh if you will. I can't help laughing myself, even while I feel a strange mixture of shame, apprehension, and sorrow. I'm so, so, so very sorry, Janice. (Though she can't hear me.)
You see, dear reader, there was to be a meeting of the college faculty this very evening (which is in fact, going on whilst I furtively type). Accordingly, we were asked to tidy things up a tad bit before they all arrived. Our R.A., Janice, had dinner engagements and as things ended up, only Samantha and I were left at the college. Being the lazy, slovenly sloths we are, we tidied up a minimum in the living room and class room, went on a walk, bought two very large luscious brownies from a local baker, came back, cooked brussel sprouts and cabbage and ate pickles, requiring me to open the perpetually smelly downstairs refrigerator which seemed unaccountably stinky tonight, left our dirty dishes in the sink, and headed upstairs to make a halfhearted attempt at homework as faculty cars arrived.
Of course, none of the faculty would walk through the kitchen, I reasoned as I laid down my pickle and cabbage stinking utensils. It would prove a much rued thought in retrospect.
I had barely bestowed myself in my room over various parchments, electronic and otherwise when I heard the door open and several persons enter. Suddenly, I heard a voice that halted my heart and seized it as in a chill ever tightening vise.
"Thomas [name changed]! What is that horrible smell!?!" A high woman's voice rose in what seemed an English strain of disapproval and concerned shock.
"It's cooking, my dear," a heavily British male voice replied calmly.
"Are you sure it's not the drains?!?" Every word carried easily into my room. I could not decipher his response.
It was the Mistress of the Establishment: Mrs. P, herself. Not that she would think of herself that way - she wouldn't - but being herself, she was the unconscious chatelaine of our group of young females to whom the thought of imminent encounter with Mrs. Dr. P would hurl into a frenzy of cleaning, sweeping junk under rugs, tidying, and de-odorizing. Never had I dreamt this day of Her entering the kitchen, our mess exposed to her eyes.
I shivered. I heard her voice beneath me, her steps toward the kitchen. I thought of the cluttered counter, the unwashed pots on the stove, the dishes in the sink. I saw in my minds eye, Janice, innocent, receiving a scolding for a catastrophe she did not create, domestic dirt she had dutifully consigned to our care. I shivered again and shuddered. Suddenly I was overwhelmed by an insurmountable desire for human company - for the commiseration of fellow sinners.
Ever so silently, I crept out of my room and tapped soundlessly on Samantha's door. "Samantha," I whimpered. "Come in," I heard her whisper, and I did. We looked at each other, the horror of realization visible in our faces. "That's S. isn't it," she said. I nodded, wishing with all my might that it were any other lady. "It never crossed my mind that she would come tonight," I offered, whispering, and we continued in soundless interjections of repentence and guilty confession recounting all the multiple things which were out of order on the floor below and which must perforce meet with disapprobation the cultured senses of M' Lady.
"Oh, if she should come up the stairs!" I gasped, and shivered with the horror of the possible event - horrible in it's possibility, possible on account of it's horror. I will not burden you, dear reader, with an account of the current state of the upstairs domain of the women, only suffice it to say that the current state is the past state under the effect of the Thermodynamic Second Law and as no outside force has acted upon it, it has with rapid, unfaltering motion careened in the direction of increasing entropy.
Noises from the kitchen indicated a busy cleaning and tidying. A new horror. And shame. Now we couldn't even sneak down and set all to order while everyone was in the meeting.
"Samantha," I whined, "can I come hide in your room with you?" We had both concluded that neither of us would be leaving the room while the Entity was busy below. She assented, and here have I remained, curled taunt in a corner, typing out the circumstances of my hilarious miserable guiltiness.
********************************************************************
I heard Janice's footsteps on the stair. Furtively, I crept from Samantha's corner and intercepted her near her room. Red of face, I confessed our...urm...situation at which Janice laughed soundlessly, silently shaking from amusement. Relieved, I laughed with her. No, she hadn't expected us to clean up any more, yes, Mrs. P would see a speck of dust anywhere. Still snickering, she padded down the stairs to the meeting.
I felt as if a load had dropped from my shoulders. It had. But I'm still not going to go downstairs until my lady leaves....
Pardon the cowardice. :P
Worse than that, it's not even my own corner I'm hiding in, it's Samantha's room. I'm too scared to hide by myself.
Why, you ask, am I - a college student - shamefacedly hiding in an upstairs room?
Because I didn't do my kitchen chores.
Laugh if you will. I can't help laughing myself, even while I feel a strange mixture of shame, apprehension, and sorrow. I'm so, so, so very sorry, Janice. (Though she can't hear me.)
You see, dear reader, there was to be a meeting of the college faculty this very evening (which is in fact, going on whilst I furtively type). Accordingly, we were asked to tidy things up a tad bit before they all arrived. Our R.A., Janice, had dinner engagements and as things ended up, only Samantha and I were left at the college. Being the lazy, slovenly sloths we are, we tidied up a minimum in the living room and class room, went on a walk, bought two very large luscious brownies from a local baker, came back, cooked brussel sprouts and cabbage and ate pickles, requiring me to open the perpetually smelly downstairs refrigerator which seemed unaccountably stinky tonight, left our dirty dishes in the sink, and headed upstairs to make a halfhearted attempt at homework as faculty cars arrived.
Of course, none of the faculty would walk through the kitchen, I reasoned as I laid down my pickle and cabbage stinking utensils. It would prove a much rued thought in retrospect.
I had barely bestowed myself in my room over various parchments, electronic and otherwise when I heard the door open and several persons enter. Suddenly, I heard a voice that halted my heart and seized it as in a chill ever tightening vise.
"Thomas [name changed]! What is that horrible smell!?!" A high woman's voice rose in what seemed an English strain of disapproval and concerned shock.
"It's cooking, my dear," a heavily British male voice replied calmly.
"Are you sure it's not the drains?!?" Every word carried easily into my room. I could not decipher his response.
It was the Mistress of the Establishment: Mrs. P, herself. Not that she would think of herself that way - she wouldn't - but being herself, she was the unconscious chatelaine of our group of young females to whom the thought of imminent encounter with Mrs. Dr. P would hurl into a frenzy of cleaning, sweeping junk under rugs, tidying, and de-odorizing. Never had I dreamt this day of Her entering the kitchen, our mess exposed to her eyes.
I shivered. I heard her voice beneath me, her steps toward the kitchen. I thought of the cluttered counter, the unwashed pots on the stove, the dishes in the sink. I saw in my minds eye, Janice, innocent, receiving a scolding for a catastrophe she did not create, domestic dirt she had dutifully consigned to our care. I shivered again and shuddered. Suddenly I was overwhelmed by an insurmountable desire for human company - for the commiseration of fellow sinners.
Ever so silently, I crept out of my room and tapped soundlessly on Samantha's door. "Samantha," I whimpered. "Come in," I heard her whisper, and I did. We looked at each other, the horror of realization visible in our faces. "That's S. isn't it," she said. I nodded, wishing with all my might that it were any other lady. "It never crossed my mind that she would come tonight," I offered, whispering, and we continued in soundless interjections of repentence and guilty confession recounting all the multiple things which were out of order on the floor below and which must perforce meet with disapprobation the cultured senses of M' Lady.
"Oh, if she should come up the stairs!" I gasped, and shivered with the horror of the possible event - horrible in it's possibility, possible on account of it's horror. I will not burden you, dear reader, with an account of the current state of the upstairs domain of the women, only suffice it to say that the current state is the past state under the effect of the Thermodynamic Second Law and as no outside force has acted upon it, it has with rapid, unfaltering motion careened in the direction of increasing entropy.
Noises from the kitchen indicated a busy cleaning and tidying. A new horror. And shame. Now we couldn't even sneak down and set all to order while everyone was in the meeting.
"Samantha," I whined, "can I come hide in your room with you?" We had both concluded that neither of us would be leaving the room while the Entity was busy below. She assented, and here have I remained, curled taunt in a corner, typing out the circumstances of my hilarious miserable guiltiness.
********************************************************************
I heard Janice's footsteps on the stair. Furtively, I crept from Samantha's corner and intercepted her near her room. Red of face, I confessed our...urm...situation at which Janice laughed soundlessly, silently shaking from amusement. Relieved, I laughed with her. No, she hadn't expected us to clean up any more, yes, Mrs. P would see a speck of dust anywhere. Still snickering, she padded down the stairs to the meeting.
I felt as if a load had dropped from my shoulders. It had. But I'm still not going to go downstairs until my lady leaves....
Pardon the cowardice. :P
Monday, July 7, 2008
Be Merciful to Me, a Fool!
I cannot blog tonight. At least I cannot blog anything worth reading. I haven’t written anything worthwhile since before AMEN. Several pieces have been in the works, stewing on the back burner, so to speak, since the conference, but I think I shall abandon them. At least for tonight.
Part of the problems is that my thoughts refuse to be gathered together meaningfully. My heart rebels against my mind. My flesh struggles with both. So how could my mind actually put into words what my heart screams? And if this feat were possible, how then could my fingers write those words which my mind painfully manages?
So, tonight I submit to you a poem. Nay! Do not pass over the humble poetry as if it were unimportant to the message of this post. I do not always present you, dear reader, with idle, fanciful poems, nor do I supply you with the work of far better writers simply to amuse you or show you what type of writing I respect and appreciate. On the contrary, often – and tonight is one such moment – I shyly speak to you through the lips of another. The poet wrought the verses, but the plea might as well be mine.
The Fool's Prayer
Edward R. Sills
The royal feast was done; the King
Sought some new sport to banish care,
And to his jester cried: “Sir Fool,
Kneel now, and make for us a prayer!”
The jester doffed his cap and bells,
And stood the mocking court before;
They could not see the bitter smile
Behind the painted grin he wore.
He bowed his head and bent his knee
Upon the monarch’s silken stool;
His pleading voice arose: “O Lord,
Be merciful to me, a fool!
“No pity, Lord, could change the heart
From red with wrong to white as wool;
The rod must heal the sin: but, Lord,
Be merciful to me, a fool!
“ ‘Tis not by guilt the onward sweep
Of truth and right, O Lord, we stay;
‘Tis by our follies that so long
We hold the earth from heaven away.
“These clumsy feet, still in the mire,
Go crushing blossoms without end;
These hard, well-meaning hands we thrust
Among the heart-strings of a friend.
“The ill-timed truth we might have kept –
Who knows how sharp it pierced and stung?
The word we had not sense to say –
Who knows how grandly it had rung?
“Our faults no tenderness should ask,
The chastening stripes must cleanse them all;
But for our blunders – oh, in shame
Before the eyes of heaven we fall.
“Earth bears no balsam for mistakes;
Men crown the knave, and scourge the tool
That did his will; but Thou, O Lord,
Be merciful to me, a fool!”
The room was hushed; in silence rose
The King, and sought his gardens cool,
And walked apart, and murmured low,
“Be merciful to me, a fool!”
Certain theological aspects of this poem are obviously skewed, but overall, I cry out with the jester. Men hurt and are hurt, sometimes purposefully, often not. But only with the Lord is there mercy. Though I can plead with the “King’s fool”, I all too often find myself in the role of the king – making sport of the sacred and being humbled and called to repentance by what I thought profane.
But Thou, O Lord, be merciful to me, a fool!
Part of the problems is that my thoughts refuse to be gathered together meaningfully. My heart rebels against my mind. My flesh struggles with both. So how could my mind actually put into words what my heart screams? And if this feat were possible, how then could my fingers write those words which my mind painfully manages?
So, tonight I submit to you a poem. Nay! Do not pass over the humble poetry as if it were unimportant to the message of this post. I do not always present you, dear reader, with idle, fanciful poems, nor do I supply you with the work of far better writers simply to amuse you or show you what type of writing I respect and appreciate. On the contrary, often – and tonight is one such moment – I shyly speak to you through the lips of another. The poet wrought the verses, but the plea might as well be mine.
The Fool's Prayer
Edward R. Sills
The royal feast was done; the King
Sought some new sport to banish care,
And to his jester cried: “Sir Fool,
Kneel now, and make for us a prayer!”
The jester doffed his cap and bells,
And stood the mocking court before;
They could not see the bitter smile
Behind the painted grin he wore.
He bowed his head and bent his knee
Upon the monarch’s silken stool;
His pleading voice arose: “O Lord,
Be merciful to me, a fool!
“No pity, Lord, could change the heart
From red with wrong to white as wool;
The rod must heal the sin: but, Lord,
Be merciful to me, a fool!
“ ‘Tis not by guilt the onward sweep
Of truth and right, O Lord, we stay;
‘Tis by our follies that so long
We hold the earth from heaven away.
“These clumsy feet, still in the mire,
Go crushing blossoms without end;
These hard, well-meaning hands we thrust
Among the heart-strings of a friend.
“The ill-timed truth we might have kept –
Who knows how sharp it pierced and stung?
The word we had not sense to say –
Who knows how grandly it had rung?
“Our faults no tenderness should ask,
The chastening stripes must cleanse them all;
But for our blunders – oh, in shame
Before the eyes of heaven we fall.
“Earth bears no balsam for mistakes;
Men crown the knave, and scourge the tool
That did his will; but Thou, O Lord,
Be merciful to me, a fool!”
The room was hushed; in silence rose
The King, and sought his gardens cool,
And walked apart, and murmured low,
“Be merciful to me, a fool!”
Certain theological aspects of this poem are obviously skewed, but overall, I cry out with the jester. Men hurt and are hurt, sometimes purposefully, often not. But only with the Lord is there mercy. Though I can plead with the “King’s fool”, I all too often find myself in the role of the king – making sport of the sacred and being humbled and called to repentance by what I thought profane.
But Thou, O Lord, be merciful to me, a fool!
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
Sleep Deprivation
I'm exhausted. This is absolutely crazy. I don't know how I am going to stay on my feet the rest of the day. Maybe I can sneak in a nap between classes. If I don't I know I'll fall asleep. As I was finishing homework this morning, the walls started to move. Weird! The walls seemed to bow inwards the higher they went upwards....I know that's not normal.
When I haven't obtained enough sleep, I start to curl in on myself. Normally, I function external to myself. I think out loud with my family. I walk around. I sing. I interact with others. I vocalize (some of) my feelings. I respond with nonverbals. Even when I sit, I stretch out. But I can tell I haven't slept enough when this changes. When I want to hide in a dark, tight corner, curl up in a small ball, wrap my arms around myself, and shut out the world - light, noise, sight, smell. My thoughts gel into a solid stagnant mass in my brain instead of flowing like liquid. I feel comatose. I force myself to focus on lecture without really responding to the information. I reply to peers reflexively without realizing what I am saying. I am silent and passive instead of argumentative. Even my eyes feel dull and glazed.
But the worst thing about sleep deprivation is that just as my mind blocks out all external stimuli so my heart's disquieting condemnation starts to overwhelm the gospel of forgiveness I know to be true.
I need to go to church tonight, but I need to sleep. I don't think I can do both, but I desperately need both. Somehow I'll work this out. If I say something stupid in the next day or so, everyone should know why.
Back to homework....if I can focus.
When I haven't obtained enough sleep, I start to curl in on myself. Normally, I function external to myself. I think out loud with my family. I walk around. I sing. I interact with others. I vocalize (some of) my feelings. I respond with nonverbals. Even when I sit, I stretch out. But I can tell I haven't slept enough when this changes. When I want to hide in a dark, tight corner, curl up in a small ball, wrap my arms around myself, and shut out the world - light, noise, sight, smell. My thoughts gel into a solid stagnant mass in my brain instead of flowing like liquid. I feel comatose. I force myself to focus on lecture without really responding to the information. I reply to peers reflexively without realizing what I am saying. I am silent and passive instead of argumentative. Even my eyes feel dull and glazed.
But the worst thing about sleep deprivation is that just as my mind blocks out all external stimuli so my heart's disquieting condemnation starts to overwhelm the gospel of forgiveness I know to be true.
I need to go to church tonight, but I need to sleep. I don't think I can do both, but I desperately need both. Somehow I'll work this out. If I say something stupid in the next day or so, everyone should know why.
Back to homework....if I can focus.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Grant Lord Jesus that My Healing
Grant Lord Jesus that my healing in your holy wounds I find. Cleanse my spirit will and feeling, heal my body soul and mind. When some evil thought within, tempts my wayward heart to sin, work in me for its eviction, weighted by your crucifixion.
I don't know what to do. I mean, I do, but I don't. It's wrong, horribly, repulsively wrong, but I don't know what to do about it or even if I can do anything about it. I feel soiled, filthy, violated.
Every so often, we watch a movie in Interpersonal Communication to illustrate a concept. Is it just the films we view here or are all movies really so violent, so devoid of godliness, so vile, suggestive and lewd? I don't watch movies enough to know.
What shocks me most is that these films that are so repugnant to my conscience are loudly acclaimed even by classmates who call themselves "Christian" and whose opinions often correspond to my own.
I find myself many times compelled to turn my eyes, to stop my ears at the profanity. I feel my face tensing into a contorted grimace at the disgusting, vile images, words and actions portrayed as entertainment.
How can I as a child of God respond to, and deal with such perversity? I know I have freedom in the Gospel, but contrary to what some might say, that freedom is not freedom to absorb or relish thoughts, sights and words dishonoring to my Father. Should I not come to class on these days? But then I will have no ability to participate in class discussion later. Should I attend but actively turn away from perverse themes and words? Sounds feasible, but in actuality is impossible because every other phrase often carries immoral connotations.
How in the world can I combat this? Oh blessed is he whose transgressions are forgiven, whose sin is covered! Right now, I do not feel like that one.
I don't know what to do. I mean, I do, but I don't. It's wrong, horribly, repulsively wrong, but I don't know what to do about it or even if I can do anything about it. I feel soiled, filthy, violated.
Every so often, we watch a movie in Interpersonal Communication to illustrate a concept. Is it just the films we view here or are all movies really so violent, so devoid of godliness, so vile, suggestive and lewd? I don't watch movies enough to know.
What shocks me most is that these films that are so repugnant to my conscience are loudly acclaimed even by classmates who call themselves "Christian" and whose opinions often correspond to my own.
I find myself many times compelled to turn my eyes, to stop my ears at the profanity. I feel my face tensing into a contorted grimace at the disgusting, vile images, words and actions portrayed as entertainment.
How can I as a child of God respond to, and deal with such perversity? I know I have freedom in the Gospel, but contrary to what some might say, that freedom is not freedom to absorb or relish thoughts, sights and words dishonoring to my Father. Should I not come to class on these days? But then I will have no ability to participate in class discussion later. Should I attend but actively turn away from perverse themes and words? Sounds feasible, but in actuality is impossible because every other phrase often carries immoral connotations.
How in the world can I combat this? Oh blessed is he whose transgressions are forgiven, whose sin is covered! Right now, I do not feel like that one.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
From Depths of Woe
From Depths of Woe I Cry To You, Lord Hear my Supplication!
I've seen this limpness, this weakness, this poor edematic condition, the weak, gasping breaths and 'ma s' once before and the memory cuts my heart like a knife - ten minutes after that, I held a lifeless kid in my arms.
That death was the result of both genetic defect and sheer carelessness. The kid had been born deformed and weak, folded pasterns and an overshot jaw set in an enlarged skull. We had named him P. J - 'Prince Jumbo' - because of his 'gi-normous' size and mentally retarded movements. Unfortunately, in the scramble to feed all the other kids my youngest siblings overlooked the fact that P. J wasn't actually drinking his milk. Because of his overshot jaw, the milk flowed out of the bottle and trickled down his neck, not down his throat. By the time the caprine oversight noticed his problem , four days of dehydration had taken its toll and he was a limp, emanciated, recumbent mass gasping for air and almost comatose. Immediately Dad produced the tube and we trickled the vital milk down his dry, starving throat. But even as I watched Dad feed the weak languid young creature, I suddenly realized in my heart that he was dying before my eyes. No amount of food would ever restore him. His vacant eyes plainly spoke to the fact that he had despairingly relinquished the will to live. He wasn't fighting death. I wept over that black soft mass of skin and bones; though siblings and I think even a parent assured me that he would be all right, my heart spoke differently. Checking his box before the wood stove ten minutes later, I found to my torment that my heart had not played me false.
Furiously, I berated myself for his death. I had not watched the kid feeding. True, I was milking three - four does during feeding time, but I ought to have questioned, checked up on the amount each kid received instead of trusting to my siblings, since I was barn manager after all. I promised myself that as far as in me lay, I would never again be the cause of needless, pointless death to one of the creatures God had entrusted to my care. When you are responsible for the death of a little creature whom you ought to have cared for, your heart is twisted in such agony, such remorse, such a thirst for a second chance. I longed to scream, to plead for a second chance, a new opportunity: my Lord told me I was forgiven but my heart taunted, mocked, tortured and condemned me, saying that there was no forgiveness for refusing the instruction of my conscience to the point that a baby died. Eventually, I pushed this memory aside, archived it for future reference in a nice dark skeleton closet along with two box turtles I had also killed by my neglect and a giant rabbit whom I ought to have cared for better.
Now I helplessly see the same scene replayed - with a different twist.
I'm exhausted. I came home hoping to be able to relax, to enjoy the Seder with my Grandparents, cousin and Stuckwisches before plunging into the 8 plus essays that I have to complete over the course of the next three weeks. But God arranged things differently. I don't know why. I'm almost glad that I don't. Trust is painful, yet bittersweet.
As soon as I dumped my school work in my room, Anna yelled that Raspberrie, not Violet was in active labor - already pushing in fact.
Throwing on some older clothes, I incredulously headed down only to find that my sister was correct. But Raspberrie never delivers early and this was a whole week before her due date! Another odd thing was that her udder hadn't yet filled enough for the twins I was expecting from her. Never-the-less, there was no denying that at least one birth was imminent. I envisioned showing delighted young Stuckwisches a model delivery, complete with wild, "ma-ing", rambunctious kids struggling to their feet and walking with in a few minutes of delivery, a perky, motherly mother mothering her kids, and lots of soft fluffy fun.
We dutifully gave Raspberrie sugar water to ward of Ketosis, then I settled down to wait for the appearance of head, hoof, or membrane. I should have known that something was not right. Raspberrie labored at least 2 hours. Down, push, up again, walk some, lie down, push a few minutes, walk again, squat. Clearly she was having trouble positioning the kids for delivery. Though bright eyed when standing, after each hard push she would curl her neck, close her eyes and rest her head against her shoulder to shut out the world for a few moments before rising and beginning again.
She finally presented a bag, then a hoof, then a head. (you can tell it's a head if you can feel teeth!) The wee one arrived at the same time as Stuckwisches. But he (later we realized it was a she) felt extremely limp. No maaa's no struggling. No forceful coughs. Nothing. Just an extremely small blinking little doeling.
We dried her off, suctioned her nose and mouth and introduced her to Monica, Frederick and the rest of the onlookers. At Monica's suggestion, we tentatively christened her "Cherry".
We waited for another. I again should have known something was terribly wrong by looking at the dark color and thick consistency of the fluid that followed. I found myself pulling the head and leg of another kid - but something felt just totally wrong with this kid. I didn't have time too think about it, but in that split second, I remember realizing that the tiny tongue was cold and the muscles were flabby. The next second, I had a large, wet dishrag of a buckling wrapped in a thick sac in my hands. I tried to to dry him, but realized he didn't seem to be breathing. Frantically, I poked the suction in his nose: it filled with fluid. Looking up for another split second, I took in the sight of a third tiny still-born twin. It shook me. Things like that happen if you've raised goats long enough but this cast sudden shadow of fear across my heart for the kid I was attempting to dry. I'm not sure what I said then, but my senses froze. Numbly, yet frantically I called to Mom that he wasn't breathing. She denied it then took the kid.
I knew. She didn't have to try to fool me. No heartbeat either.
Sobs choked me. I don't know why. Maybe it has something to do with getting to bed at 2:30 that morning and almost missing class. I'm ashamed of myself. Not ashamed of crying - No! there is a time for that. I'm ashamed of putting the burden of my own grief on the young children observing. I should have been the helper for them, not the first pipe to spring a leak. I dimly remember Michael gingerly patting me on the back, Mom ordering me to go take a shower, me imploring her not to throw the kid away, then running trembling up the muddy hill to the house. Nikolai standing on the porch innocently inquired whether it was done. "Yes, it's done," I told him.
Mom's shower remedy worked. The Seder was great as usual. The Feast was superb, but I felt like my fingers were lead. My brain kind of froze. The news that I've been accepted into Hope College stunned and excited me for a bit, but then I remembered with fear the way the milk had dribbled into Cherry's limp mouth while Snap fed her just before we joined the Seder gathering.
That same dribble, dribble had been the death of P.J. "Tube feeding" was in my mind as soon as the last guests had left. Karen stayed and helped Mom with the dishes, though she didn't have to do that - God bless her!
Mom jumped to the possibility of Clamydia: I tend to agree with her. Chery received a shot of Bo-Se and Oxytetracycline.
I ran over to our neighbors and got a feeding tube. After Elle finally abandoned attempts to put milk into the tiny doe with a bottle, Dad gave two syringes full of milk through the feeding tube.
But now Chery is limply coughing. She's in a plastic box in the goat kitchen so we can repeat feeding at 2am. I pray that she makes it through the night.
Even though I know she'll be eaten when she grows up anyway, my heart refuses to accept her death as a baby.
I know Karen and Elle both said "No Blogging tonight", but something tells me that I need to write this down, to record it before I forget. Something tells me that I'll need it later. That it's important - even though I'm exhausted.
O Lord forgive my sins. In your mercy, as it is your will, curb sin's effect on creation. Please, please renew the life of this tiny creature because you made and care for it.
I've seen this limpness, this weakness, this poor edematic condition, the weak, gasping breaths and 'ma s' once before and the memory cuts my heart like a knife - ten minutes after that, I held a lifeless kid in my arms.
That death was the result of both genetic defect and sheer carelessness. The kid had been born deformed and weak, folded pasterns and an overshot jaw set in an enlarged skull. We had named him P. J - 'Prince Jumbo' - because of his 'gi-normous' size and mentally retarded movements. Unfortunately, in the scramble to feed all the other kids my youngest siblings overlooked the fact that P. J wasn't actually drinking his milk. Because of his overshot jaw, the milk flowed out of the bottle and trickled down his neck, not down his throat. By the time the caprine oversight noticed his problem , four days of dehydration had taken its toll and he was a limp, emanciated, recumbent mass gasping for air and almost comatose. Immediately Dad produced the tube and we trickled the vital milk down his dry, starving throat. But even as I watched Dad feed the weak languid young creature, I suddenly realized in my heart that he was dying before my eyes. No amount of food would ever restore him. His vacant eyes plainly spoke to the fact that he had despairingly relinquished the will to live. He wasn't fighting death. I wept over that black soft mass of skin and bones; though siblings and I think even a parent assured me that he would be all right, my heart spoke differently. Checking his box before the wood stove ten minutes later, I found to my torment that my heart had not played me false.
Furiously, I berated myself for his death. I had not watched the kid feeding. True, I was milking three - four does during feeding time, but I ought to have questioned, checked up on the amount each kid received instead of trusting to my siblings, since I was barn manager after all. I promised myself that as far as in me lay, I would never again be the cause of needless, pointless death to one of the creatures God had entrusted to my care. When you are responsible for the death of a little creature whom you ought to have cared for, your heart is twisted in such agony, such remorse, such a thirst for a second chance. I longed to scream, to plead for a second chance, a new opportunity: my Lord told me I was forgiven but my heart taunted, mocked, tortured and condemned me, saying that there was no forgiveness for refusing the instruction of my conscience to the point that a baby died. Eventually, I pushed this memory aside, archived it for future reference in a nice dark skeleton closet along with two box turtles I had also killed by my neglect and a giant rabbit whom I ought to have cared for better.
Now I helplessly see the same scene replayed - with a different twist.
I'm exhausted. I came home hoping to be able to relax, to enjoy the Seder with my Grandparents, cousin and Stuckwisches before plunging into the 8 plus essays that I have to complete over the course of the next three weeks. But God arranged things differently. I don't know why. I'm almost glad that I don't. Trust is painful, yet bittersweet.
As soon as I dumped my school work in my room, Anna yelled that Raspberrie, not Violet was in active labor - already pushing in fact.
Throwing on some older clothes, I incredulously headed down only to find that my sister was correct. But Raspberrie never delivers early and this was a whole week before her due date! Another odd thing was that her udder hadn't yet filled enough for the twins I was expecting from her. Never-the-less, there was no denying that at least one birth was imminent. I envisioned showing delighted young Stuckwisches a model delivery, complete with wild, "ma-ing", rambunctious kids struggling to their feet and walking with in a few minutes of delivery, a perky, motherly mother mothering her kids, and lots of soft fluffy fun.
We dutifully gave Raspberrie sugar water to ward of Ketosis, then I settled down to wait for the appearance of head, hoof, or membrane. I should have known that something was not right. Raspberrie labored at least 2 hours. Down, push, up again, walk some, lie down, push a few minutes, walk again, squat. Clearly she was having trouble positioning the kids for delivery. Though bright eyed when standing, after each hard push she would curl her neck, close her eyes and rest her head against her shoulder to shut out the world for a few moments before rising and beginning again.
She finally presented a bag, then a hoof, then a head. (you can tell it's a head if you can feel teeth!) The wee one arrived at the same time as Stuckwisches. But he (later we realized it was a she) felt extremely limp. No maaa's no struggling. No forceful coughs. Nothing. Just an extremely small blinking little doeling.
We dried her off, suctioned her nose and mouth and introduced her to Monica, Frederick and the rest of the onlookers. At Monica's suggestion, we tentatively christened her "Cherry".
We waited for another. I again should have known something was terribly wrong by looking at the dark color and thick consistency of the fluid that followed. I found myself pulling the head and leg of another kid - but something felt just totally wrong with this kid. I didn't have time too think about it, but in that split second, I remember realizing that the tiny tongue was cold and the muscles were flabby. The next second, I had a large, wet dishrag of a buckling wrapped in a thick sac in my hands. I tried to to dry him, but realized he didn't seem to be breathing. Frantically, I poked the suction in his nose: it filled with fluid. Looking up for another split second, I took in the sight of a third tiny still-born twin. It shook me. Things like that happen if you've raised goats long enough but this cast sudden shadow of fear across my heart for the kid I was attempting to dry. I'm not sure what I said then, but my senses froze. Numbly, yet frantically I called to Mom that he wasn't breathing. She denied it then took the kid.
I knew. She didn't have to try to fool me. No heartbeat either.
Sobs choked me. I don't know why. Maybe it has something to do with getting to bed at 2:30 that morning and almost missing class. I'm ashamed of myself. Not ashamed of crying - No! there is a time for that. I'm ashamed of putting the burden of my own grief on the young children observing. I should have been the helper for them, not the first pipe to spring a leak. I dimly remember Michael gingerly patting me on the back, Mom ordering me to go take a shower, me imploring her not to throw the kid away, then running trembling up the muddy hill to the house. Nikolai standing on the porch innocently inquired whether it was done. "Yes, it's done," I told him.
Mom's shower remedy worked. The Seder was great as usual. The Feast was superb, but I felt like my fingers were lead. My brain kind of froze. The news that I've been accepted into Hope College stunned and excited me for a bit, but then I remembered with fear the way the milk had dribbled into Cherry's limp mouth while Snap fed her just before we joined the Seder gathering.
That same dribble, dribble had been the death of P.J. "Tube feeding" was in my mind as soon as the last guests had left. Karen stayed and helped Mom with the dishes, though she didn't have to do that - God bless her!
Mom jumped to the possibility of Clamydia: I tend to agree with her. Chery received a shot of Bo-Se and Oxytetracycline.
I ran over to our neighbors and got a feeding tube. After Elle finally abandoned attempts to put milk into the tiny doe with a bottle, Dad gave two syringes full of milk through the feeding tube.
But now Chery is limply coughing. She's in a plastic box in the goat kitchen so we can repeat feeding at 2am. I pray that she makes it through the night.
Even though I know she'll be eaten when she grows up anyway, my heart refuses to accept her death as a baby.
I know Karen and Elle both said "No Blogging tonight", but something tells me that I need to write this down, to record it before I forget. Something tells me that I'll need it later. That it's important - even though I'm exhausted.
O Lord forgive my sins. In your mercy, as it is your will, curb sin's effect on creation. Please, please renew the life of this tiny creature because you made and care for it.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
My Own Reason or Strength!
If I cannot by my own reason or strength believe in Jesus Christ my Lord or come to him, then how DARE I imagine that I can convince others to believe by my own reason or strength?
No wonder my friends have been puzzled! I have truly contradicted myself.
From now on, no more arguements! Unless of course, they are not self provoked. Truthquestioner needs to learn more humility. Today's lesson has put a few stripes on the back of the proud ego, but that pride has not yet been crushed. It still yearns to flaunt itself, to corrupt my confession of faith, to haughtily force God's Word upon others as if that were how God really works!
I don't really know what to do now. I can't take all the words of month's worth of conversation back into my mouth.
But I do know that Christ always made a good Confession and all that He has is mine. Even though my attitude of the past months stank, "there is therefore now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus."
I pray that God will use my poor confession for his purpose even though it is riddled with my own sin.
Relying on my own reason and strength is MISERABLE! But how do I avoid this trap?
No wonder my friends have been puzzled! I have truly contradicted myself.
From now on, no more arguements! Unless of course, they are not self provoked. Truthquestioner needs to learn more humility. Today's lesson has put a few stripes on the back of the proud ego, but that pride has not yet been crushed. It still yearns to flaunt itself, to corrupt my confession of faith, to haughtily force God's Word upon others as if that were how God really works!
I don't really know what to do now. I can't take all the words of month's worth of conversation back into my mouth.
But I do know that Christ always made a good Confession and all that He has is mine. Even though my attitude of the past months stank, "there is therefore now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus."
I pray that God will use my poor confession for his purpose even though it is riddled with my own sin.
Relying on my own reason and strength is MISERABLE! But how do I avoid this trap?
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Talking to myself
Why? Why? WHY?
Oh Why don't I do the good I want to do? Why do I keep doing the evil I don't want to do? Why, when I actually do do good things, do I find myself acting on selfish motives with impure, disgusting thoughts? Let me just self examine and talk to myself here for a while. I need to actually read my own thoughts.
My heart is rotten! "Filsthsy" as Gollum says. I hate my neighbor, I speak evil of him, I hurt his reputation, I care nothing for his needs, I dishonor authorities, I am lustful, I despise the good things I've been given and crave my neighbor's stuff, I decieve and try to steal away my neighbor's friends. I fear, love and trust myself and other people and things more than my Creator, I dishonor his name, fail to confess God's Word, call upon other things in trouble and praise and give thanks to myself. I despise preaching; no way do I gladly hear and learn God's Word when there is something more interesting to do!
I love myself, yet I hate myself. I haven't been loving to my sister. I've pushed her out of my life. She becomes angry with me for good reasons. Like an idiot, I fight back, become angry. At the same time I cringe because I know she is right. I'm wrong again, always wrong.
So I try. I try harder. Work harder, converse more pleasantly, paste that fake ugly smile onto my fake sinful face - make it look so innocent. "Nassty" Try to be helpful and kind while in my heart I despise the people I serve. What a hypocrite!
The harder I try, the more sickened I become by myself. Even now, here I am gutting myself, frantically trying to expose all that infected sinful sore while I ought to be tucking my sister in bed, doing devotions with her, singing to her, something... Christ hasn't given me a vocation to blog. He has commanded me to care for my family, for my siblings. To do my work faithfully (another thing I should be doing).
What can I do to make things right? What can I do? I'm frantically scrambling to somehow make myself clean of all this repulsive gunk.
Maybe that is the problem. I can't do anything to cleanse myself. Duh! Why am I even trying? I just spent the afternoon debating that forgiveness and salvation are Christ's work alone, and here I am practicing the opposite of what I profess.
Lord, have mercy on me a sinner!
I do not understand my own actions. For I do not do what I want, but I do the very thing I hate. ....For I know that nothing good dwells in me that is in my flesh. For I have the desire to do what is right, but not the ability to carry it out. For I do not do the good I want, but the evil I do not want is what I keep on doing. .....So I find it to be a law that when I want to do right, evil lies close at hand....Wretched man that I am! Who will deliver me from this body of death? Thanks be to God through Jesus Christ our Lord!
.....There is therefore now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus. For the law of the Spirit of life has set you free in Christ Jesus from the Law of sin and death. For God has done what the law, weakened by the flesh, could not do. By sending his own Son in the likeness of sinful flesh and for sin, he condemned sin in the flesh, in order that the righteous requirement of the law might be fulfilled in us........ (Rom chapter 7)
But if we thus examine ourselves, we shall find nothing in us but sin and death from which we cannot set ourselves free. There fore our Lord Jesus Christ has had mercy on us and for us and for our deliverance has suffered death and all that we by our sins have deserved. And that we should all the more confidently believe this and be strengthened by our faith in fervent obedience to his holy will, he has instituted the holy sacrament of his supper in which he feeds us with his body and gives us to drink of blood.
I don't usually self-medicate, but this time it turned out pretty well! I'm hearing three voices ringing in my ears now. The first is Dr. Just talking about melancholly. The second is Pr. Dreyer's voice saying, "Get over yourself, Sarah." (ie: stop thinking about earning your forgiveness. Don't focus on you) The third comforting voice is Pr. Stuckwisch: "Do not call unclean what God has made clean. Christ has forgiven you so you are clean."
Man! That's wonderful! I hope whoever reads this doesn't think that I've completely lost my mind. In fact, I do believe that I've found it again.
Praise God!
Oh Why don't I do the good I want to do? Why do I keep doing the evil I don't want to do? Why, when I actually do do good things, do I find myself acting on selfish motives with impure, disgusting thoughts? Let me just self examine and talk to myself here for a while. I need to actually read my own thoughts.
My heart is rotten! "Filsthsy" as Gollum says. I hate my neighbor, I speak evil of him, I hurt his reputation, I care nothing for his needs, I dishonor authorities, I am lustful, I despise the good things I've been given and crave my neighbor's stuff, I decieve and try to steal away my neighbor's friends. I fear, love and trust myself and other people and things more than my Creator, I dishonor his name, fail to confess God's Word, call upon other things in trouble and praise and give thanks to myself. I despise preaching; no way do I gladly hear and learn God's Word when there is something more interesting to do!
I love myself, yet I hate myself. I haven't been loving to my sister. I've pushed her out of my life. She becomes angry with me for good reasons. Like an idiot, I fight back, become angry. At the same time I cringe because I know she is right. I'm wrong again, always wrong.
So I try. I try harder. Work harder, converse more pleasantly, paste that fake ugly smile onto my fake sinful face - make it look so innocent. "Nassty" Try to be helpful and kind while in my heart I despise the people I serve. What a hypocrite!
The harder I try, the more sickened I become by myself. Even now, here I am gutting myself, frantically trying to expose all that infected sinful sore while I ought to be tucking my sister in bed, doing devotions with her, singing to her, something... Christ hasn't given me a vocation to blog. He has commanded me to care for my family, for my siblings. To do my work faithfully (another thing I should be doing).
What can I do to make things right? What can I do? I'm frantically scrambling to somehow make myself clean of all this repulsive gunk.
Maybe that is the problem. I can't do anything to cleanse myself. Duh! Why am I even trying? I just spent the afternoon debating that forgiveness and salvation are Christ's work alone, and here I am practicing the opposite of what I profess.
Lord, have mercy on me a sinner!
I do not understand my own actions. For I do not do what I want, but I do the very thing I hate. ....For I know that nothing good dwells in me that is in my flesh. For I have the desire to do what is right, but not the ability to carry it out. For I do not do the good I want, but the evil I do not want is what I keep on doing. .....So I find it to be a law that when I want to do right, evil lies close at hand....Wretched man that I am! Who will deliver me from this body of death? Thanks be to God through Jesus Christ our Lord!
.....There is therefore now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus. For the law of the Spirit of life has set you free in Christ Jesus from the Law of sin and death. For God has done what the law, weakened by the flesh, could not do. By sending his own Son in the likeness of sinful flesh and for sin, he condemned sin in the flesh, in order that the righteous requirement of the law might be fulfilled in us........ (Rom chapter 7)
But if we thus examine ourselves, we shall find nothing in us but sin and death from which we cannot set ourselves free. There fore our Lord Jesus Christ has had mercy on us and for us and for our deliverance has suffered death and all that we by our sins have deserved. And that we should all the more confidently believe this and be strengthened by our faith in fervent obedience to his holy will, he has instituted the holy sacrament of his supper in which he feeds us with his body and gives us to drink of blood.
I don't usually self-medicate, but this time it turned out pretty well! I'm hearing three voices ringing in my ears now. The first is Dr. Just talking about melancholly. The second is Pr. Dreyer's voice saying, "Get over yourself, Sarah." (ie: stop thinking about earning your forgiveness. Don't focus on you) The third comforting voice is Pr. Stuckwisch: "Do not call unclean what God has made clean. Christ has forgiven you so you are clean."
Man! That's wonderful! I hope whoever reads this doesn't think that I've completely lost my mind. In fact, I do believe that I've found it again.
Praise God!
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
When you want something really badly.
How do you tell somebody that you really want what only they can give you, when you know that in order to give it to you, they'll have to do a lot more work? I can't figure out how to communicate in this circumstance. I'm afraid to ask, for fear of refusal. I'm afraid to not ask, for fear of never receiving. I'm scared that what I say won't express what I really want to communicate. I'm tormented by not knowing what the other person thinks about what I have said. It's very uncomfortable. This isn't the first time, nor the first person with whom I've had such an interaction. In fact, I seem to have this problem almost every day, though more crucial matters hang on certain conversations.
Maybe the problem is my own sinful sense of self image. I'm acutely conscious of my own pride and arrogance, so I guiltily try to compensate for it by striving for humility in my interactions. But all that that gives is a sense of hypocrisy and a wondering about whether other people percieve this hypocrisy.
I don't think I can stand this any longer...I guess I'll go to bed and pray for both "daily bread" and forgiveness. There sure isn't any other Person I can entreat for that which I really yearn for most heartily.
Maybe the problem is my own sinful sense of self image. I'm acutely conscious of my own pride and arrogance, so I guiltily try to compensate for it by striving for humility in my interactions. But all that that gives is a sense of hypocrisy and a wondering about whether other people percieve this hypocrisy.
I don't think I can stand this any longer...I guess I'll go to bed and pray for both "daily bread" and forgiveness. There sure isn't any other Person I can entreat for that which I really yearn for most heartily.
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