Florida: Where the environment will bite you in the butt

I just can't resist this. It made me smile.







It came in an e-mail dealing with very serious issues -- the water shortage in Florida. At this point, it's more perceived than actuality, but cities and county governments are looking down the road and seeing population growth, and at the same time, less water available from their wells.

Alternatives being discussed include tapping a low, slow-flowing river like the St. Johns to building an ocean-water desalinization plant off the coast. Miles and miles of pipe would crisscross the peninsula, shifting water from one locale to another.

The problem is, small changes in the environment can have enormous consequences. Salt and pollutants filtered from treatment plants would be dumped back into the river or ocean, raising salinity levels. Lowering the level of the river-and-lake system will affect plant, aquatic and animal life. What about years of drought, when those water levels are already lower than usual? Who gets the water? The river or thirsty people? (Or their thirsty lawns?)

I could go on, but I won't, here.

None of the politicians want to talk about limiting growth.

Perhaps fortunately for the environment, the tanking of both the economy and the Central Florida housing market has slowed growth -- without political interference.

The population will likely shrink when water from desal plants costs $9 a gallon, I suppose.

More health stuff

WARNING: GROSS STUFF DISCUSSED. NOT FOR THE EASILY QUEASY.

Addendum Feb. 18 - Now the gastroenterologist wants me to come back for lower GI X-rays. Seems there was a portion of my gut, the caecum, he couldn't get a look at. He couldn't find the markers to take a look. And, with the large polyp (about an inch long, he said) removed, he wants to get a look, to make sure nothing else is lurking up there.

Anybody else been through all this?

PREVIOUSLY POSTED

Along with the blood test, which revealed diabetes, (see earlier post) my doctor sent me for an eye exam, a mammogram and a colonoscopy.

Results of the eye exam were good - I have just middle-aged eyes, with no damage caused by blood sugar.

Results of the mammogram and colonoscopy were along the lines of "ok for now, but..." which is good news, all things considered.

Because I hadn't had a mammogram, they want me to get another one in six months, so they can compare lymph nodes in my left breast, to see if they are growing. Sigh. But it could be worse. There's also some "granular matter" which I gather isn't bad in itself.

When I went in for the colonoscopy, I told them they better make it good, 'cause they weren't going to get me back for another one!

The night before, drinking vile solution to clean out my bowels, was a night of hell. The directions said I would have a "bowel movement" after about an hour of starting the stuff, of which I was supposed to drink a glass every 10 minutes.

I didn't have a "bowel movement" (their euphemism for explosive diarrhea) for a good two hours, and thought my stomach was going to pop.

Once I started, I couldn't stop. It was wretched. To add insult to injury, I was supposed to give myself an enema the next morning. I made my best effort.

In contrast, the procedure was a piece of cake. I watched them inject sleepy-time juice into my IV, and I was out like a light. I had a very nice nap, until the nurse woke me up. She told me the doctor removed a large polyp (growth) from my colon.

Waiting for the biopsy on it made this week a long one, but I finally heard the results this morning. I had a tuberovillous adenoma. It's a tumor that isn't cancerous, but could become so if left in place.

I'm to meet with the doctor next week to go over things. From what I googled today, it will mean more frequent colonoscopies to come. Another sigh.

The two "okay for now" things is a little bit worrying. But I think I'm lucky – or it was the spirit at work – that I got so sick and went to the doctor when I did.

Thank you, Lord. As always, you shadowed me under your wing, and protected me. Thank you again for your graciousness.

Parish goes mad, elects Saint Pat

Yes, gentle readers. That was the other thing going on while Saint Pat was discovering the big "D." Saint Pat got elected to the vestry at her church.

There was a whole new slate of us, just about, so it wasn't too hard. A couple of people nominated me, and there was no opposition. It ain't easy getting people to run for vestry, I figure.

It will be interesting. I believe we have a good vestry. We'll have to be able to work together to bring our parish through these trying times. Like just about every parish, we're struggling with dwindling finances and other assorted problems.

Our former rector asked me about running for the vestry a few years ago, but experiences at my former parish were still too fresh in my mind. I ran screaming.

Now, well, fools rush in where angels fear to tread.

I'm praying I'll be a blessing to the parish I've grown to love so much.

Nose-to-nose with the big "D"

Elvis the cat isn't the only one in the Saintly household facing a change.

St. Pat has the big "D" -- diabetes. She's doing the finger prick and glucose check every morning, and taking medication.

It's the type 2 diabetes that can be controlled largely through diet and exercise, and losing weight, which I'm doing.

I'm guessing I've had it for a few years. I hadn't had a real physical in a good dozen years.

Something hadn't been right with me for a while, and it was getting worse. That virus that was going may have spiked it up -- I was sick from the middle of November until after the first of the year.

The doctor sent me off to a lab for some tests, and her office called me a few days after I got them. I was to go get another blood test right away. A follow-up doctor's appointment was already scheduled for me. There was no "Will this date work for you." Just "Get in here."

So, there I was, and here I am.

It could have been the big "C" or something I couldn't do anything about. I can do something about this. It's God's way of dealing with me.

You see, I had been praying for God to help me in my struggle to lose weight and get healthier. I believe this was his wake-up call, to spur me into action.

My blood sugar has been dropping steadily the past 10 days, though it's not quite yet to where it should be. Patience. I'm losing weight and working myself back into regular exercise.

And working to remember to take the medication. That's the hard part - I'm not used to taking prescriptions, just a vitamin when I think of it. But I have to be on a regular schedule with medications and foods.

I was in a Catch-22 -- the more fatigued you feel, the less you want to exercise, and the less you exercise, the more fatigued you become.

Extreme fatigue is one of the symptoms of diabetes.

The diet hasn't been bad. It's a healthy one -- leaner proteins, lots of healthy vegetables -- complex carbohydrates -- and simple ones here and there. I'm dropping weight.

No, Padre Mickey!!! I'm not going to start eating a steady diet of steak tartare! I don't care if raw meat cured Sra. Chompita's metabolic problems!!

I've been curing my chocoholic tendencies by eating a piece of sugar-free dark chocolate now and then, and sometimes, sugar-free chocolate ice cream for dessert.

And I feel a lot better than I have in a good while.

Thank you, Lord, for not putting me in the belly of a whale.

Thank you for looking after me, and getting me to the doctor, even when I didn't want to go. Thank you for the medical advances that are helping me and so many others.

Thank you for getting me on the road to better health.

Cat speaks out about inhumane treatment

It's a new year, and a lot new is going on. First, though, an update from last year. Elvis (see black-and-white cat in previous post's photo) has a grievance to air.

Elvis speaks

I want to tell the world of the indignity inflicted on me and my comrade Jack these past few months.

Now, I know I'm a bit on the portly side, but that's as it should be, for a cat of my stature.

The indignity began when the Saintly One got some wild idea about taking me to the vet, and put me in a defective cat-carrier for transport. As she lifted the carrier to put me in the car, it just fell apart. It was none of my doing. It was clearly defective workmanship in these newer, more cheaply made carriers that just snap together. It was workmanship, not my weight that was the problem.

Anyway, the carrier split apart, and I came tumbling out. The Saintly One quickly grabbed me and put me back in the horrid thing. She drove to the vet's office, where she carried it and me in, holding the carrier in her arms, instead of grasping its handle.

The vet's staff seemed to think that was pretty amusing. Then they weighed me, all glorious 24 pounds of me, and shock spread over their faces.

The vet took on a stern tone and said I simply must lose weight. Humph. The vet used no tact or sensitivity to my feelings. She sold the Saintly One some simply ghastly raw, frozen food for me and Jack to eat.

Oh, it was horrible. Jack and I both curled our lips at this stuff, which was billed as being like what cats in the wild would eat. Yucchhh. We are sophisticated housecats, thank you very much, not some kind of barbarians! We wouldn't even eat it when she cooked it for us.

We planned our strategies. We refused to eat the stuff, no, not even any kibble that brushed past it. Jack was most adamant about it, and lost a noticeable amount of weight. I timed it so I could steal food out of the dog's dish. Despite my efforts, I lost some weight.

Finally, the Saintly One gave up on the vet's stuff, either raw or cooked. She cooked it and fed it to the dog, Betsy, who refused to act in solidarity with us, and ate it like it was good. Paugh.

I eagerly looked forward to the return of our regular rations, but they remained small. My heart soared when the Saintly One came in with some canned cat food, but alas, she added only little bits of that to our diet.

Betsy caught on to my pilfering out of her dish, and guards it vigilantly now.

I've had no chance. I've lost some of my glorious girth.

Oh, I've worked hard to save it. For example, I stomp up and down the length of the Saintly One while she lies sleeping, in a vain attempt to get her to get up and add food to my dish. She just knocks me away.

I eat my canned food quickly and go for Jack's, but I'm not always successful at getting it. Then, I eat the dry food.

I beg and beg, but my normal rations have not been restored. I'm just a shadow of my former self.

Is this any way to treat a dignified, 10-year-old cat? I ask you.

I'm calling on all cats to support me. Start sending cards and letters to the Saintly One, demanding this inhumane treatment stop now.

NOW!

Christmas greetings

We're in the Christmas season! The Saintly household is having a pretty good one.

I went to the Christmas Eve service, then to a get-together at the house of Bible-study friends.

I served at the Christmas morning service, a smaller crowd. That service was celebrated in the little-old chapel, and I really enjoyed it, then had Christmas dinner with my friends Michelle and Ken.

Here are Betsy and Elvis, waiting for Santa to show. Betsy is wearing Christmas finery, because she is my Christmas dog - my Christmas gift nine years ago, from the Holy Spirit, who led me to the next county north, where I found Betsy at the SPCA. She was just a little border-Collie Australian-shepherd puppy, stuck in a pen with some big bruisers. I took her home, and she's been a blessing ever since.



Every Christmas, Betsy has more white on her muzzle. Her spirit is as loving as always. The Best Dog in the Whole Wide World is what I call her.

Elvis is now at least 10 years old. I gave him to my mother for her birthday, when Elvis was just a teeny thing - small enough to sit in the palm of your hand, but full of personality. I think that was in 1998, but it may have been a year earlier. So, he's 10, if not 11. I took Elvis in five years ago when my mother's Alzheimer's got bad.

Elvis is still spry, and he's as full of himself as he was as a little kitten — non-stop personality. We'll talk about the diet in the next post.


Betsy and Jack the Brat settle in for a nap. Betsy snuggles in a squeaky teddy bear under her arm. She got it for Christmas. Betsy loves squeaky toys.







Jack the Brat, the baby of the bunch, is now 4 1/2 years old. He came into my life just before the devasting triple hurricanes of 2004 struck Central Florida. He had been injured, and needed care. The vet asked me to foster him, and, as she planned, I couldn't turn loose of him.

So, those are the "children" of the household, each special in his or her own way, and bringing delight.

Except for the time when I have to clean up yak, or diarrhea, or kitty litter kicked all over the floor, or something shredded all over the living room. But those are minor trials.

Life is so much fuller with these companions.

St. Pat goes cruising, followed by weeks of overwork

The good news is, I got a cruise in before I got sick. That was before Thanksgiving. It was a nice cruise, a repeat of the itinerary from our 2006 church cruise, from Melbourne to Nassau and back.

We went on a different Royal Caribbean ship called Monarch of the Seas. The ship we cruised on in 2006 was retired from the fleet. Monarch was very similar, but a little newer. The coolest thing about it? Our captain was a woman, and fantastic - a real sharpie!

The very most fantastic thing about the cruise was we sailed around 5:15 on Nov. 14 — the day Space Shuttle Endeavour lifted off at 7:55 p.m. Captain Karen took us out and positioned the ship so we would have a great view of the liftoff from the decks.

It was gorgeous. It had already turned dark, and there was a fulll moon, the size of a dinner plate, hanging in the sky to my right, as I waited on deck. It cast ghostly white fingers atop the water.

Then, to my left, I could see a faint orange glow on the horizon, exactly where sea and sky appeared to meet. It grew larger and brighter. It was gorgeous, a huge ball of orange and red, lifting into the sky and arcing toward us.

It cast its own fiery fingers across the water, overpowering the pale and wan moon.

I held my breath, as I always do at booster separation. Then, the shuttle continued, like a bright white star moving across the heavens. Perfect.

We went straight from dinner to the deck, and I didn't have my camera with me. I decided that was better, even though I don't have photos to brag of - I spent the minutes experiencing it, instead of fiddling with the camera.

I did get a nice photo or two the next day, as we into Nassau Harbor, though.











When we got back, I was coming down with a bronchitis plus head-cold thing that's been going around. I've been sick for just about three weeks, but am mostly over it now, thank goodness. I couldn't take time off to recuperate - I was working 12 and 14 hour days. sigh.

I'm glad I got through the cruise BEFORE I got sick, though.

I had a good time. I give this cruise a B+. The only downer was the weather turned windy and a little chilly, and we didn't stop at the little private island on the way back - the weather was too foul. I didn't mind much - we just cruised around, instead.

Now, I'm looking forward to Christmas, and another day or two off.

Living the life political

It's election season, and I've been in the thick of it -- interviewing local, state and congressional politicians running in this area. I'm more involved in writing political stories than ever, and I'm getting the nasty side, the innuendos and smear campaigns up close.

Maybe it just seems worse this year than ever, but I think it is worse. I'll be glad when elections are over.

I've even had an angry politician take a swipe at me. Maybe that means I've arrived.

Tonight, I'm going to see Sen. Barack Obama and former President Bill Clinton live in person, over in the Orlando area. Oh boy.

I've had some good times, despite all the work. I went to a wine festival Friday night for my birthday, then went to see the movie "W" Sunday. I've been going out with friends after work a lot the past week or so, which is good, because I had been a little isolated with my work schedule, but it still seems like I'm hardly ever home.

I quit my part-time job, after getting a pay raise to do more editing chores at the newspaper. That means I'm working longer hours at the paper. I may have to get another part-time job the first of the year, but I'm enjoying the breather from running back and forth.

Peace out for now. I'll write you about the Obama experience!

Weather, paint and holidays

I keep pledging to post more often, then go another two weeks with no posts. Soon, I will reform! I will quit working so many hours and take more time to walk the dog, keep my house decently clean (good enough for the Health Department, anyway) and blog.

The weather has taken a toll on my time, personally and professionally - I've been Weather Central at the newspaper, updating the Web site blow-by-blow on the storms, along with my other duties.

Then, on Labor Day, I started painting. The walls have been touched up here and there since I moved in nine years ago, but now I'm doing real painting.

So, I started on my living/dining/kitchen area Sunday and continued Monday. Then I went back to work with late nights covering city meetings, and haven't finished yet! But, I will this weekend. After that big area with cathedral ceilings, the rest of the house will be easy. I'll do just one room a weekend and have the house ready for the holidays.

A few weeks ago, I had the old, ratty rugs pulled out and ceramic tile put in. With the rooms painted, a new sofa and the house cleaned up, I'll be ready for the holidays.

And I'm ready have nice holidays. They haven't been great the past years, between family deaths, illnesses and other problems. I'm ready.

And I've been feeling the Holy Spirit's presence.

More to come on that.

Adios, Fay

Fay is mostly gone, now. We're still getting squally showers off and on, and probably will through the night, but nothing bad. Thank God.

Here's a weird little thing: Little earthworms have been crawling up the outside walls of my house the past couple of days, looking fore safety. They drown when the earth is saturated with water.

I took a picture of this little guy who made it all the way up a window, seeking higher ground:











I emptied and washed out my rain barrel the first of the week, in preparation for Fay. It's been overflowing all week. I got this neat shot in this morning's rain:

Waiting on fickle Tropical Storm Fay

I'm sitting here listening to the rain fall. It's rather nice, actually — the steady drip of rain falling from the roof, mixed with softer and heavier rainfalls.

It's been raining here for a few days now. I count myself fortunate, because my house sits fairly high and dry, and because I haven't had 30 inches of rain like they've had in southern Brevard County. Maybe 6-8 inches, instead. I haven't had the high winds, either. Just a few gusts.

According to the weather forecasts, I should have been getting 30-45 mph winds this evening. That forecast, like most of them, has been wrong. I'm not ruling them out for the night, though.

Fay has been a cypher all along, defying the standard conventions and what is expected of tropical weather.

For one thing, what tropical storm comes on land, then gets stronger? That's just what Fay's done. I've been covering her all week.

It wasn't until she came onto the Florida Peninsula she developed into a tighter cyclonic system, and even developed a rudimentary eyewall, both signs of a hurricane.

It was thought Fay might turn into a hurricane before she made landfall in South Florida. She didn't. She was expected to weaken after she made landfall. She strengthened.

Even after cutting across the state, Fay was still packing 60 mph winds, sometimes edging up to 65 mph.

She got to the Space Coast and sat. And sat.

She finally moseyed up the Atlantic a few miles to Daytona Beach. And sat, and sat.

She finally started moving inland this afternoon -- at 2 mph.

Fay, what's your hurry?

Fickle Fay, move away and don't come back another day -- this NOAA shot was taken this afternoon, not long before Fay finally started making her dramatic 2 mph turn inland, around the Volusia/Flagler county line in East Central Florida.



Fay gave herself the luxury of dumping horrendous rains on Brevard, and now parts of Volusia County, but not on my little patch of it.

I thank God, and pray Fay won't stay.

If she moves west back across the peninsula into the Gulf, who knows what she'll do?

A forecaster I talked to said Fay will be one for textbooks, and a case study, because her behavior has been so unusual. She's proof cyclonic storms aren't all just about wind or even storm surge. Fay is a rain-maker extraordinaire.

St. Pat's weather central - Tropical Storm Kay

Tropical Storm Kay stepped all over Cuba and is now ready to pounce on Southwest Florida tomorrow morning. She's now about 105 miles south of Naples, FL. Sustained winds are around 60 mph, but Kay may make it to hurricane status, 74 mph, by the time she makes landfall.


(TS Fay water vapor image cribbed from NOAA/National Weather Service)


The saintly household, with the rest of the county, is under a tropical storm warning. We're expected to get winds of 40-50 mph, with perhaps higher gusts, starting late tomorrow afternoon, as the the storm pushes up the Florida Peninsula. There are chances of isolated tornadoes tonight and tomorrow.

Fay's exact path is uncertain, but it looks like we're in for bad weather whichever track she takes. Wind shear will keep her from turning into another Hurricane Charley if the one model is correct, predicting Fay will cross the southern portion of the peninsula, go eastward into the Atlantic a bit, then make a u-turn for Central or Northern Florida.

I'm kind of thinking and praying we won't get anything really nasty here.

Home improvement

The floors of the saintly household have been changed out. They're now lined with ceramic tile, instead of worn out, chewed up wall-to-wall carpeting.

It's been an exhausting couple of weeks. First, there was getting ready for the tile setters to come. Then, there was have the tile setters (actually, one setter and an assistant) in the house all week. Then, there's been trying to put the house back together.

Then, there was the lack of sleep. Poor little Jack the Brat cat was traumatized. He's scared of strangers, and runs and hides under the bed at the first sign of invasion.

Jack not only had strange men invading his domain, his whole domain changed!

The tile setters left my bedroom until last, and Jack stayed hid out by day. By night, he wandered the house, crying, because he didn't understand the changes. I could soothe him for only moments at a time.

The real trauma came when they pulled out the bed (his safety blanket) and tiled the bedroom.

Jack is just starting to recover. I got him drunk on catnip one night, and that seemed to help. I left out a catnip-infused scratching board, and he loves it. He rubs his face on it, then rips into it.


Betsy aka The Best Dog in the World got another hair cut - short - in an effort to reduce the amount of fur flying through the air. Hah.

I'm still trying to put the house back together, but not too much, because I want to paint first.


Meanwhile, I'm keeping an eye of Tropical Storm Fay, now near Cuba. The storm is expected to hit the Keys. She could strengthen into a hurricane, if she moves on into the Gulf.

So far, it's been a quiet hurricane season. I'm praying it stays that way.

Signs of life

Yes, dear hearts, I'm still here. I'm tired of working too much between my two jobs, but I'm surviving.

We've been deluged with rain the past couple of weeks, and that's just what we need. The rainfall totals for the year and the aquifer are both running low.

Everything is green, joyously and vibrantly so. The grass and clover, the plants in my yard are drunk on their extra rations of water!


These elephant ears by the patio are on a mission to repopulate my yard - lots of little ones are coming up.



















My rose bushes have finally produced one rose this summer, but it's a glorious one, and it's stayed full all week.





















Betsy, always alert to the possibility of thunderstorms, hears the dreaded sound of thunder approaching this evening.
























St. Pat's new rain barrel overfloweth








Dear Lord, thank you for the gorgeous colors you give us -- greens and reds, blue sky, crystalline water. Thank you for the gift of life, not only our own, but that which abounds in the world around us. Guide us and instruct is in caring for this life. We know we are only your stewards, and none of it belongs to us. Amen.

Happy happy joy joy

I got a rain barrel, courtesy of my farming friends. It sat beneath the spot where two parts of my roof join, patiently waiting for rain. We got a little, one afternoon. I looked into my barrel a few days later, and found only dried residue.

Now, the rains have come. We've had some deluges, and the wildfire threat has largely passed. My rain barrel overfloweth. Yippee! Now, I have auxiliary water for times when storms that knock out my electricity — and access to well water. Plus, there's water for plants when the weather is dry.

We have a new rector at church, Fr. R. Though I'm still grieving our interim, Father M., who died a couple of months ago, I'm happy to greet Fr. R. He's middle of the road enough to keep the congregation together, I think, and he has a sense of humor and fun. I'm hoping and praying for good things to come. I'll write more later.

A couple of people spearheaded a move to start a community-supported farm nearby, and I'm very interested. I've been covering the movement through the newspaper, and intend to become a member. A 5-6 acre plot of land has already been offered to start the farm, and I'm getting ready to go out there and get photos of a tractor at work, tilling the ground.

Yipppee! Farmer St. Pat. Who'da thunk?

Florida Mistral

We've had hot, dry and windy weather. Perfect for brushfires, which have dotted the landscape.

It's been a dry spring, and the wind came last Sunday. I call the wind the Florida Mistral. Our Mistral is a fierce, hot and arid wind, blowing out of the west-southwest.

Last Sunday, the gusts were scary at times. They rattled the front door and windows unnerving Betsy, who moved from her usual nap spot by the front door to a more protected spot between the coffee table and sofa. The winds brought dry underbrush to tinderbox conditions.

We've been lucky in the saintly household -- so far, no fires very close to us, but the wind is still blowing, with no precipitation expected. Fires numbered around 103 around the state the last count I saw. Some were set deliberately.

The grass is yellow-brown and dry. It crunches beneath your feet.

Ah, Florida. Land of extremes.

Pray for rain.

Hola a Padre Mickey y la hermosa Mona

Padre, thank you for being concerned about me, along with the other posters! I was going to say so on your blog, but you shut off comments to go on vacation. Oy!

Some of my best memories of Panama are of staying at a little cottage on the beach, way up the coast from the Canal Zone. There, you meet the true Panama and its wonderful people.

I don't know who owned the cottage - a friend of a friend of my parents. It sat alone on the beach. We had the dunes and the wide open spaces in which to play!

Some of my school friends would come with me. We had no surf boards, so we sat on our inflatable beach rafts and rode in on the big rolling waves, yelling "Cowabunga!"

An adult was always perched on the little bluff overlooking the beach, armed with binoculars and watching for sharks. We were ordered out of the water occasionally, and never had any close encounters.

At night, we built bonfires on the beach. Try doing that around here, and the Beach Rangers would be on you like fleas on a hound dog!

A couple of the locals brought their horses, one time, and offered them for our rental, which we accepted. Now, these were plow horses, and I doubt they had ever been ridden much. They came with no saddles or bridles.

I took horseback riding lessons in my youth, so wasn't afraid of riding them. The horse I got just wasn't into the spirit of things, though. I sat on him, said, "Giddyap, vamos," and other sundry commands to get going.

He just turned his head and looked at me as if to say, "What were you thinking?"

After coaxing, the horse would walk several steps, then turn to gaze quizzically at me again. We lurched down the beach. This went on for a little while, until one of the sudden afternoon thunderboomers came up, letting a good ripping boom roll up the beach.

That horse suddenly turned into thoroughbred racing material. He took off as hard as he could go, with me clinging onto him by the mane. I caught up and passed my friends, and my horse kept going.

Finally, I got him to stop. Then, he turned his head and looked inquiringly at me again. We plodded along.

Ah, the good times.

The cottage had no electricity. We used gas for lights and cooking, and it gave the place the feel of another era. We would read or play board games in the evening, in the glow of the gaslight, when we weren't out on the beach.

A special treasure in the cottage was a Victrola, with a number of Tin Pan Alley hit records to play on it. Some of the records were square. I'm not making this up. (The grooves on them were circular, though.) Those records were probably collector's items then, and would be worth a fortune today.

I wonder whatever happened to them, to the cottage and all the people.

Con mi amor,

Santa Patricia

P.S. - Sending camera money

The best and worst of times

My dear friends, I'm sorry I've been out of touch. I appreciate you so much.

The last weeks have been the best of times and the worst of times.

I'll start with the worst. Our interim rector, Father M. died suddenly, Saturday afternoon. I suppose "suddenly" is a relative concern. He was in the hospital a couple of weeks ago, with a heart problem I understand he'd had all his life. He was back at church last Sunday, though, and looking well.

He apparently went to bed for a little nap yesterday, and didn't wake up.

It's not at all the worst way to go. Still, it wrenched my heart. Father M. was an unfailingly kind and gentle man. He orchestrated a wonderful service so I could grieve surrounded by friends when my mother died, back in September.


Father M. celebrates the Eucharist during our church cruise in November:


Depart, O Christian soul, out of this world;
In the Name of God the Father Almighty who created you;
In the Name of Jesus Christ who redeemed you;
In the Name of the Holy Spirit who sanctifies you;
May your rest be this day in peace
and your dwelling place in the Paradise of God.
(From The Book of Common Prayer, "A Commendation at the Time of Death.")

I am grieving now, but couldn't join the congregation today. My car is temporarily out of service, and I'm put out the mechanic didn't get it fixed the end of the week. That's the trouble with my commute to church. It's a bit far.

Regardless, I know Father M. is in the glorious and joyful company of the saints in heaven.

Mostly work, some play

I've been slammed with work the past weeks (OK, a month) since my last post. I keep getting hit with one late-breaking story after another, cool in a way, but difficult when I'm working two jobs. I've often gone from one job to the next, then back to the first to finish writing a story. Then either go out with friends for a glass of wine to stave off isolation, or home to fall in bed, so I can start another day in the morning.

At least being without a running car has given me time at home this weekend (and time to blog!).

Work hasn't been all bad. I've gotten to do some neat things. I took an airplane ride in a World War II vintage Texan, an advanced trainer aircraft, when History Flight came through on a barnstorming tour.

I figured on a quick five or 10 minutes around the airport, but the pilot took me up for a great flight, putting the plane through its paces. We did a variety of loops and rolls over the countryside. It was wonderful.

Last week, I found out I will be the recipient of not one, but two journalism awards from the state press association. One is for a series on our local homeless people, and another for religion writing. Not too shabby!

Saving the best for last: claiming the blessing

We had a great healing mission at the church not long after my last posting, with Jack and Anna Marie Sheffield. I came with no great expectations, after disappointment with big talk from leaders but not much happening at other healing missions the past few years.

I received inner healing, deep in my heart and spirit, as we prayed. I can't explain it; I just accept it. I felt the Spirit of God surround me, the words of his love pouring out on me, and his love, which is healing, flow through me.

I've had more peace since than than I've had in my adult life. Not that family, financial and other problems have disappeared, by any means.

After a month to make sure I didn't experience just a temporary emotional reaction to the mission, I know I'm operating more from a center of peace to deal with the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, for God is my shield. I've know this, but now I know it in a more deeply personal way.

I've been inner focused, any time I've had a chance to rest. That had a lot to do with my lack of blogging.

Healing hasn't come to me in one big pow. It comes in smaller and larger measures. That's all right; the divine hands are doing the measuring.

Lord, have mercy

It's Good Friday.


I've hardly given a thought to Holy Week. It's been rush, rush, rush to get things done, to run from one job to another. By the time I get home at night, I'm good for nothing.

I've hardly stopped to pray, to meditate, to do any of the things I want to do during Holy Week. It's all just sliding past.

Yet, I feel his presence. He's here with me, knowing I will turn to him sooner or later.

Yes, Lord, here I am. I'm sorry I haven't been listening. I'm sorry I haven't been asking.

I don't know what you want me to do; I don't know what you want for me right now. I promise to spend more time seeking your presence and your counsel. I promise to listen and to heed.

Lord, have mercy on me.

Our glorious Iraqi victory

Today's Washington Post tells us, "For a majority of Americans, today marks the fifth anniversary of the start of an Iraq war that was not worth fighting, one that has cost thousands of lives and more than half a trillion dollars. For the Bush administration, however, it is the first anniversary of an Iraq strategy that it believes has finally started to succeed."

That would be the big "surge" strategy. It could have us outta there in just years.

I'm reminded this optimism came from the president who told us in the beginning the incursion into Iraq would be a 30-day mopping-up operation. In and out.

This is the same man who, a little less than five years ago, showed up on the deck of an aircraft carrier in a stylish pilot's flight jacket and told of of the glorious victory we had attained.


May, 2003



Meanwhile, the death toll mounted, mandatory extensions of duty became standard, and our economy is down the drain. Now, Osama bin Laden still lurks in Afghanistan (or somewhere) and issues more threats.

Pardon my cynicism.