The Seed of Truth

 Truth is a dandelion seed.

A seed arrives.  It comes through the wind in unusual ways.  It could be in a random conversation while standing in line somewhere.  It could be a paragraph in a newspaper.  It could be meeting someone new, or visiting somewhere new. 

No matter the route in which it gets to you, the seed is planted.  Since it seems like an unexpected gift, a pleasant diversion from routine living, the seed is buried, protected, watered, nurtured, and soon, a plant pushes through the soil and grows.

What joy at the discovery. The plan grows and eventually blooms.  Its bright yellow flower, contrasted by brilliant verdant stems, is sunshine and warmth in a physical form. It provides nourishment at the sight of it, but also in ingesting it.  This truth feels like it is the real thing.

And then, the flower changes shape.  Where once there were yellow petals, there is now a round head of prickly white. It has morphed into something untouchable, as the slightest touch breaks it apart, destroying it.  

What once was, now is not. It has changed, and in so doing, the true form is revealed. It is not as beautiful as was once believed. 

That which was thought to be truth is shown to be something completely different.

With a strong gust of wind, the "truth" is blown away.  And one is left with this sad fact: It was not true after all.

What is left? Something that one cannot be rid of. The seed regrows and returns year after year to mock as a reminder of naivete. The more fool oiu for thinking that anything or anyone is who or what they claim to be. 

With each gust of wind, the seeds of real truth are planted. And there is the rub.  

The truth has always been there. It has just been something the opposite of what was believed. 

When first planted, for a short moment, it seems, and sort of is, true, honorable, just pure, lovely and commendable (Philippians 4:9).

The real truth is that. . . there is no such truth on Earth or in people. We may see glimpses, which gives us hope and a vision of things to come, but for now, be cautious in seeking truth.  There is only One Source. 

A Penny for Your Thoughts

In 2023, the U.S. Mint reported that it cost 3.07 cents to make a penny in the U.S.  Thus, a penny is worth more in concept than in practice and use.  

After exiting the vehicle and rounding the front right fender of the car, I noticed something spattered all over the ground in front of the car.  My alarmed, first thought was "glass," since this is most commonly dispersed like confetti in a parking lot.  Curiously, however, I noted that the spatters were pennies.  There were a lot of them, and they were everywhere. This puzzled and annoyed me, but I stepped over them and continued with my shopping mission.  

Later, when I returned to the vehicle, I stared at the pile. I cannot explain why, but I grabbed a garbage bag from the car and started scraping the pennies into a pile with my shoe.  I'm sure the dude in the truck behind me was wondering what the heck I was doing. Once I had a pile, I picked them up, put them in my bag, and deposited them on the floor mat on the passenger's side of the car. 

As I drove away, I thought, Who throws away money?! Yeah, they are pennies, and their worth is questionable, but money is money.  

Anyone who has had to scrape pennies together to pay for a loaf of bread or a gallon of milk knows the value of a penny.  Those who have had to do without, who have had to put something on layaway or save up for a purchase, and/or put something back know the value of a penny.  

I have relayed this story to my students many times - how it was when Mike and I first were married.  I was still in college, and Mike was working full-time.  He was literally the bread winner, and I worked every other weekend at the nursing home to add to the emaciated "kitty."  We survived on $50 for groceries - we bought a gallon of milk and a loaf of bread each week, and we survived on Totino's Pizza ($1 each at the time) and pot pies.  

In 2025, we will hit the 35 year marriage milestone.  These days, we buy groceries when we want, and we buy whatever we want, and that is an immense blessing. I am well-aware that not everyone has that luxury. Fortunately and currently, we don't have to count pennies to survive, but to quote yet another idiom, life circumstances can turn on a dime.  

Humble beginnings are undoubtedly discouraging and challenging, but they are the best training ground for learning to manage money.  When you have nothing, you learn to be creative with what you have (often playing the role of MacGyver), and you learn the value of "Is this a want or a need?" 

That's why I cannot fathom the mentality of throwing away money - even if they are only pennies.  

Economics aside, these pennies are a lesson in humanity as well.  The act of throwing pennies away also gives me a little more about information about the values of the person throwing pennies on the ground. 

When I plucked these pennies off the ground, they were all in tough shape. I don't know how long they had been in the parking lot, but they were severely oxidized, some almost unrecognizable.  

After dumping them into an acid/salt combo (oddly, my homemade kombucha was the most effective), I started scrubbing and buffing the gunk off.  Among the copper, I found a penny from the year Candace was born (1993), from the year Erika was born (1996), and the year my sister-in-law graduated high school (1984). In its own little way, each penny is anchored to a year, and each year is anchored to a memory.  I already knew that music and scent can do that, but I guess money can too. 

After a few minutes of soaking and scrubbing, many of the pennies were restored to almost new condition, bright and shiny; others were dull and even pitted.   But all of them still had the same value. This is much like people too.  Time, attitude, relationships and life experiences all effect each of us in different ways - some making us better versions of ourselves, and others leaving us battered, bruised and pitted.  But in the end, a life is a life, and despite appearance or demeanor, each life has the same value as another.  

Some people choose their company in life based on the value that someone else brings to the relationship. This attitude has always rubbed me the wrong way. It seems to infer that one person's value is superior to another's. What I've learned is if my life path crosses with another's, it happens for a reason. It is not coincidental. It is in my best interest to decipher the why and what I am supposed to learn from the experience. It is with humility that I admit that I have also learned that often, but not always, the people I least appreciate reflect behavior, characteristics, and attitudes that I, too, possess, which incites self-reflection. And that is where growth begins. Sadly, the hardest lessons in life are often the most painful and irritating.

All together, my parking lot plucking yielded $.85.  This is another lesson. Paltry though the value is, a penny is still a penny. And when banded together with others, the collective value increases.  None of us were meant to live this life alone.  We value, as in, enjoy, life more and accomplish more in the collective. 

The Switch

The first half of a person's life is spent in walking into rooms and turning on lights, personally and professionally.  You flick the switch and either take a quick glance, or walk in to check things out.  If it doesn't appeal, you quickly move on to the next room. 

If the room appeals to you, you stay a while, making the room feel more like you. You handle, manage, arrange, rearrange and remodel, often adding more rooms, closets, and drawers. There is a constant flow of traffic - always someone coming and going.  Some visitors are welcomed and cherished.  You're sad when it's time for them to go.  Other visitors are a pain in the neck, and you breathe a sigh of relief when they have moved on. Sometimes, others (voyeurs) poke their heads in and offer unsolicited opinions, criticisms, and advice. They never enter, only stand at the doorway. If you respect the person, you take the words into consideration.  If you don't respect the person, you ponder the suggestions, keep what's helpful, dismiss what isn't. . .and change the code on the door.

Somewhere along the line, there is a shift. There is always a shift, and that shift signals that it's time to move on.  Sometimes, it's your idea, and sometimes, it's not.  It is far more satisfactory when an inner voice tells you it's time to move on; if someone else delivers that message, it can lead to anger, and bitterness is generally not far behind. Either way, time is standing at the doorway, tapping on his watch, an eyebrow raised.

Thus, the second half of life becomes a series of walking in and out of rooms and turning off lights.  Sometimes, those lights are in rooms with dreams you once had as a kid. It's not that you can't achieve them, but the likelihood or pressing desire to accomplish them is no longer there. Sometimes, those lights are in rooms where you once played with your own kids, the memories and their laughter are still bouncing off the walls. The time has come and gone.  Sometimes, those lights are in rooms where once a career thrived. Click, flick, click.  

And just about the time it starts to feel as though you're losing more than you're gaining, you walk into a room that feels like a Goldilocks room - just right, again.  It appeals to you. You see hobbies you always wanted to pursue but never had time to. You see the stacks of books that have been gathering dust on your bedside table. You see friends from the past that were lost in the pursuit of the holy grail - raising healthy kids.  You see tickets on a table, waiting to whisk you to places you never had the time, or money, to visit.  

And then there is a door in that room that is opened just a crack. The light is already on; it feels as though someone has been waiting for you.  As you pull open the door, you see the greatest joys and rewards. . .

And the contents of that room is different for everyone, and it may be different by the day.  

The point is that the room exists.  It's real. In fact, that room has been there all along.  It has been there everyday, even though the contents of the room has varied.

In reflecting, I realize that I have wasted too much time lingering too long in some rooms, seeking a place in rooms where I didn't belong, trying to make repairs in rooms where I didn't cause damage, and spending too much time in rooms that were draining versus energizing, simply because I thought that was what I was supposed to do. And maybe it was what I needed to do - for that time and for that place, but certainly not forever. For most of my life, I have believed longevity, loyalty, and commitment to the rooms to be badges of pride. Now I’m not so sure about that.

When it comes to life and life events, Mike always says this: "Sunrise. Sunset." Light switches are life.  There is a time to turn them on.  There is a time to turn them off.  Rather than look at it from the standpoint of losing and gaining, it is much better, and infinitely more satisfactory, to look at it as a process of moving through.  Turning off a light and leaving one room means turning on a new one and moving into something new and different, not better or worse. 

Even though the process of moving through began a while ago, it’s only recently that I have begun to pay attention. That said, I would ask that you please excuse me.  There are a few rooms that need my attention, in one of which are three little people, soon-to-be five, waiting for me.  

What's Your Story?

 It occurred to me this morning that everybody is an author.  

What we did yesterday is history, and history, in its most simplistic format, is one long, continuous story.

 The characters come and go.  Depending on the situation, some of us are flat characters, but most often, we are rich, round characters. Unfortunately, some are static, and spend (waste?) a whole lifetime stubbornly refusing to grow or heal. Most, however, are dynamic - pushing through, or passing through, joyful and tragic circumstances - and using them to move to the next iteration of themselves.

Similarly, the plot of this meandering story continues, subject to numerous plot twists and conflicts.  Every time one problem, or complication, is resolved, a new one emerges. 

In short, history. . .herstory. . .ourstory. . .yourstory. . .mystory has been unfolding long before I was born and will presumably continue long after I am gone. 

But for now - for this time and in this space, you and I are not only characters in this story; we are also contributing authors to this story. 

And so, here is the gravitas associated with this revelation: Even though I, the character, in the story will only have meaning and relevance for, at most, 100 years (give or take), I, the author, will have immeasurable significance. 

To explain, realistically, my name and the stories of and about me will only recognizable or retained for at most, 100 years.  Any generations beyond my grandchildren will only know me as a face, possibly a name, and whatever stories or details that my grandchildren remember and relay.  With regard to my students and colleagues, my name and face will exist until I die, and as to my job, I will exist only until I hand over my key fob and laptop.  

It all sounds depressing. . .if our story is merely our physical existence.

The story, however, is really the sum total of our choices on a daily basis:

- How we react when things don't go our way,

- The habits or traditions we choose and hold firm to,

- What we say and do when someone betrays or hurts us deeply,

- The way we show love to both lovable and unlovable people,

- Our generosity or stinginess when it comes to time, money, and love

- The little things we do or say when we think no one is watching,

- The way in which we treat people - all people - related to us, like us, near us, or not

This is the REAL story we write with our lives.  This is where we become "immortal." This is how we shape and redefine the plot moving forward.  This is how we influence the story that is to come for generations we will never meet, and who will never know us.  This is how we leave a mark on history. . .herstory. . . yourstory. . .and theirstory. The denouement has already been decided, so you don't have to worry about the ending. It's the plot diagram and development in getting there that is the consideration. 

Given all that, as you add your plotline today, tomorrow, next week, next year, what story is important to tell? What plot points are you passionate about? What story do you want generations ahead of you to know and live? 

As an author in both this communal, endless narrative we call history, and your own personal narrative, what kind of tale are you hoping will be told? And most importantly, what are you doing today, right now, and every day to bring that storyline (literally) to life? 

Bread of Life

 Just as it does with everyone else, the time change punked me this morning.  I was wide awake at 4, which is actually 5. Since I had the extra time, I decided to get up and try a new bread recipe, even though I've never been good at bread. I can bake just about everything else, but bread is a skill that still eludes me. 

Once I had all the ingredients mixed together, in the stipulate order and at the stipulated temperatures, I started in on the seemingly-endless process of kneading. I set a timer for a guesstimation of minutes for kneading and started the rhythmic, back and forth, side-to-side pound and sway. 

The thing about bread-making is that it requires patience and just the right baking conditions. One does not just decide to bake bread; one plans to make bread. In other words, one does not just wake up and say, "I want to bake fresh bread for breakfast."  The only ways in which that statement can be true is if A) one gets up at like 3 am, or B) one gets in his/her car and drives to the bakery to purchase a fresh loaf. In bread-making, there is a plan, and it is a plan that unfolds after several steps and the passage of time. 

Likewise, baking conditions count. If the liquid is too cold, the yeast won't activate.  If the liquid is to hot, it kills the yeast. Too much flour, and the loaf becomes a brick.  No salt, and it lacks flavor.  If the room is too cold, the loaf won't prove. And then, there is the arduous process of kneading. 

Kneading has to happen in order in order for bread to happen.  Kneading consists of rolling, punching, twisting, and turning the dough for several minutes.  If s/he didn't know better, a passing observer might think that the baker is angry, given the seemingly violent action. But kneading makes sure that all the ingredients in the bread get evenly distributed. Kneading makes sure that all the ingredients have been exposed to a consistent, warm temperature (from the hands that knead the dough). Kneading traps the little air bubbles that are necessary to create the dance between gluten and yeast that makes a loaf rise. Thus, kneading is necessary; the elusive question is how long to knead the dough. 

This is where the second round of magic happens.  A baker has to pay attention during the kneading process, because the question of length of kneading is based on texture - how it feels in the baker's hands.  A properly-kneaded loaf will feel smooth and elastic. It's easily stretched and leaves a slight impression, almost like a finger to a cushion. A baker does a fair amount of watching in order to gauge this, but truly, the best way to know enough is enough is by feel.  

Why the bread lesson?  Well, it's not about bread at all.  Not really.  

While kneading, I had several minutes in which to ponder. 

Once upon a time, across history eras and geographical locations, bread was life.  Other than meat, it was the only available food, and when meat wasn't available, it was what kept people alive.  A hobo, who had been interviewed for The Great Shake-Up,  a documentary on the 1930s on the History Channel, reported that after asking for some food, a lady told him all she had was bread, to which he replied, "Bread would taste like cake." So in a very real, physical sense, bread is life. 

Bread is also life in the metaphorical sense.  Bread-making requires time and patience. One does not get to fast-forward to the end. S/he has to follow the process, one step at a time.  Likewise, all the necessary ingredients must be there in order for the dough to become a loaf. By themselves, salt and yeast won't make a loaf.  The other ingredients are necessary.  The same is true in life.  Happiness alone does not lead to a quality loaf. Neither do sadness and hardship.  They are all necessary in order for the loaf to become what it was intended to be.

And then there is the kneading process.  In life, we often feel as though we are beat up - we are rolled up in situations we didn't ask for; we are punched - sometimes by situations and words of our own making, and sometimes by being in the wrong place at the wrong time; our words and intentions get twisted; and we get turned around, disoriented by life's curveballs.  When we are in the middle of it, we not only ask "Why?" but "How long will this last?"

I think you already the answer to that question.

The Baker knows what He is doing.  He knows exactly the ingredients needed - and the quantity of each - in order for us to become the end product we were destined to be.  He has the knowledge, skills and wisdom to add them in just the right order, and at just the right time.  The same is true for kneading.  He knows exactly for how long the process must continue. In walking on earth and being one of us for a while, He is well-acquainted, even more so than us, as to the texture of "enough" - He knows what it feels like. When we are in the process, we just need to trust that the Baker knows best.

Will my loaf turn out this time?  Time will tell.  It's still processing.  

Will the Baker's loaf turn out? IF you trust the Baker and let the Him do His thing, you already know the answer to that question. 

Sweet Baby Girl's Lesson

I guess I have been clueless, or naive.  That's not like me.  Usually, I am fairly perceptive. In my own little world, what you see is what you get.  In other words, I don't pretend to be something that I'm not, and I don't lie.  If I like something, I say it.  If I don't like something, I either say it, or keep my mouth shut, but you will know.  I try to live a fairly transparent life, and when I feel as though it's inappropriate or may hurt someone by being transparent, I say nothing at all, and just plain do not engage. My problem has been that I think that everybody thinks similarly - that authenticity and truth is a non-negotiable. 

Not only is this not true; this year has turned out to be the year of hate for me.  Only I haven't been doing the hating.  I have become privy to just how much I am hated.  Ok, "hated" might be a harsh word, but "disliked" definitely applies.

First, work. I've never been popular at work.  That is definitely one place where I have let my opinions be known, mostly because many decisions and mandates have been averse to both staff and students.  As a result, I have no doubt that it has caused me to be the target of dislike. Over the years, it has become increasingly obvious.  While hurtful, I have just muddled through and done my job. My work ethic and integrity are important to me, so I have always done my best.  In addition to professional dislike, there is the personal dislike that accompanies it. I would venture to say that most places of employment are like large middle schools, replete with the cool kids, the loners, and the undesirables.  I know which category I am in, but as time has gone on, it smarts just a little bit more.

I have always said that life is bearable when at least one area of your life is ok.  For example, if things suck at work, but are fine at home (personal relationships), it's a wash.  The same is true in reverse - if life sucks at home, but work is decent, it's bearable.  When both are out of whack, you're in trouble.  Such has been the case this year. 

With regard to my formerly most-trusted interpersonal relationships, I've been told off - both in written and verbal forms, I have been yelled at, I have been disrespected, and I have been dismissed.   I have felt the chill of hostility, and the throbbing pain of betrayal. The expectations from others for me have been unrealistically high, but God forbid, I voice any expectations for others.  Gaslighting? Check. Verbal abuse? Check. Ignored? Check. Manipulation and hostility? Check.  Pick a word associated with fraught relationships. Any word.  I bet I have experienced it this year.  

I'm a strong person, and I have endured much in my life time - especially within the last ten years.  But each time, I have been able to brace myself against the torrent.  I have been close to being knocked down, and I may have faltered or taken a knee at times, but I have never gone down.  But this year?  It's getting pretty damn close. I've lost my equilibrium, and have been backed into a corner.  I feel trapped, and am having trouble finding a way out. As a result, I have been down more than I have been up. 

This morning, I was having a moment.  Waves of grief and sadness kept rolling over me.  I have a friend who is, and has been, fighting an illness since 2009.  It's a serious battle, but each day, she only allows herself ten minutes to be sad or feel sorry for herself.  Then, she puts her grief and sadness on a shelf and goes about her life.  I texted her, "Teach me your ways."  I have not been able to shelve, or compartmentalize, my feelings very well.  I don't know how she does it. 

As another wave hit me this morning, I was on the floor, playing with my granddaughter.  We were arranging the animals in the Fischer Price barn, making all the requisite animal noises to correlate with the barnyard residents.  As we played, my vision blurred as tears overflowed.  One fat tear slid down to the end of my nose.  

Turning to look at me, mouth poised to make a "moo," my granddaughter noticed the tear, stuck out her chubby little finger and swiped it off my nose.  Then, she immediately returned to the cow in her hand. 

How is it that a one-year-old can have more compassion than a whole world of adults?  It's easy for adults to dismiss the sadness around them, or slap a label on someone who is sad. . "Oh, she's just playing the victim again". . .or, "I don't feel sorry for him. He did it to himself." It's far easier to be judgmental than to stop and check in.  Sweet baby girl didn't make a big deal out of it.  She just swiped away the tear, letting me know she saw it, and continued on while staying by my side.  

Matthew 18:3 came to mind: "And He said: Truly I tell you, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven" 

Becoming like a little child means being present, in the moment.  Littles don't worry about "later," nor do they dwell on yesterday.  They are right in the here and now.  Likewise, littles are so attuned to the feelings, vibrations and energy that others give off.  

Both of these characteristics are key when it comes to entering the kingdom of heaven as well. No, they aren't requirements in order to GET to heaven.  But they are the fruits of the kingdom of heaven.  If we declare ourselves to be Christ-followers, our lives should bear the fruit of that declaration as well.  

Are things going to get better?  Of course, they are.  Things won't look the same as they did, and all things considered, that's a good thing. Neither will I be the same person. My circle just got even smaller than it was, and I am thankful to be flanked by a fantastic husband and a loyal friend. Even so, God doesn't waste hurts.  These challenges are growth opportunities, and it's up to me to figure out what God wants, and respond in kind.  This, too, shall pass.  

Sweet baby girl's simple action today reminded me first and foremost, that kindness does exist, and that it's most effective and genuine when it's uncomplicated and not overthought. It also reminded me of the value and necessity of being in a single moment at a time.  God has had a lot to say on that, and the lesson to be learned is that lessons are learned in those moments.  I just have to be paying attention. A final reminder is that the condition of the heart trumps the head every time.  I'm not talking about letting emotions drive the bus; that will probably mean an ugly derailment at some point.  However, a pure heart - one connected to the Creator of love - will show me exactly what I need to do at any given moment.  

Keep Going

A bike lock doesn't look like much - it certainly doesn't look like much of an obstacle, until it is.  We were just about done moving Erika's stuff out of her apartment, and there was one object yet to be loaded into the truck:  Her bike.  Unfortunately, she wasn't there, and she didn't know where the key was, so Mike pulled out a grinder and set to work on the lock.  Like I said, a bike lock doesn't look like much.  At a glance, it seems like a couple of good, hard yanks should be sufficient to release the chain and lock.  Not so much.  After a couple of minutes with the grinder (and several askew glances from the residents going in and out of the apartment building), we had freed the bike and were on our way. 

Many people pray for chains to be broken.  Sometimes, it is a chain of addiction.  Sometimes, it is a generational chain to be broken.  Sometimes, it is a chain on habituation.  Sometimes, it is a chain of a default emotion, such as fear or anger.  

I am one of those people who pray about chains.  Many years ago, I prayed for a chain to be broken.  There have been many mornings since that I have prayed the same prayer. . .and then expressed the same frustration. The movement that I expected to be in one direction ended up going in the opposite direction.  This morning could have been one of those mornings, but I actually laughed out loud instead.

I should have known better. This is what made me laugh, not derisively, but with something on the precipice of joy.

First, let's get one thing straight: God. Answers. Prayer. Since He knows our hearts - to the very whisper of our true motivations - He very clearly knows when our prayers are God-honoring and when they are self-serving.  With regard to the former, I see Him high-five me and exclaim, "I got this!" in my mind's eye. It's the "how" and "when" to answering those prayers that He has complete creative license.  Sometimes, our prayers are answered in the way we want, or as we expected.  Sometimes, they are answered completely opposite to what we want or expected.  ALL the time, the answers are in the best, correct, and only way. And NEVER are those prayers ignored.  He knows the right moment, and that is exactly when they will be answered.

Now, back to the chain. Breaking a chain is not an easy task. Duh.  The bike example is proof positive of that.  It required the correct tool.  It requires the correct amount (and often, it's a lot) of pressure, and it requires patience.  That chain and lock have been designed to hold.  Thus, neither is going to give way very easily.  As a result, the breaking process may take multiple efforts and methods, not just a one-time pass.

This is also what has happened with my prayers. Multiple passes.  Multiple efforts. How presumptuous of me to think it would be a once and done.  Not that it couldn't.  God is fully capable of a once and done. But in my case, God knows me, and He knows my arrogant, independent, I-can-do-it-myself heart.  Too soon, and I might risk taking the credit, celebrating "my" success."  I don't blame Him for letting me face-plant my ego and skin the knees of my heart.  Quite the opposite, I applaud His method and appreciate His foresight.  Good parents let their kids experience consequences.  Too late have I realized that it's not the consequence itself that is important; it is how one (the child) processes the consequence that is most important, as it provides the means of character development (and if necessary, change in character). 

Each time the chain holds, I have to re-group and come at the problem with a new approach and renewed energy.  Like Thomas Edison, I have not failed.  I have discovered another way that doesn't work.  This is where the idea of finding the right tool comes in.  THAT ONE didn't work.  Now I need to find/try a new one. 

And this is what made me smile this morning. Through each failure, my heart is changing as well.  Each failure requires me to come back to the drawing board (God's Word). More self-evaluation (through reflection and time spend in prayer). More humility. Patience and pressure will eventually pop the lock, break the link.  Breaking a chain is like a weight loss plan, you need a strong "why," consistency, and the right tools, environment and people for it to work.  

If it honors God, the chains will be broken, no doubt about that.  

The pressure is on.

It might hurt.  It will cause fatigue.  It will be frustrating, but keep going.  Keep going.

Keep going.