Hot Water, Anyone?

Next time you find yourself in hot water, you might ask, “God, is this my time to be a tea bag?”


© Marek Uliasz 2006

Okay, I know this has probably never happened to any of you (well, of course not), but let me ask, anyway: Have you ever forgotten to pay a bill? I mean, like really forgotten? Like big time forgotten? Like “they” turned off one of your utilities because you forgot to pay the bill? (And, yes, I know it takes real effort because of the many notices that come in the mail -- and now E-mail, even -- but, trust me, it can be done!)

I once accidentally allowed the gas at Casa St. Michael to be shut off. (Note the word accidentally – no one actually plans to do such a thing.) As I explained to the good folks at Entex, “I was the only person in hot water at my house last night!”

To make a long story short, at that time an Entex office was located in La Porte (where I was teaching at the high school), so that fact, combined with the wonderful concept of “teacher conference periods,” enabled me to get the gas turned back on before the day was out. (I love small towns!) However, let me also say that the “situation” did cause me to take a long hard look at my bill-paying system, or rather, my need for one. I am also proud to say that I have not had a utility disconnected since. (Okay, so I’m not counting the telephone, but that’s another story.)

Even if you are not as disorganized and absent-minded as I am, chances are you, too, find yourself in hot water, so to speak, every once in a while. How do you react when that happens? Do you boil over or steep? If I’m honest, I have to admit that I’ve done both. I also have to say that boiling over creates one big mess while steeping creates refreshment. (Comfort in a cup!)

When we read through the Old Testament (what some readers call The Old Covenant), we see that from time to time, God allowed His people, the Israelites, to get themselves into hot water. Often times, Israel chose to boil over, leaving itself scorched and barren. I hope we can look at Israel ‘s example and learn from their poor choices. God doesn’t want our mistakes to leave us permanently parched or dried out. God ’s desire for us always is to allow our hot-water-situations to bring about change in our lives: Repentance, renewal, and refreshment. A powerful brew, don’t you agree?

The next time you find yourself in hot water, ask yourself what you want to come out of that situation. As for me, I’m choose to “pay up” and then “keep the change.” Repentance. Renewal. Refreshment. Yup, it’s a powerful brew – life giving, in fact, if we choose to drink up.

Letters and Words

Whew! It's been one of those runnin' crazy kind of weeks, and my writing has consisted primarily of making comments on student papers . . . time to get grades entered, uploaded, and exported for progress reports . . . and then on to district benchmark testing . . . Yippee!

Not having time to really write only reminds me of how much I love words and miss them when I don't have time to play with them. (Oldest Daughter shares this love of letters with with me and gave me one of those adorable antique typewriter key bracelets you can find on Etsy.) I say, play, but as any speaking, reading, or hearing person can attest, words are powerful things. And once they're out there . . . well, they're out there. One can forgive the occasional careless word and even -- with Supernatural help -- those thought-out, loaded-weapon words hurled with skillful aim, but it's the forgetting that's hard, if not outright impossible. Words, regardless of how or why they were spoken, linger long after arriving at their intended destination.

It was thinking about words that caused me to pull up this post from last year . . .

Mama Bug. Mama Bear. Mama Muz. Muz. Rev. Queen. Queenie. Pam'la. Pammy.

Just a few of the names I readily answer to, along with Jaja ("Grandmother" in Runyankore, a southwestern Ugandan dialect), Senga ("Auntie" in the previously mentioned language), Preacher Woman, Booger. (Don't ask.)

When I worked construction, the field engineers dubbed me Space Bandit. (Those guys knew I was blonde before I was.) My youngest daughter sometimes calls me Pammster Hamster, and my father used to refer to me as Daddy's Mess (which he acknowledged as a reflection on his parenting skills rather than on me).

Still, I don't suffer from multi-personality disorder. Maybe because I once read an Indian proverb that said, "The child with many names is much loved," and I guess I believed it. Probably, too, because my own "many names" have always made me feel loved. Even Daddy's Mess and Booger. (I told you not to ask.)

In my head, each name brings with it a certain inflection, a tone -- a memory chip, if you will -- that evokes the faces and voices of people who've made me laugh, cry, giggle, sometimes raise my own voice, or sometimes just grin a little.

I don't know if no one ever really called me anything bad or if my sanguine brain just refuses to remember. I mean, I do recall the night a man jumped out of his little red sports car at a stoplight and raged, "Bitch!" directly at me because he'd finally passed and pulled in front of the truck he thought I was driving too slow. And I know "the girl with the big boobs" was an all-to0-common description of me in high school by the guys who couldn't remember the new girl's name. Still, all in all, I've never been verbally tattooed with something ugly enough, often enough, to have needed emotional laser treatment to have it removed.

Never been repeatedly called Bitch, as if it were my name.

Or Stupid.

Or Nigger.

Nigger Lover.

Cow.

Wetback.

Slut

Raghead.

Worthless Pig.

Hurts to even write those words, but I know that there are those who live with those names daily -- or have lived with them so long that they still hear them everyday, even when there's no one around any longer to spew them. They are the walking wounded among us. Some are still oozing from open sores, some hemorrhaging from gaping holes. For others, the tourniquet is temporarily tightened while awaiting surgery yet to be scheduled.

Those of us who bear smooth skin, those who are unmarked those kinds of scars, or who perhaps do bear the marks and memories of past battles but now walk the road of healing and recovery, must choose to to look to our left and to our right for those who are not yet with us. We must train our eyes to see those who stand, dazed, just off the path, those who are waiting for someone to stop and pour the oil and wine over their wounds, bind them up, and then gently lead and guide them to a place of sanctuary. A place where old names are replaced with new ones. Beloved. Precious. Mine.

And we must choose also to stop the hurling of hatred where we are able. We must not look the other way when weapons of words are used against those who are vulnerable to such attacks.

Sound lofty and noble?

Good for a "devotional" thought but hard to put into practical practice?

Not at all. How about we start by stopping the forwarding of E-mails that flail against the short-comings -- real or imagined -- of one group or another? That pit one group against another?

How about refusing to listen to jokes that depend on the humiliation or stereo-typing of one ethnic group or another for their "punch"?

How about correcting the kid in the grocery store who slurs another kid or group of people, even when we're not that kid's parent and not a certified teacher? (We teachers already take license to correct kids everywhere, in and out of the classroom. You should try it; it's actually quite fun.)

How about being sensitive to the inferences we make in front of our children (and grandchildren) about those who differ from us.

How about refusing to publicly choose a political party for Jesus? (Believe it or not, I happen to know some fine folks in each party.)

Little things, people. Little things. But we can all start somewhere. One word at a time.

Remember: Beloved. Precious. Mine.

Loving you for who you are,

Pamm

PS I love that the bracelet from Oldest Daughter has the "SHIFT" key as its centerpiece. It's a visible reminder that I often need to "shift" my thoughts before I open my mouth.

Ya-hoo!

In the [stolen from her blog] words of Middle Daughter . . .

For 56 years, Houstonians have celebrated Go Texan Day, and this year is no different!

The Friday before the Rodeo kicks off each year, every single person in the Greater Houston area is encouraged to pull out their finest Western apparel to get in the rodeo spirit.

Even preschoolers. (As evidenced by Buckaroo Boogie Bear in the above pic.)

Even Baby Daughters. (Note the above pic of her most recent lunch-hour purchase.)

Even Mamas . . . well, not so much. When I tried to put on my cute pointy-toed cowboy boot-like mules this morning, I was faced with one of those hard girly-decisions: Do I want to look cute or do I want to walk?

Of course, any other time, I would've picked looking cute, hands down. (Duh! Why do you think I said it was a "girly-decision"!) But slipping into those cute -- dare I say it, sexy, even -- stacked heels for the first time since last year's Accident, I realized that now it really isn't a ha-ha question anymore. It was literally look cute (I guess on a skateboard or in a roll-y chair or or somethin') or walk.

Dang it.

Oh, well, I've always been more of a "Miss Kitty" kind of western gal than an "Annie Oakley" one, so despite my definitely un-sexy, un-Tex-y footwear, I did keep on my big ol' Lone-Star-State-size dangly earrings, my jeans, and favorite peasant blouse and headed off to the school house wearing able-to-walk-in shoes.

And tomorrow, while some of you bloggin' sistas are decorating for spring, I'll be dressing the family room at Casa St. Michael in its finest western wear, complete with Texas flag. (Maybe I'll take some pics to post.)

Ahhhh, Texans . . . it's fun to be us!

Enjoy the weekend, wherever you are!

Grins and ya-hoos!

Pamm

What about the change?

I never cease to be amazed by the things perfectly normal-looking people will ride around in public spouting on the backsides of their cars. I've seen women happily bestowing a particular title on themselves through the adhesive and paper stuck to the bumpers of their cars that they would probably slap someone else for calling them to their face. ("B**CH on Wheels!" Have you seen that one?)

While most of us understand, especially these days, the parent who proclaims, "Proud Parent of a Marine [Sailor, etc.]," don't you kind of wonder about the parent whose trunk proudly proclaims, "My kid can beat up your honor student"?

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And do you really want to be driving through police-patrolled streets with a bumper sticker that reads, "I Love Weed!"?

Then, you've got to wish you were the person who came up with the idea of marketing those yellow ribbon magnetic stickers. Whoa! (Talk about hitting the jackpot.)

Of course, there's that little fish, too, that many of us sport just below or above the name of our car dealership's logo. The ICHTHUS. (That symbol that proclaims to the heathon we just passed that we're in such a hurry because we're late for choir practice at church!) You can get them in silver tone or gold tone, with Greek letters on the inside or without, with "Jesus" on the inside, or with "TRUTH" in all caps. (You can even get a "TRUTH" fish gobbling up a little two-legged "DARWIN" fish.)

Actually, I kind of like seeing fishes on the backs of cars. It makes think that maybe if I broke down on the side of the road, some nice fish-car person would see the fish on MY car and stop to help me. I haven't had to test this, but that's what I like to think would happen, anyway. So, I notice the fishes on the backs of cars and smile at my would-be rescuers on the road.

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A couple of weeks ago, I saw a fish that I'd never seen before. On my way to work one morning, I noticed from a distance the outline of that little fish on the car stopped at the traffic light ahead. As usual, I thought to myself, "Awwww, how nice! If for some reason I stall out at that intersection, I could honk my horn and there'd be a nice fish-car person to help me!" (Yes, I admit it -- I am a little goofy, or, at the least, I do think a little differently from most people.)
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As I got closer, however, I felt kind of sick. Inside the familiar Ichthus shape were the letters "P O R N." I just sat there kind of stunned. (If that kind of fish-person stopped to render aid in a crisis, would I have to take off my clothes?) I have to admit that after feeling a split second of disappointment, I felt ticked (Gee, I hope this is not becoming a theme with me!) How dare this person take OUR symbol and turn it into something ugly like that! How dare they desecrate a Christian symbol like that! Why, if someone did that with a Star-of-David or a crescent moon, the ACLU or Anti-defamation League or SOMEBODY would be screaming bloody murder -- nobody would stand for such a thing!

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Now I ranted on like that to myself for a few minutes until another thought occurred to me: How often has someone looked at me from a distance and seen what they perceived to be the familiar outline of something Christian only to be seriously disappointed as they got closer?

Talk about a traffic jam -- man, that stopped me dead in my tracks.

The lyrics to Steven Curtis Chapman's song "The Change" began to run through my head:

"Well, I got myself a T-shirt that

says what I believe.

I got letters on my bracelet to serve as my ID.

I got the necklace and the key chain,

and almost everything a good Christian needs.

I got the little Bible magnets

on my refrigerator door,

and a welcome mat to bless you

before you walk across my floor.

I got a Jesus bumper sticker

and the outline of a fish stuck on my car.

And even though this stuff's all well and good,

I cannot help but ask myself:

‘What about the change?

'What about the difference?

'What about the grace?

'What about forgiveness?

'What about a life that's showing

I'M UNDERGOING THE CHANGE?'"

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(The Speechless album, 1999)
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Maybe I need to get a bumper sticker that says, "Be patient, I'm undergoing 'The Change'." (Well, as a woman of a certain age, maybe not.) [But,] for sure, I don't want to have people disappointed in me and what they find when they get up-close and personal.
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My now-moved-mentor and brotha-friend tells me quite frequently, "All the time, Pamm. Everywhere." He started this after hearing more than one story of my being out and about somewhere and having someone I didn't know come up and tell me they knew me from hearing me speak or teach somewhere or seeing me at church or at some such event. (I'm not really famous or anything like that, I'm just a big woman and pretty loud, so people tend to remember me if we were anywhere in the same building together.) I would always end such anecdotes with, "Man, I am SO glad I was behaving!" to which Robert began to reply, "Pamm, I keep telling you that you have to behave ALL the time, EVERYWHERE."

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It's true because we don't know who is watching us or when or even why. But one thing I do know is that when they are watching me, even if they don't yet know who He is, I want them to see the Spirit at work and living inside of an honest-to-God, real-live Christ-follower. A Christ-follower who’s perhaps a little rough around the edges (and maybe even sometimes forgets to include the EGGS), but solid nonetheless and submitting, moment by moment, to her Maker's buffing and polishing.

mm

All the time. Everywhere. Making choices, and undergoing the change.

mm

Pamm

EGGS! I left out the EGGS!

Photo from Southern Living magazine

Okay, I know I already shocked some of you earlier this week when I confessed that I have one or two vices . . . so, hold on, I'm about to do it again . . . are you ready? I'VE BEEN FEELIN' MEAN AND DOWNRIGHT HATEFUL THIS WEEK!

Okay, there it is. I've said it. I know ya'll probably can't relate one little bit, but I just had to come clean. Yup. I've been feelin' mean and hateful and downright UNSPIRITUAL! (No, you don't need to remind me that the name of this blog is Texas PREACHER Woman. Just add a touch more guilt to the whole mess.)

It all started on Valentine's Day. (Yes, Valentine's Day. Ugh.) The details aren't really important at this point (although, they sure as heck were at that moment), but suffice it to say that St. Michael and I had a . . . er, slight difference of opinion (yeah, that sounds good) on something. Things were said. Things were said back. Nothing really settled, no agreement arrived at. Just stomped-on "feelers" and bruised egos instead of epiphanies and lightbulb moments to show for all of the words thrown around.

Remember the scene in Kevin Costner's Robinhood: Prince of Thieves, where in a moment of frustration over not getting his way, the evil Sheriff of Nottingham snarls, "Cancel Christmas!"? Well, I cancelled church. Okay, I didn't exactly cancel church, but I did decide not to go. Yup. that's right, I sent word for my Bible study to meet with another class, and I stayed home. (I wasn't feeling very Bible-teacherly, and I dont' play church.) So I sulked. And pouted. And then I stewed. That's right, without passing Go, I went straight from being sad and hurt to being mad and curt. (My family knows that ANY time I get quiet, something's wrong -- I must be sad, sick, or just totally ticked off -- 'cause I'm just not quiet by nature.)

The bad thing is that if I were honest with myself, this was not really an all or nothing case. Both St. Michael and I were a little "off," but since he hadn't seemed moved any in my direction, I certainly wasn't going to cross over the center line in any effort to go more than "my fair share," either. At least not mentally. Physically was a different story.

Physically (literally in my flesh), as soon as he left for church (obviously he wasn't feeling as unspiritual as I was), I started moving around the house, taking care of a few things that he thought I'd let lapse. While I was in the kitchen mumbling to myself, "Gee, some Valentine's Day this is . . . ", I remembered that Baby Daughter had said a few days earlier that she sure would like some of my homemade oatmeal muffins sometime soon.

Oatmeal muffins! In my heart-shaped muffins pan! Now that was just the thing I needed to do to salvage some semblance of Valentine-y-ness. Baby Daughter would love that! In fact, I even doubled the recipe so she could have muffins all week long.

Imagine my mood when I opened the oven door the required twenty-five minutes later only to find double the MESS: Molten-lava-like, overly-toasted maple-y-smelling GOO bubbling out of the cute hollowed-out heart shapes and over onto the tops of all three muffin tins, on both racks, and, yes, even onto the bottom of the oven. (Remember, I've already told you I was feeling armed and dangerous.)

Baby Daughter coming down the stairs, through the den, and into the kitchen at just this moment: Mom! What are you burning?

Whiny, pitiful Mom on the verge of tears: I was making you some oatmeal muffins, and something must've gone wrong . . . (Gee, y'think?)

Baby Daughter: Awwww, Mom . . . thank you!

Whiny, pitiful Mom even closer to going over the edge: But, look, they're all ruined.

Fortunately, BD started to laugh and said just the right thing: Well, you know it's the thought that counts.

And then I started to laugh, too. (Okay, I kinda cried and laughed at the same time.)

Later, as Baby Daughter scraped the goo off the muffin tins (she insisted), I got my recipe back out to see where I might possibly have missed a step.

Eggs! I left out the eggs!

I marveled at the difference one simple ingredient made. Who would've thought? And then Brother Paul's words flashed into my brain big as the neon signs in a Texas ice house:

"If I have . . . but have not love,

I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal.

"If I have . . . but have not love,

I am nothing.

"If I have . . . but have not love,

I gain nothing."

Nothing I had done so far that morning had been done with love (except for, ironically, the ruined oatmeal-muffin-wanna-be goo). The cleared kitchen counter, the emptied dishwasher, the sparkling toilet in the master bath (yes, sistas, it did shine indeed) . . . I had done it all with a large dose of spite. (Can you say "Valen-T-I-N-Y"? That was about the size of my heart.)

I wish I could say that the neon words in 1st Corinthians hit me like a flash of lightening, immediately causing me to see the light, but that would be a big ol' fat lie. My brain might have been illuminated but not my heart.

Nope, not one bit.

As I told another sista-friend, it was as if I wanted to be mean and hateful, wanted to hold onto my hurt, wanted to lick my wounds (and snap and snarl at anyone who dared to come close enough to check them).

It is now Saturday morning, and I am better. Things seem back to "normal" at the Casa and with the Saint.

Still, I am humbled. Humbled by the thought that there are people who look to me for leadership, for encouragement, for wisdom . . . they're looking to me -- a woman who is sometimes a couple of eggs short. And I find myself praying that in the midst of my all too apparent weakness, His strength will show itself to be perfect. Then He will receive the glory and honor because this I know: Truly, "apart from [Him, I] can do nothing" (John 15;5).

Your very human Texas Preacher Woman,

Pamm

"Give me time . . . "

Before I knew anything about blogging, I used to put my thoughts into what I called my "E-mail Epistles," and I'd send them out to friends and family. I thought I'd share some of those with you (my new friends and family!) over the next couple of weeks . . .

Here's the first of many "oldies but goodies" -- written on a Friday a few summers back.

I called my mom earlier today to ask her how her weekend had gone. There was a slight pause before she answered, "You do know it's only Friday, right?"

That should tell you all you need to know about my sense of time! Don't ask me why, but I could've sworn it was Monday. (I guess that's what happens when you see some of the people you go to church with on a Thursday . . . you end up thinking you've already had church, so it must be the day after Sunday, right!)

St. Michael will tell you that I have always been time-challenged. I tend to imagine that a given task won’t take me nearly as long to get done as it really will, or I think that I have much more time to accomplish a job than I really do . . . I’ll swear that I’ve only been gone for thirty minutes or so when it’s actually been and hour and thirty minutes. I just can’t seem to help it – I don’t have a good sense of time. (St. Michael would say that’s why God chose to pair me up with The Human Alarm Clock, one of St. Michael’s other names.)

Imagine my surprise this morning, then, when I was bombarding God with the list of everything I think He needs to be accomplishing in my life – and in the lives of those I know and love – and He broke in with a distinct, “Give me time.”

Whoa. Give me TIME.

I have to tell you, I was caught up short. Lately I’ve been focusing on verses like Jeremiah 32:27, in which God asks rhetorically, “Is anything too hard for me?” and old standbys like Romans 8:28, “And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.” And I’ve been vigilantly reminding myself of something the congregation at Emerald Pointe Community Church espouses in unison almost every Sunday morning, “GOD HAS A PLAN!” I’ve been actively telling God, “Be God! Do Your thing, God!” (And considering that I often slip into acting like I’m God, I thought that was pretty big and brave of me to tell God that I’m willing for Him to do His job!)

And yet, I was caught short.

God had to remind me this morning of the rest of the principle I’ve taught my people to rely on: God has a plan . . . and God has a timetable.”

When my Father says “Give me time,” He doesn’t mean it like you or I would – that we would need time to accomplish the work at hand because of its difficult nature or because of our own limited ability. He means that His ways are not my ways. And that He often chooses to work on a different schedule than I might like, simply because of that. He sees things from a perspective that I cannot even begin to imagine, and He knows that some things require time – not because He needs time in which to work but because we, as humans, often need time in which to allow Him to work.

He could simply speak into being that thing which seems an impossibility to us, and yet, in His wisdom, He knows that that is not always what would be best for us. He knows that there are things that need to be accomplished in our lives that for us, as humans, can only be worked into us and worked out of us through the passage of time.

This morning, I realized, once again, that I have to acknowledge that His plan also means His timetable. I am still struggling with wanting His plan but on my schedule.

I guess that for the rest of this week, I will focus on a verse from the Gospels: “yet not as I will, but as you will” (Mt. 26:39). Not on my timetable, Lord, but on Yours.

Grins,
Pamm

A Nice Vice!

I don't know about you, but even though I'm old enough to know better, I still have a few vices. (Okay, so some of you are shocked, I know, but it's true, I do.) One that I can talk about in public is decorating magazines. I love them! I buy them, hoard them, and enjoy them over and over again. (Unlike one of my sista-friends who only looks at the pictures. No m'am! I drool over every word describing the pictures, too!) One of my ideal self-pampering days would involve everyone who normally roosts at Casa St. Michael being somewhere else and my being curled up on the couch with Tessie (our favorite four-and-a-half-pound white furball), an afghan, a cup of coffee and STACKS of Country Accent, Country Living, Cottage Living . . . well, you get the idea.

I haven't had one of those "ideal" days in a while, but I am able to get a quickie in, once in a while on-line. Yeah, I know it's not quite the same, but still, when it's grey out -- like it has been for a while here in the Houston area -- and I'm drooping at my desk during my conference period here at the school house, I can get a little perk-me-up by clicking on some of my bloggin' sistas yummy-for-the-decorating-heart sites or by going over to any number of other "eye-candy" locales, like Better Homes and Gardens, Country Living, or HGTV.

The sun is out today here in God's Country, but just in case it's grey where you are, my sweet sista, here are some places where you might enjoy curling up with some of your own vices (now you KNOW I mean magazines, right?) . . . or maybe even sneak in a nap or two.

Photo from Country Living magazine.

There's just something about this bedroom with its faux-faded cabagge rose wallper, unexpected apple green woodwork, and pops of red that makes me melt! (Not to mention the cowboy boots under the bench at the foot of the bed! I could get a bench and put St. Michael's boots under it at the foot of our bed, but, alas, that's right where he has to walk when he gets up in the middle of the night, and . . . well, there are just some things that men are not willing to sacrifice for cuteness. Like life and limb.)

Photo from Country Living magazine.

And does this brick wall make your heart skip a beat or what! OMG! To die for! And the contrast of that gorgeous chandy against that worn brick . . . I don't know how cozy I would feel in a bedroom with a ceiling this high, but then again, I just might be able to do some fine dreaming after all . . . especially if I could spend an hour or so with a good book in the reading nook . . .

Photo from Country Living magazine.

Yup, this is the reading nook tucked beside that fabulous fluffy antique bed that sits up against that gorgeous brick wall. (This would definitely make up for the high ceiling . . . )

Photo from Better Homes and Gardens magazine.

And snuggling down into this bed would be like wrapping yourself up in pure buttery sunshine and clear faded-denim blue skies! The colors are at once vibrant and yet soothing. I could definitely do some fine napping here! Mmmmmmm! (This bedroom also just goes to show that black furniture -- even a large piece -- doesn't have to be overpowering if it's balanced with light, bright, fresh colors.)

Okay, I'm perked up . . . time to get ready for my little kiddies to come to class to learn the finer points of the English language . . .

Until next conference period,

Grins!

Pamm