“Special Operations – Marine Corps” it said in a simple, clear font.
On the plain vanilla business card was the picture of a tough-looking dude in sunglasses. No smile.
I would be worried about the state of our national security, except for one thing; I recognize my son’s friend in the picture.
My 12-year-old son’s own business cards say “Weapons Specialist.”
Technology has done wonders for boys’ imaginations, hasn’t it?
Of course, I had a spy kit with a plastic lipstick tube that was really a walky-talky. Unfortunately, that was in the day when parents still thought batteries were way too expensive to buy any time but Christmas. So, all my conversations about the target I was stalking were pretend conversations, the jist of which had to be reported to my fellow spy playmates when we rendezvoused at headquarters for peanut butter and jelly, uh, I mean, caviar and champagne.
One Sunday afternoon recently my son downloaded their pictures from my digital camera and found the program on my laptop to manufacture business cards. Later, when he delivered his friend’s business cards, the boys took a two hour break from defending our national interests to watch a movie full of special effects which were filmed in front of a green screen.
Apparently, the sharp and deadly swords in the film were really just sticks which are less dangerous for the actors and more realistic after you fix them up with modern technology. All this according to my son who is occasionally an expert on unexpected subjects.
I hid my video camera. I’m in favor of education and technology, but a mom can only take so much tinkering with her stuff in one day.
I didn’t bother to try to hide any sticks. It’s been my experience that boys will make weapons out of anything that happens to be handy at the moment.
“Hey mom, can I borrow your spray paint?” he asked mid-afternoon.
You can imagine what that question did for my peace of mind.
In spite of modern technology, some things haven’t changed. For instance, my son and his friends still fight for truth and justice and the American way. Just like we did a million years ago in the days of black and white television and battery-operated lipstick spy gear.
They run around the neighborhood seeking out the bad guys who are now terrorists, a word we never thought of.
Our sons still take up sticks and defend the neighborhood, our flag, and our values.
And moms still have heart palpitations, not about digital cameras, laptops, and spray paint; but about the destiny of young men trained in courage and heroism.
All of which bodes well for future freedom, I suppose. Although I’m wondering if I should warn the Marines about what is coming up the ranks.
Cathy Primer Krafve, aka Checklist Charlie, lives and writes with a Texas twang. Comments are invited at http:/checklistcharlie.blogspot.com or cathykrafve@gmail.com.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
I Refuse to Be Poor
“I refuse to be poor,” said my friend recently with a big grin.
Don’t ya love it? In the face of all the negative economic talk, she’s made a decision to be rich.
Me, too.
Take, for instance, our dog, Lucy, who does not care if the bills get paid this month as long as there are scary and dangerous squirrels in her yard that she can chase away for the safety of our family.
Okay, it may seem silly, but I love the way Lucy passionately goes about her business in the present moment without any concern for what the folks in Washington or on Wall Street are cooking up.
Besides squirrel-chasing pets, here is the list of wealth we can all enjoy no matter what the economy does.
-Heritage. We are a people who are rich in our ancestors; those good folks who founded a nation on the principle of self-government, based on self-sacrifice and self-discipline. Then, they came to Texas and built a culture out of hard-work and vision.
-Family. We can be rich in family in any economy.
If our kids know that dad and mom are heroes who would starve before letting the kids go hungry, then we are rich indeed.
When our parents have committed themselves to a lifestyle full of dignity and service to others, we inherit a wealth.
-Friends. We are wealthy if we have friends who understand the real priorities in life and remind each other.
-Good Health and Brave Hearts. Folks who are enjoying good health always add this to the list of reasons to be thankful, but I’ve noticed that my friends who are fighting a health battle are the ones who inspire me most. So, give us hearts to be brave in the face of whatever happens. Let us inspire those around us as we face challenges with grace and courage.
-Community Values. Community values are expressed a thousand ways, but one of my favorites is in the hymns that ring out on any given Sunday in hundreds of churches across East Texas. There’s nothing like a good old rousing rendition of Amazing Grace to serve as a reality check.
Does it seem a little Pollyanna to be positive in the face of bad economic news? Maybe. Or maybe the reality isn’t what we see on the television at night.
Maybe, just maybe, the reality is the wealth we enjoy in the loving relationships we create as we struggle and succeed together in tough times.
Just like my friend, I refuse to be poor, even if our bank account fluctuates with the rest of the world’s economy.
My best wishes to you, dear neighbors, for your continued success in the face of uncertain times. May you be rich in all the ways that matter.
Cathy Primer Krafve, aka Checklist Charlie, lives and writes with a Texas twang. Comments are invited at http:/checklistcharlie.blogspot.com or cathykrafve@gmail.com.
Don’t ya love it? In the face of all the negative economic talk, she’s made a decision to be rich.
Me, too.
Take, for instance, our dog, Lucy, who does not care if the bills get paid this month as long as there are scary and dangerous squirrels in her yard that she can chase away for the safety of our family.
Okay, it may seem silly, but I love the way Lucy passionately goes about her business in the present moment without any concern for what the folks in Washington or on Wall Street are cooking up.
Besides squirrel-chasing pets, here is the list of wealth we can all enjoy no matter what the economy does.
-Heritage. We are a people who are rich in our ancestors; those good folks who founded a nation on the principle of self-government, based on self-sacrifice and self-discipline. Then, they came to Texas and built a culture out of hard-work and vision.
-Family. We can be rich in family in any economy.
If our kids know that dad and mom are heroes who would starve before letting the kids go hungry, then we are rich indeed.
When our parents have committed themselves to a lifestyle full of dignity and service to others, we inherit a wealth.
-Friends. We are wealthy if we have friends who understand the real priorities in life and remind each other.
-Good Health and Brave Hearts. Folks who are enjoying good health always add this to the list of reasons to be thankful, but I’ve noticed that my friends who are fighting a health battle are the ones who inspire me most. So, give us hearts to be brave in the face of whatever happens. Let us inspire those around us as we face challenges with grace and courage.
-Community Values. Community values are expressed a thousand ways, but one of my favorites is in the hymns that ring out on any given Sunday in hundreds of churches across East Texas. There’s nothing like a good old rousing rendition of Amazing Grace to serve as a reality check.
Does it seem a little Pollyanna to be positive in the face of bad economic news? Maybe. Or maybe the reality isn’t what we see on the television at night.
Maybe, just maybe, the reality is the wealth we enjoy in the loving relationships we create as we struggle and succeed together in tough times.
Just like my friend, I refuse to be poor, even if our bank account fluctuates with the rest of the world’s economy.
My best wishes to you, dear neighbors, for your continued success in the face of uncertain times. May you be rich in all the ways that matter.
Cathy Primer Krafve, aka Checklist Charlie, lives and writes with a Texas twang. Comments are invited at http:/checklistcharlie.blogspot.com or cathykrafve@gmail.com.
Friday, April 17, 2009
Oh, I had this thought...if you are interested in seeing some of Anna's sculptures (although sadly, not the missing Haleluiah Girl) she has a web site at www.annakrafve.com Yeah, I know its mom-ish of me, but I'm really proud of her work!
Halleluiah Girl Gone Missing
This column isn't due out for a couple of weeks, but I ran into a couple of the TJC welding guys today having lunch at Bruno's. In honor of the great job they are doing, I'm posting this early. (Enjoy, fellas, and thanks for blessing our family with your good work.)
“I’m looking for a lost sculpture we call the Halleluiah Girl,” I explained over the phone.
“Oh, we call her the Rag Lady,” laughed the woman, a person of authority at TJC.
When my daughter was an art student at TJC, the teachers there created a welding class just for her so she could try her hand at sculpting. While the rest of the all-male class was learning to do precision welding, joining identical rows of metal over and over in precise patterns with no scarring in order to prepare for a future in aeronautics or medical technology, Anna was cutting Greek faces in relief out of metal discs and creating furniture out of old pipes.
The Halleluiah Girl began her life as a random circle, triangle and some spare parts, salvaged from a junk yard probably. With two metal stick arms raised in salute of the heavens, I imagine she was dancing in celebration of being released from a pile surrounded by chain link and guarded at night by ferocious German Shepherds.
I can imagine her excitement when she realized that she had been reincarnated on a college campus, surrounded by the stimulation and laughter that goes with young minds learning new things. Imagine her delight when she was assigned the task of jazzing up an empty space on the campus.
It was a task she did quietly, but enthusiastically for many years. Occasionally I would stop by to check on her, bringing my husband and his truck with the hope that he would see the value of moving her to our rose garden. For some reason, he believed she was happy where she was.
Alas, I may have waited too long. Maybe she felt abandoned. Unappreciated.
Maybe she felt exposed; naked and ashamed because the artist never got around to painting her.
Anyway, Halleluiah Girl wandered off the job.
“I’ll put out an Amber Alert for, what did you call her? The Halleluiah Girl?” promised the lady.
I called my daughter later to report the status on the lost sculpture.
“I have some good news for you. The folks at TJC have developed an emotional attachment to your sculpture. They’ve even given her a nick name.”
I am thinking of re-naming the sculpture: Homeless Girl.
I hate to think of her stuffed into a dark closet and jealous because the vacuum cleaners get to see the light of day once in awhile.
If we find her, I am going to give her a bright red coat of paint. Maybe a new task will help with her recovery, too.
She can wave at my neighbors in her bright red triangle dress as they drive by my rose garden. Maybe the neighbors will develop an emotional attachment to her, too.
Or maybe my husband will agree to donate her to a Homeless Shelter with an empty spot in their garden.
Maybe, when they see her dancing among the flowers with her arms outstretched to the sky, they’ll re-name her Halleluiah Girl once again because she is the perfect picture of second chances.
Cathy Primer Krafve, aka Checklist Charlie, lives and writes with a Texas twang. Comments are invited at http:/checklistcharlie.blogspot.com or cathykrafve@gmail.com.
“I’m looking for a lost sculpture we call the Halleluiah Girl,” I explained over the phone.
“Oh, we call her the Rag Lady,” laughed the woman, a person of authority at TJC.
When my daughter was an art student at TJC, the teachers there created a welding class just for her so she could try her hand at sculpting. While the rest of the all-male class was learning to do precision welding, joining identical rows of metal over and over in precise patterns with no scarring in order to prepare for a future in aeronautics or medical technology, Anna was cutting Greek faces in relief out of metal discs and creating furniture out of old pipes.
The Halleluiah Girl began her life as a random circle, triangle and some spare parts, salvaged from a junk yard probably. With two metal stick arms raised in salute of the heavens, I imagine she was dancing in celebration of being released from a pile surrounded by chain link and guarded at night by ferocious German Shepherds.
I can imagine her excitement when she realized that she had been reincarnated on a college campus, surrounded by the stimulation and laughter that goes with young minds learning new things. Imagine her delight when she was assigned the task of jazzing up an empty space on the campus.
It was a task she did quietly, but enthusiastically for many years. Occasionally I would stop by to check on her, bringing my husband and his truck with the hope that he would see the value of moving her to our rose garden. For some reason, he believed she was happy where she was.
Alas, I may have waited too long. Maybe she felt abandoned. Unappreciated.
Maybe she felt exposed; naked and ashamed because the artist never got around to painting her.
Anyway, Halleluiah Girl wandered off the job.
“I’ll put out an Amber Alert for, what did you call her? The Halleluiah Girl?” promised the lady.
I called my daughter later to report the status on the lost sculpture.
“I have some good news for you. The folks at TJC have developed an emotional attachment to your sculpture. They’ve even given her a nick name.”
I am thinking of re-naming the sculpture: Homeless Girl.
I hate to think of her stuffed into a dark closet and jealous because the vacuum cleaners get to see the light of day once in awhile.
If we find her, I am going to give her a bright red coat of paint. Maybe a new task will help with her recovery, too.
She can wave at my neighbors in her bright red triangle dress as they drive by my rose garden. Maybe the neighbors will develop an emotional attachment to her, too.
Or maybe my husband will agree to donate her to a Homeless Shelter with an empty spot in their garden.
Maybe, when they see her dancing among the flowers with her arms outstretched to the sky, they’ll re-name her Halleluiah Girl once again because she is the perfect picture of second chances.
Cathy Primer Krafve, aka Checklist Charlie, lives and writes with a Texas twang. Comments are invited at http:/checklistcharlie.blogspot.com or cathykrafve@gmail.com.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Steer- herding, Rootin’ Tootin’ Cowboy Oil Man
The following is a true story. For the most part.
“Guess what happened this morning at the site,” said my husband over the phone as I drove to a neighboring community to meet with a newspaper publisher.
The last time he asked a question like that, he and his dad were attempting to get control of a blow-out. Wouldn’t you assume that a gusher blowing oil all over Timbuktu would be a good thing? Just goes to show you what a green horn I am when it comes to the oil business.
Blow-outs mean trouble for would-be oil tycoons because they are a mess. It turns out you can’t sell oil that is spilling out all over the ground, plus, there’s the expensive, but necessary clean-up. Bummer.
That was years ago, but I learned to appreciate an answer like “not much” when I ask my husband about his work day.
Each and every pump jack in Texas has a fence around it now days, as you may have noticed. No more invitations to teenage boys to do the obviously life-threatening thing, I guess.
Turns out that somebody out there knows even less about dangerous, expensive oil equipment than I do, though.
“We got to the location and there was a steer INSIDE the fence!” my husband announced over the phone, “I guess the cattle owner wanted to separate the steer from the rest of the herd.” Implying that the steer was a ferocious beast.
“Okay, I know you didn’t let your pumper go anywhere near that steer. Please tell me you did not do what I think you did,” I responded.
Please understand that I have children with this man.
“The pumper held the gate while I ran past the steer and turned off the pump!”
And he thought it was fun. I could tell by the tone of his voice. Then they waited for the cattle owner to come and round up the beast.
Well, the fruit doesn’t fall far from the tree because you should have heard our son when my husband told the story at dinner that night.
I had to get out my shovel because we were getting boot deep in bull…uh…manure around the table.
It turns out the steer had udders. Horns, too, of course, but mighty short ones I began to suspect.
Okay, I don’t know much about the oil business or cattle, but even I know that steers do not make milk. Which could explain why the animal was separated from her offspring.
“Dad, when you tell this story, you should say that you were wearing a red shirt and the steer chased you around and around the pump jack!” said my son.
Not that his dad needs any help with tall tales.
Cathy Primer Krafve, aka Checklist Charlie, lives and writes with a Texas twang. Comments are invited at http:/checklistcharlie.blogspot.com or cathykrafve@gmail.com.
“Guess what happened this morning at the site,” said my husband over the phone as I drove to a neighboring community to meet with a newspaper publisher.
The last time he asked a question like that, he and his dad were attempting to get control of a blow-out. Wouldn’t you assume that a gusher blowing oil all over Timbuktu would be a good thing? Just goes to show you what a green horn I am when it comes to the oil business.
Blow-outs mean trouble for would-be oil tycoons because they are a mess. It turns out you can’t sell oil that is spilling out all over the ground, plus, there’s the expensive, but necessary clean-up. Bummer.
That was years ago, but I learned to appreciate an answer like “not much” when I ask my husband about his work day.
Each and every pump jack in Texas has a fence around it now days, as you may have noticed. No more invitations to teenage boys to do the obviously life-threatening thing, I guess.
Turns out that somebody out there knows even less about dangerous, expensive oil equipment than I do, though.
“We got to the location and there was a steer INSIDE the fence!” my husband announced over the phone, “I guess the cattle owner wanted to separate the steer from the rest of the herd.” Implying that the steer was a ferocious beast.
“Okay, I know you didn’t let your pumper go anywhere near that steer. Please tell me you did not do what I think you did,” I responded.
Please understand that I have children with this man.
“The pumper held the gate while I ran past the steer and turned off the pump!”
And he thought it was fun. I could tell by the tone of his voice. Then they waited for the cattle owner to come and round up the beast.
Well, the fruit doesn’t fall far from the tree because you should have heard our son when my husband told the story at dinner that night.
I had to get out my shovel because we were getting boot deep in bull…uh…manure around the table.
It turns out the steer had udders. Horns, too, of course, but mighty short ones I began to suspect.
Okay, I don’t know much about the oil business or cattle, but even I know that steers do not make milk. Which could explain why the animal was separated from her offspring.
“Dad, when you tell this story, you should say that you were wearing a red shirt and the steer chased you around and around the pump jack!” said my son.
Not that his dad needs any help with tall tales.
Cathy Primer Krafve, aka Checklist Charlie, lives and writes with a Texas twang. Comments are invited at http:/checklistcharlie.blogspot.com or cathykrafve@gmail.com.
All My Friends Are Movie Stars
All my friends are movie stars. I’m not sure when this trend began, several years ago I think, but its in full force now.
There’s the nice young man at the bank who remembers all my account numbers for me and is something of a financial guru, Jeremy Irons.
And there’s the funeral home director, Jimmy Stewart, who I invariably introduce to someone else about once a month, as I attend the funerals of all the people who used to seem like old folks to me.
There’s the publisher at the paper who I have asked for as Calvin Klein. You can imagine the blank stares this produced.
Can you imagine how surprised my kids were to learn that my first date in high school was with Jerry Falwell?
Of course, there’s my old high school buddy, Lorne Greene.
“Do you think he noticed that I called him Lorne Greene?” I asked my husband after I introduced them at a little league game a few years ago.
“Maybe his hearing isn’t what it used to be,” answered my husband.
One can only hope.
“Who is Lorne Greene?” asked a young friend recently when I was explaining my movie star problem.
Okay, if you’re under forty, and you actually read my column, which is doubtful unless you are my children, in which case you read faithfully to see what I’m writing about you publically this week, Lorne Greene is the dad on Bonanza. My kids already know this because one of them has a thing about Bonanza and the rest of us have suffered through re-runs for approximately ten of his twelve years of life.
Lorne Greene passed away in 1987. This could be awkward if I have to introduce him to anybody else besides my husband.
I don’t know who attended Lorne’s funeral, but I assume it was a bunch of movie stars. I wasn’t invited.
Speaking of funerals, have you noticed that the obituary pictures just got a lot bigger in one of our regional newspapers?
Personally, I think this is a great marketing idea. Obviously, there are some of us who turn to the obits first every morning. Sad, but true.
Now, I can see those bigger pictures without my reading glasses. This is a great mercy because I can’t always remember where my glasses are.
I suspect my friend, Cindy Crawford, who helps me with the housekeeping, is hiding them from me.
Cathy Primer Krafve, aka Checklist Charlie, lives and writes with a Texas twang. Comments are invited at http:/checklistcharlie.blogspot.com or cathykrafve@gmail.com.
There’s the nice young man at the bank who remembers all my account numbers for me and is something of a financial guru, Jeremy Irons.
And there’s the funeral home director, Jimmy Stewart, who I invariably introduce to someone else about once a month, as I attend the funerals of all the people who used to seem like old folks to me.
There’s the publisher at the paper who I have asked for as Calvin Klein. You can imagine the blank stares this produced.
Can you imagine how surprised my kids were to learn that my first date in high school was with Jerry Falwell?
Of course, there’s my old high school buddy, Lorne Greene.
“Do you think he noticed that I called him Lorne Greene?” I asked my husband after I introduced them at a little league game a few years ago.
“Maybe his hearing isn’t what it used to be,” answered my husband.
One can only hope.
“Who is Lorne Greene?” asked a young friend recently when I was explaining my movie star problem.
Okay, if you’re under forty, and you actually read my column, which is doubtful unless you are my children, in which case you read faithfully to see what I’m writing about you publically this week, Lorne Greene is the dad on Bonanza. My kids already know this because one of them has a thing about Bonanza and the rest of us have suffered through re-runs for approximately ten of his twelve years of life.
Lorne Greene passed away in 1987. This could be awkward if I have to introduce him to anybody else besides my husband.
I don’t know who attended Lorne’s funeral, but I assume it was a bunch of movie stars. I wasn’t invited.
Speaking of funerals, have you noticed that the obituary pictures just got a lot bigger in one of our regional newspapers?
Personally, I think this is a great marketing idea. Obviously, there are some of us who turn to the obits first every morning. Sad, but true.
Now, I can see those bigger pictures without my reading glasses. This is a great mercy because I can’t always remember where my glasses are.
I suspect my friend, Cindy Crawford, who helps me with the housekeeping, is hiding them from me.
Cathy Primer Krafve, aka Checklist Charlie, lives and writes with a Texas twang. Comments are invited at http:/checklistcharlie.blogspot.com or cathykrafve@gmail.com.
I’m NOT Going Through Menopause
I’m fifty and I’m not going through menopause.
I know this because every year I have my doctor draw blood and check it. Who knew there’s a test for menopausal women?
This only became a question because my husband kept saying, ‘Oh, you’re just going through menopause.”
No, I’m just super-sensitive and it has nothing at all to do with menopause thank you very much.
Most women, and apparently their husbands, dread menopause.
Let me just say that having your last child late in life does affect your perspective. When I started experiencing symptoms at 38, I thought then that I was probably just going through menopause early. I was afraid to tell anyone I was pregnant, for fear I’d have to go back and explain it was just a hot flash.
Now every time I get symptoms of any kind I think I’m pregnant. Not that I’m neurotic or anything.
All my friends, of a certain age you understand, are going through menopause, so I feel kinda left out. I’m really due to be menopausal. I’ve earned it.
I’m looking forward to having an excuse for my temper tantrums.
“Oh, Mom’s just menopausal,” I imagine my children saying as they tiptoe around the house avoiding my hypersensitive feelings.
“But you better clean up your room anyway,” they’ll add tenderly. In my fantasy world.
The reason that menopause hasn’t struck me yet is bound to be because I had that child late in life.
Or maybe it’s because I just love my estrogen cream.
It’s fragrance-free, plus it goes on like silk.
The instructions say to use only a dab, so I am not recommending the following course of action. I have no idea what the consequences are; side-effects could involve additional mammary glands, sort of like the blue Hindu goddesses I see in art museums.
But I spread that cream all over. In gobs.
I really like it as a face cream. Originally, I had hoped that it might hold back the wrinkles. Uh, no, that doesn’t work. Apparently.
I also love yams. And soy. I developed a taste for all-things-estrogen when my daughters moved away and left an estrogen vacuum at my house.
Suddenly, I found myself overwhelmed with testosterone. Or, as one of my friends said when they got their new puppy, “No more penises!”
I joined my mother’s garden club. I went back to my sorority meetings. Anything to be with other women.
I call my mom a lot. Bless her.
“You know, men go through menopause, too,” she told me.
What a relief. I bet that explains why my husband is so super-sensitive.
Cathy Primer Krafve, aka Checklist Charlie, lives and writes with a Texas twang. Comments are invited at http:/checklistcharlie.blogspot.com or cathykrafve@gmail.com.
I know this because every year I have my doctor draw blood and check it. Who knew there’s a test for menopausal women?
This only became a question because my husband kept saying, ‘Oh, you’re just going through menopause.”
No, I’m just super-sensitive and it has nothing at all to do with menopause thank you very much.
Most women, and apparently their husbands, dread menopause.
Let me just say that having your last child late in life does affect your perspective. When I started experiencing symptoms at 38, I thought then that I was probably just going through menopause early. I was afraid to tell anyone I was pregnant, for fear I’d have to go back and explain it was just a hot flash.
Now every time I get symptoms of any kind I think I’m pregnant. Not that I’m neurotic or anything.
All my friends, of a certain age you understand, are going through menopause, so I feel kinda left out. I’m really due to be menopausal. I’ve earned it.
I’m looking forward to having an excuse for my temper tantrums.
“Oh, Mom’s just menopausal,” I imagine my children saying as they tiptoe around the house avoiding my hypersensitive feelings.
“But you better clean up your room anyway,” they’ll add tenderly. In my fantasy world.
The reason that menopause hasn’t struck me yet is bound to be because I had that child late in life.
Or maybe it’s because I just love my estrogen cream.
It’s fragrance-free, plus it goes on like silk.
The instructions say to use only a dab, so I am not recommending the following course of action. I have no idea what the consequences are; side-effects could involve additional mammary glands, sort of like the blue Hindu goddesses I see in art museums.
But I spread that cream all over. In gobs.
I really like it as a face cream. Originally, I had hoped that it might hold back the wrinkles. Uh, no, that doesn’t work. Apparently.
I also love yams. And soy. I developed a taste for all-things-estrogen when my daughters moved away and left an estrogen vacuum at my house.
Suddenly, I found myself overwhelmed with testosterone. Or, as one of my friends said when they got their new puppy, “No more penises!”
I joined my mother’s garden club. I went back to my sorority meetings. Anything to be with other women.
I call my mom a lot. Bless her.
“You know, men go through menopause, too,” she told me.
What a relief. I bet that explains why my husband is so super-sensitive.
Cathy Primer Krafve, aka Checklist Charlie, lives and writes with a Texas twang. Comments are invited at http:/checklistcharlie.blogspot.com or cathykrafve@gmail.com.
Son of Man
Why didn’t he refer to himself as the Son of God?
Others called him Son of God, of course, but he called himself the Son of Man.
Why not claim the more impressive title? He deserved it after all.
Everywhere he went, Life sprang out of his words, his touch, his compassion. Just to touch the hem of his garment meant health. Health and Life and Power trailed after him like the followers who recognized and affirmed his Life-giving Nature with their curiosity or their adoration and awe.
Fruitless trees withered under the clarity of his Divine Purpose and Nature.
It makes sense that he would claim the unpretentious title, of course. He would leave room for humans to draw their own conclusions; to exercise their free will to decide who he is.
As I traveled along in my faith, I realized that the real miracle of the scriptures is summarized in the words, “God with us.”
This theme is repeated often by the New Testament writers, people who knew him personally and observed his Nature firsthand. Those guys who were trusted with the “Word of God” and received the gift of speaking in foreign languages instantaneously at Pentacost, recognized that he was the translation of God to humans
Recognizing the Creator’s astonishing Force, meant recognizing the difficulty that humans would have understanding One whose very Nature is Good and All-powerful.
Along the way, I grew to understand that God sought out humans to be his spiritual companions; this One, this Creator; this Force of Nature. His love transcended the limits of the creature who could not comprehend such a limitless Being. He sought us out in our limited perspective, inviting us to experience him in terms we could understand.
When the writers describe Jesus as the one in whom all things exist and have their being, they mean it. They got the message. They watched the “translation” and understood exactly Who they were dealing with. Peter stated “You are the Son of God.”
There it is again. That unclaimed title.
Most recently, I begin to believe that for Jesus, the real miracle was the miracle of existing in the flesh.
For him, to exist as the Creator was his very nature.
On the other hand, to limit that Creative Force, by translating himself into the form of a man and then to live within the confines that are inherent in his created, physical universe, that was the miracle; the true demonstration of his power.
The power of his love, actually.
For him, the real accomplishment, the real miracle, was to be the Son of Man.
No wonder Son of Man was the title he claimed.
Son of Man is also the title that honors the Creator’s Love for us.
The Cathy Primer Krafve, aka Checklist Charlie, lives and writes with a Texas twang. Comments are invited at http:/checklistcharlie.blogspot.com or cathykrafve@gmail.com.
Others called him Son of God, of course, but he called himself the Son of Man.
Why not claim the more impressive title? He deserved it after all.
Everywhere he went, Life sprang out of his words, his touch, his compassion. Just to touch the hem of his garment meant health. Health and Life and Power trailed after him like the followers who recognized and affirmed his Life-giving Nature with their curiosity or their adoration and awe.
Fruitless trees withered under the clarity of his Divine Purpose and Nature.
It makes sense that he would claim the unpretentious title, of course. He would leave room for humans to draw their own conclusions; to exercise their free will to decide who he is.
As I traveled along in my faith, I realized that the real miracle of the scriptures is summarized in the words, “God with us.”
This theme is repeated often by the New Testament writers, people who knew him personally and observed his Nature firsthand. Those guys who were trusted with the “Word of God” and received the gift of speaking in foreign languages instantaneously at Pentacost, recognized that he was the translation of God to humans
Recognizing the Creator’s astonishing Force, meant recognizing the difficulty that humans would have understanding One whose very Nature is Good and All-powerful.
Along the way, I grew to understand that God sought out humans to be his spiritual companions; this One, this Creator; this Force of Nature. His love transcended the limits of the creature who could not comprehend such a limitless Being. He sought us out in our limited perspective, inviting us to experience him in terms we could understand.
When the writers describe Jesus as the one in whom all things exist and have their being, they mean it. They got the message. They watched the “translation” and understood exactly Who they were dealing with. Peter stated “You are the Son of God.”
There it is again. That unclaimed title.
Most recently, I begin to believe that for Jesus, the real miracle was the miracle of existing in the flesh.
For him, to exist as the Creator was his very nature.
On the other hand, to limit that Creative Force, by translating himself into the form of a man and then to live within the confines that are inherent in his created, physical universe, that was the miracle; the true demonstration of his power.
The power of his love, actually.
For him, the real accomplishment, the real miracle, was to be the Son of Man.
No wonder Son of Man was the title he claimed.
Son of Man is also the title that honors the Creator’s Love for us.
The Cathy Primer Krafve, aka Checklist Charlie, lives and writes with a Texas twang. Comments are invited at http:/checklistcharlie.blogspot.com or cathykrafve@gmail.com.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Stabbed at School
“William just called to say he got six stitches in his abdomen today at school,” said my husband, having searched me out in the Cyber Café of the cruise ship.
I was attempting to download my first video blog in international waters via satellite. Cool stuff. But apparently not as interesting as my son’s life back home.
Naturally, we were a gazillion miles away in the middle of the Pacific Ocean having a romantic holiday at sea when the crisis hit.
How long will it take them to get a helicopter out here, I thought.
“What happened? Did some kid stab him?” I asked. Not that I’m hyper-paranoid or anything.
It turns out that a hostile door with a broken handle and a bad attitude jumped out and bit him in the abs, “right where I’m getting a six pack” according to our son.
There are rules about running down school hallways and past doors with resentments at being over fifty years old and subject to the whims of tax-payers who hate to vote in favor of bond elections. Who could blame a door with that kind of baggage?
My dad, the retired gynecologist who happens to have innumerable surgeries in his experience, and my mom who is much more stable and practical than me, took him to the doctor in our absence. This is probably a good thing.
The last time one of our kids had to be taken to the emergency room, I made a scene. Okay, I’m sorry, but those doctors in the emergency room did not carry that kid around in their wombs for nine months. That’s all I have to say on the subject.
That night, after the decision was made that we could forego the helicopter, I dreamed that my son showed me the wound and, even though there was no sign of redness around it and no fever to indicate infection, I still had a terrible foreboding that all was not right.
The wound looked like a pirate had stabbed him.
Not that I’ve ever seen a pirate stab wound, you understand. Somehow moms just know these things. Especially when sleeping in a bed that is rocking to the gentle rhythm of the Pacific Ocean a gazillion miles away from her stabbed son.
When he showed me the wound upon our return, it wasn’t anything at all like my dream.
“Mom, you could see the fat hanging out where the gash was,” he told me. He assured me that it didn’t hurt a bit and he didn’t shed one tear. Apparently there are not that many nerve endings in your belly.
Which made me think of liposuction for myself.
Unfortunately, the guilty door with a penchant for stabbing people until their fat falls out is already repaired, so I’m out of luck.
Cathy Primer Krafve, aka Checklist Charlie, lives and writes with a Texas twang. Comments are invited at http:/checklistcharlie.blogspot.com or cathykrafve@gmail.com.
I was attempting to download my first video blog in international waters via satellite. Cool stuff. But apparently not as interesting as my son’s life back home.
Naturally, we were a gazillion miles away in the middle of the Pacific Ocean having a romantic holiday at sea when the crisis hit.
How long will it take them to get a helicopter out here, I thought.
“What happened? Did some kid stab him?” I asked. Not that I’m hyper-paranoid or anything.
It turns out that a hostile door with a broken handle and a bad attitude jumped out and bit him in the abs, “right where I’m getting a six pack” according to our son.
There are rules about running down school hallways and past doors with resentments at being over fifty years old and subject to the whims of tax-payers who hate to vote in favor of bond elections. Who could blame a door with that kind of baggage?
My dad, the retired gynecologist who happens to have innumerable surgeries in his experience, and my mom who is much more stable and practical than me, took him to the doctor in our absence. This is probably a good thing.
The last time one of our kids had to be taken to the emergency room, I made a scene. Okay, I’m sorry, but those doctors in the emergency room did not carry that kid around in their wombs for nine months. That’s all I have to say on the subject.
That night, after the decision was made that we could forego the helicopter, I dreamed that my son showed me the wound and, even though there was no sign of redness around it and no fever to indicate infection, I still had a terrible foreboding that all was not right.
The wound looked like a pirate had stabbed him.
Not that I’ve ever seen a pirate stab wound, you understand. Somehow moms just know these things. Especially when sleeping in a bed that is rocking to the gentle rhythm of the Pacific Ocean a gazillion miles away from her stabbed son.
When he showed me the wound upon our return, it wasn’t anything at all like my dream.
“Mom, you could see the fat hanging out where the gash was,” he told me. He assured me that it didn’t hurt a bit and he didn’t shed one tear. Apparently there are not that many nerve endings in your belly.
Which made me think of liposuction for myself.
Unfortunately, the guilty door with a penchant for stabbing people until their fat falls out is already repaired, so I’m out of luck.
Cathy Primer Krafve, aka Checklist Charlie, lives and writes with a Texas twang. Comments are invited at http:/checklistcharlie.blogspot.com or cathykrafve@gmail.com.
Kids are surprisingly Resilient, Part 2
There were three of them. Broad in the shoulders, blond-headed, easy smiles.
Brothers. Big men on campus. Co-eds swooned at the thought of them.
Being a big man on the campus at the University of Texas, with a population slightly less than Tyler’s back then, was no small thing even thirty years ago.
Unlike some of the other uber-achievers at the university, these brothers were respected not only by their male friends, but also by the gals as real gentlemen.
Being a leader on that campus marked you as a future leader anywhere you decided to settle; the cream tended to rise to the top.
Many of the campus leaders spent summers working at Camp Longhorn. One of the first of the high-end sports camps, Camp Longhorn is the place where blobs were first invented right after WWII by the owner who was also the Longhorn’s winning swim team coach.
At least one of the brothers was a counselor at Camp Longhorn where he was a trend-setter, too. He was cool, tan, and in charge of the boats, spending his days pulling campers through the water and teaching them to ski. His joy was infectious. Any kid lucky enough to draw the straw for his boat knew they were in for a treat. He had a perceptive way of focusing on each camper and making them feel like the most special human on earth.
In my last year as a camper, we were scheduled to take a special field trip to some fabulous place that escapes my memory now.
The campers were all a-twitter about something else; a small detour in route to the real destination. The day of the trip, all the campers were squirming with anticipation.
The bus pulled up in front of a middle-class home on a shady, tree-lined street somewhere in central Texas.
We were there to take a break, get a drink, and to meet his parents.
His parents were the big event.
The thing that sticks with me most is that his parents were very clearly, tenderly, affectionately in love with each other. And his mother was deaf.
Yeah, that was in the days before our culture had run through half a dozen politically correct euphemisms, like handicapped, challenged, impaired or special.
Those parents welcomed a bus-load of sweaty camp kids into their home and both spoke clearly to the group, extending their affection to us. Fingers flew and hugs were exchanged as the mom waved goodbye to her son when we pulled away an hour later.
Don’t ya wonder what challenges, like being hearing-impaired, do to the dynamics of a family?
I’m not saying that having a mom who was deaf made those brothers turn out to be the exceptional people that they were.
Personally, I think it was their parent’s hearts.
Cathy Primer Krafve, aka Checklist Charlie, lives and writes with a Texas twang. Comments are invited at http:/checklistcharlie.blogspot.com or cathykrafve@gmail.com.
Brothers. Big men on campus. Co-eds swooned at the thought of them.
Being a big man on the campus at the University of Texas, with a population slightly less than Tyler’s back then, was no small thing even thirty years ago.
Unlike some of the other uber-achievers at the university, these brothers were respected not only by their male friends, but also by the gals as real gentlemen.
Being a leader on that campus marked you as a future leader anywhere you decided to settle; the cream tended to rise to the top.
Many of the campus leaders spent summers working at Camp Longhorn. One of the first of the high-end sports camps, Camp Longhorn is the place where blobs were first invented right after WWII by the owner who was also the Longhorn’s winning swim team coach.
At least one of the brothers was a counselor at Camp Longhorn where he was a trend-setter, too. He was cool, tan, and in charge of the boats, spending his days pulling campers through the water and teaching them to ski. His joy was infectious. Any kid lucky enough to draw the straw for his boat knew they were in for a treat. He had a perceptive way of focusing on each camper and making them feel like the most special human on earth.
In my last year as a camper, we were scheduled to take a special field trip to some fabulous place that escapes my memory now.
The campers were all a-twitter about something else; a small detour in route to the real destination. The day of the trip, all the campers were squirming with anticipation.
The bus pulled up in front of a middle-class home on a shady, tree-lined street somewhere in central Texas.
We were there to take a break, get a drink, and to meet his parents.
His parents were the big event.
The thing that sticks with me most is that his parents were very clearly, tenderly, affectionately in love with each other. And his mother was deaf.
Yeah, that was in the days before our culture had run through half a dozen politically correct euphemisms, like handicapped, challenged, impaired or special.
Those parents welcomed a bus-load of sweaty camp kids into their home and both spoke clearly to the group, extending their affection to us. Fingers flew and hugs were exchanged as the mom waved goodbye to her son when we pulled away an hour later.
Don’t ya wonder what challenges, like being hearing-impaired, do to the dynamics of a family?
I’m not saying that having a mom who was deaf made those brothers turn out to be the exceptional people that they were.
Personally, I think it was their parent’s hearts.
Cathy Primer Krafve, aka Checklist Charlie, lives and writes with a Texas twang. Comments are invited at http:/checklistcharlie.blogspot.com or cathykrafve@gmail.com.
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