Get It In Writing

Has it really been two months since I spilled the beans about the truth behind the Ave Maria Incident? Sheesh.

But I digress. Today, I'd like to talk about cabinets and customer service.

My husband and I dismantled our kitchen before harvest. We started demolition on August 15th. Today is December 15th. Four months. FOUR MONTHS. Guess what? I'm still washing dishes in the bathroom.

The limiting factor: No kitchen cabinets. And not for lack of trying. We ordered them. (From Creative Cabinets on North Vermilion in Danville, Illinois. BUYER BEWARE.) The cabinets came. The cabinets came out of the boxes. The cabinets went right back into their boxes.

How do I hate these cabinets? Let me count the ways. Ugly. Cheap. Thin. Trashy. These cabinets are not worthy of being installed in a trailer.

So now I have to sue Mr. Chris White at Creative Cabinets to get my down payment. Isn't that great? In the meantime, I guess I am going to keep doing dishes in the bathroom. Isn't that appetizing?

Lesson learned: Get it in writing. Make them write down that the cabinets are pretty, well made, wood, thick, substantive. Make them write down that wood means wood. Take nothing for granted; I discovered that wood does indeed not mean wood.

I'm having a Clinton flashback. What does "is" mean?

Wounded soldier

In honour of our friend Jamie:

Wounded Soldier

(by Danny Daniels)

I am a wounded soldier
But I will not leave the fight
Because the Great Physician
Is healing me
So I’m standing in the battle
In the armour of His light
Because His mighty power
Is real in me

I am loved (I am loved)
I am accepted (I am accepted)
By the Saviour of my soul (Saviour of my soul)
I am loved (I am loved)
I am accepted (I am accepted)
And my wounds will be made whole

When to Quit

The staff at my school recently filled out a survey about our lives: Favourite sandwich, patron saint, why we work with kids. The worst question asked was what our most embarrassing experience was. Most teachers' descriptions were pretty minor league: Forgetting a drivers license, losing the car in the Walmart parking lot, tripping and falling.

My answer was perhaps a bit more major. To this day, it embarrasses me. I sang Schubert's Ave Maria in a wedding. Solo.

The scenario: Summer, 1996. My friend Diane asked me to solo the Ave Maria as she would walk down the aisle. I reminded Diane that I don't really have a solo-type of voice. She assured me that it was fine; she said she would rather have someone sing it who understood its significance. I agreed to sing it and quickly found a voice coach.

I went twice a week to voice lessons. I practiced religiously (excuse the pun) -- not just the song, but the breathing exercises and all the other peripheral stuff that was supposed to help me improve. My teacher was incredibly positive who gave me liberal doses of encouragement and feedback. A month before the wedding, I asked my brother and his wife to come to my lesons with me. My sister in law is blessed with musical ability that doesn't seem to exist in my family. She listened to me politely and then made polite comments that let me know that I had a long way to go. I remember thinking, okay, I have a month to conquer my poor performance. I can do anything I put my mind to. I'm a Farrell. And I am not a quitter.

Cecilia, my best girlfriend of many moons, suggested that I perform it in a more quiet, whispy, meditative voice. At that time, I was offended -- I knew that such tactics were inconsistent with proper voice performance. In retrospect, she was trying to tell me kindly not to attempt "proper voice performance." That was wise advice and I was a fool for not taking it.

On the actual day of the wedding, I went an hour early to rehearse. After I ran through the song, Greg Walton (a professional musician and my accompanist that day -- see www.gregwalton.com) told me that if I wanted, he would sing it. "I make old ladies cry," he advised. Again, a kind way of saying, "Oh my goodness, just let me do this and save all these people from listening to you!" I should have acquiesced; I just didn't get his message loud and clear.

We have all been to weddings where the soloist, an amateur with a "good" voice, sings horribly. It is uncomfortable to sit through. Worse (for the singer), it becomes a sort of conversation piece at the reception. No one wants to be that singer. Reality cannot be disputed: Choir voices do not have the rich, operatic qualities necessary for solo performances. I do not have the control nor the confidence to sing on my own, especially to 300+ people. I was the conversation piece that day, and when I was done singing, I knew it.

The Ave Maria opened Mass that day, so I had to endure then entire ceremony after I finished the song. I stepped back from the microphone, unsure of how I had done. I could tell right away, though: There were no positive glances or smiles. I knew I had bombed when not one person in that choir made a gesture to let me know I had done a good job. I was humiliated. When Mass was over, I ran for my car and drove home in tears. Feeling that I had ruined the wedding ceremony, I laid in my bed and cried for the rest of the day.

I asked Diane later what she thought. She told me she was so focused on getting down the aisle, she never heard me. Kind, but probably somewhat untrue. She didn't know how to tell me I had wasted all that voice lesson money -- and failed her.

Recently I brought it up with a friend who was in attendance. He looked at me sideways and admitted quietly, "Yeah, that was not great." Not great. As is my M.O., I immediately defended myself: I am not a professional! I was nervous! I was scared! He replied with something about how he was sure that my vocal chords were tight from my being so tense. Yeah, that's it -- I was a bomb because I was tense, not because I am devoid of talent.

Even though 9 years have passed, it still stung to be told that I was "not great." In the past several weeks, my thoughts returned often to the humiliation I felt then, and it is just as fresh today.

Perhaps it is timely, then, that my family watched Greg Walton this week on EWTN's "Backstage." I watched him sing and remembered him telling me that his rendition of the Ave Maria makes the old ladies cry. He is so talented -- it must have pained him to accompany me on piano that day. I sat on my couch with my husband, watching him on TV, wondering if he thought less of me 9 years ago for attempting something I had no business trying.

I insisted on performing per Diane's request because I was raised to not be a quitter. I wanted desperately to take Greg up on his offer of singing for me, but I chose not to because I didn't want to give anyone the impression that I let stage fright get the best of me.

I'm not a quitter. I'm not a quitter. I'm not a quitter!

If there is a moral of the story, it is that sometimes, it is okay to quit. You just have to know when it is prudent to stick with it and when it is indeed better to give up. I made a mistake 9 years ago by not letting it go. I should have told Diane upfront that perhaps I could lead a rosary before Mass instead of singing. I should have let Greg sing. I should have not put such emphasis on perseverance. If I had quit, who would have cared? It would have saved me from being known to 300 people as The Girl Who Cannot Sing.

P.S. Sorry, Diane!

Corn Plastic

As the wife of a corn producer (read: farmer), I am intrigued by new uses for corn. Most corn is used for feeding livestock, and this has historically been the case since field corn came on the scene decades ago. Bruce also raises white corn, which gets distributed by our buyer to Mexican bakeries. They soak it, grind it, and make tortillas out of it. Our arrangement is unusual, as direct human consumption of field corn is not the norm.

(A small note here: What we raise is called "dent" corn because it has a big, husky kernel with a dent in the top. This is altogether different from sweet corn or popping corn. They are part of smaller specialty markets.)

Now you may have noticed ethanol trying to make its way into your gas tank. I cannot comment intelligently about ethanol as a viable product, as I do not know how much energy is required to extract the ethanol from the corn. I would imagine it's net zero, plus some job creation, maybe. A great many farmers, however, rally behind ethanol production; it purports to give them job security.

Now on the scene we have corn plastics. Some are biodegradable and disposable (like the clear drinking cups you use at the church picnic); others are more permanent. A sample of the permaent stuff:

http://www.designs2doodads.com/images/Promo_Items/SalePages/QuickPoint/Corn_Mugs.html

I am not sure how corn plastics will affect crop production and the business of agriculture; however, I am excited about plastics that have no memory of ever being crude oil. It may not be a solar-powered automobile, but it's a small step in the right direction.

My brain

I cannot help but wonder, when (oh when) will I be smart again?

I am not sure when it started, but I have become a ditz. I believe it might be tied to childbirth, but I can't be certain. I cannot remember words that would fit perfectly into my sentence, nor can I remember names and phone numbers. This is getting serious -- my encyclopedic knowledge of phone numbers used to be my signature skill. Used to.

Recently, Bruce and I spent the day with "Craig," a friend who offered to help on the farm. At the end, I cheerfully bid him adieu: "Bye, Chris!" Where did that come from? How embarrassing.

They say that for two years after you have a baby, your brain does some kind or another of adjustment, all chemical and organic, allegedly, that makes mom flakey. Can I blame it on this? My 2nd son is 31 months old!

I really think the problem is not being in school. I know my brain is not made of muscle, but fat (and it keeps good company), but I must wonder whether flexing my brainpower daily in college kept me in better shape. Experientially, this seems possible -- I *feel* intellectually flabby.

So this leads to my next thought: When and how does a person like me get brain-stimulation? Most of my conversations with friends center on laundry soap and diapers. Heck, I call girlfriends in a flurry when I find a cleaning product I like. This is not doing much for stretching the brain cells. Worse, my husband is not a talker. Help!

Reflecting on my experience, I can see now in my 30's how old people become obsessed with retelling stories and describing illnesses and pains in detail. I'm just hoping I can reverse the pattern. Politics, religion, philosophy, literature ... anything, anything! Someone, talk to me! Quick, before my brain rots beyond repair. I just hope it isn't too late.

Orcs

I am not a fantasy person, so I've never bothered with the JRR Tolkien trilogy, The Lord of the Rings -- until recently. Last year my remote control happened upon one of the movies accidentally, and I was hooked in 20 seconds. The hook probably had more to do with the New Zealand backdrop (breathtaking!) than the story line, but I got into that, too. Me, the person who never buys a movie. Who rarely goes to the theatre. Who depends on younger, hipper students to round out my pop culture education. Net Flix? What's that? Contrary to my nature, I ran out and purchased all 3 movies. I even got the more expensive versions with the outtakes (or is it outakes?) and notes on the films' production.

I have had the books on my bookshelves for years. Being a Catholic, I always intended to read them for the purposes of being able to discuss Tolkien's analogies and worldview with some level of intelligence. I just never got around to it. I'm not a fantasy person. (I'm not a fantasy person!!) I decided this summer to treat myself to the written word on which these excellent movies were based. Although it is my understanding that Tolkien was not hot on allegory, his paradigm is incredible.

Example: Orcs. Isn't it cool how none of the Fellowship seems scared of the orcs? (Save, perhaps, Merry and Pippin.) I don't know about you, but *I* was scared of them. I thought they were monsterous, the stuff of childhood nightmares. By analog, we have demons. Perhaps we can think of some of the characteristics of demons as being parallel to those of orcs: Fierce, loyal to the Evil One, ugly, twisted, asymmetrical. Not too bright. On a mission. Stronger in numbers. They wanted to reign, to escort in the Age of the Orcs. (That last one is key.)

Yet, the Fellowship ran at them with swords and arrows, fearless, delighted to slay them. Legolas and Gimli, you might recall, had a contest at each battle wherein they kept a tally of those they had downed. They were not scared, I suppose, because an orc could rupture their bodies, but never their spirits. An orc could rob Aragon or Legolas or Gimli of life (as they did Boromir), but they could never rob them of their heart and intent.

The Fellowship had one intention in their tangles with the Orcs: They desired to lessen the evil in the world, not to kill out of vengeance or anger or spite. No life issues here -- Tolkien obviously didn't want us to concern ourselves with the conversion of orcs. They had made their choice, chosen their alliance. No going back. No switching sides. You're either a shirt or a skin. Orcs. Demons. Hmmm.

What can we learn from all this? Don't be scared of orcs? Something like that. I admit I remain scared of demons for the same reason I was scared of orcs: They are loyal to Evil, they have strength in numbers, and they have set themselves upon the Age of the Orcs. Also, the evil that had the Orcs' hearts by the tail was the same evil that captured Frodo at the last minute. Don't think, Kari, that because you're on a strong course now, you won't screw up at the end. The battle is won, yes, but we still mustn't mess with demons. Slay them? Well, I am not lionhearted like Aragon, but there is a way to slay.

Next step: Remember Tolkien was a Catholic. Me, too. So what do we Catholics have going for ourselves? Simple: The tools of the faith that bring down the biggest trolls and the strongest olephantes. Mass, the Eucharist, the Rosary. The Rosary. St. Padre Pio's weapon of choice. A sword and a refuge. With such weapons, the battle is sweet and the joy is everlasting. Just like for Aragon, Legolas, and Gimli. Good stuff, Mr. Tolkien.

First things first

When I sit at my desk, I am surrounded by clutter. It's not junk -- far from it. (Unless you think the electric bill is junk.) Bills, papers to be filed, tax forms, slips of paper with phone numbers scribbled on them ... we've got it all here, and in abundance.

So I sit down. Where to start? Well, I should work on that stupic masters degree I never bothered to finish. But I have to pay bills. And that would mean collecting them. Ugh. How about writing some Linux articles? Hmmm ... a strong candidate. Time to play my iTunes. What's that on FoxNews? Ope, the phone is ringing -- hold on, Mr. Computer. I have to do billing. Can I do that while I'm on the phone? Nope, the cord doesn't reach. Chat a minute, claim to have to get back to work, hang up. How nice of her to call. Dang, I need a refill on my coffee. You wanted me to find the survey of our property and make copies? The copier is out of toner, isn't it? No, I replaced the toner; there's something else wrong with it. Too late to call the repair man. I'll put that on my list of things to do for tomorrow. Ok, where was I? No, I don't know whether that fax went through. Hey, I've got mail! What about that other email accounts? Check them quick, too. It'll only take a sec. Please turn off the TV -- Bill O'Reilly is distracting me. Time to change songs on the iTunes -- I don't like this one. Why is it on my iPod? I'm sorry, what? No, I didn't go to the cleaners today. Can it wait til Friday? I promised him I'd print out that article, but now I can't find the link. Wait, how big was that check you wrote today? Well I didn't know it was going to cost *that* much. I have to grade those papers. No! Don't touch that pile! If you move it, I'll never find my stuff!

And that, my friends, is why I don't get anything done.

Always right

I am somewhat fascinated that no one is ever wrong. At least to them. Anyone who dares criticize or disagrees? Also wrong! Amazing!

An example:

Today at school, a teacher insisted that her students (intermediate grade level) did not under any circumstances need to know about ancient Rome or Mesopotamia. She felt like Abraham Lincoln was plenty. Why bog down curriculum with classical topics? The school, in her opinion (opinion? it's not fact?), needed to shake loose of the classical curriculum. I am sure she confided in me because she was pretty sure I would agree. (Nope. I *want* my kids to learn about ancient Rome.) Although I didn't speak up, it disturbed me a bit. What would be wrong with a grade schooler learning about the establishment of civilization?

Another school-related example: Last year, some parents got upset about a "joke" in the yearbook. The two ladies who put the yearbook together did a lovely job, but they let that joke stay in. In fact, they approved on the grounds that it was funny. The parents put the principal in the middle. These teachers were fuming. How dare anyone question their judgment?

Question their judgment ... familiar theme ...

New example, same idea: Yesterday, I got into a little bit of a (how do I put this politely?) disagreement with my foster son's case worker tonight. I do not see her point of view; she definitely does not see mine. The topic is irrelevant. Suffice it to say, she is right. I am right. Wait a second ... we can't disagree and both be right!

I read recently on some education site somewhere that we study math and science topics that we will never use because it is part of the human quest for truth. (I read education sites because I have an EdM in progress that I am 95% done with but will probably never finish due to inertia. I am interested in education but hope to never end up in a classroom again. Long story.)

That word -- TRUTH -- ate at me, slowly but surely. What is truth? Do I always know the truth? (Obviously not!) Do I always want the truth? (Honestly, um, *cough*, no, I don't.) Then why on earth do I act like I'm always right?

Perhaps this is cultural. We all think we're right -- all the time. We can never stop to see another person's ideas as valid. And saying, "You're right," or "I'm sorry" is seemingly impossible. But did you ever notice that when that rare gem of a soul admits his faults, agrees with others, and occasionally changes his mind, he seems charming and humble? We like it when others can admit fault, a flaw in logic, or a malformed philosophy. They seem intellectually honest -- like they really do take the scientific method seriously enough to allow their conclusions to change when the data is challenged.

I refer here not to yes-men who go along with whatever to please or avoid an argument. I am describing the truly intelligent, honest, and humble among us who can say, "I never thought of it that way," or, "You really have a point there."

If we love to hear such from others, why don't we ever employ such comments ourselves? Perhaps we never have the opportunity, since we're so consistently correct. It's hard to admit you're wrong when you're never wrong.

Which is my point.

If you are reading this and finding yourself recalling multiple times that you have put yourself in someone else's place, seen it from another point of view, considered the adversary's perspective, or just plain said you're sorry, then please let me know -- I want to be your friend. Your humility is a gift, and I would love to learn from it, as I find identifying my own errors much more challenging than identifying those of others.

I come by it honestly; being right is the American way.

My new diet

I have tried them all: Weight Watchers, Covert Bailey, Bob Greene, Body for Life, and my personal favourite, Atkins.

[Allow me to digress momentarily about Atkins. I *love* this diet. When I am calorie-conscious and keep to to less than 1500 kCal, I lose weight like crazy, all the while enjoying eggs, cream in my coffee, etc. This carnivore doesn't care about not having dessert!]

One thing about almost every diet I've ever been on is that it seems contrary to God's plan. Two eggs a week, no red meat, drink this shake . . . Is this really what God wants our diet to look like? As much as I love the Atkins diet, I find it hard to believe I'm meant to forego fruit but Splenda and sugar alcohol is okay. Come on!

So this week, I'm starting something new in my house: The God's Plan Diet. We'll be eating fruit, veggies (cooked and raw), cheese, all the eggs we want, lots of nuts, honey, red meat, fish, and chicken. We'll be steering clear of white flour, refined sugar, and processed foods like velveeta. We'll be utilizing the crock pot, getting back to basics, baking bread again, and enjoying more natural cuisine.

I need to lose some weight. (Some is my code word for a lot.) So, while my kids are drinking whole milk and wolfing down peanuts, I'll be keeping track of portion sizes, calorie counts (sort of), and training myself to be satisfied with enough.

This whole plan, of course, means the Great Divorce from diet coke. I've heard rumours of people not surviving such traumas; I can only hope my beefy constitution can live through the transition.

Who is the patron saint of giving up soda?

Mambo

I have been playing with a content managment system called Mambo. It is quite excellent. My "playground" sites are:

www.mindtoolstech.com
www.karimatthews.com
www.smswestville.k12.il.us/sms/

Mambo allows us to separate content from design. I can change the look of a website in a flash without changing a word or worrying about copying and pasting text from file to file. I love it!

For more information on Mambo Open Source, check out:

www.mambosolutions.com
www.mambohut.com
www.mamboserver.com
www.mamboportal.com

If you are into web design or development, give it a try. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do!

"Visits"

My 2 1/2 year old foster son has gone for "visits" with his birth-mom the last two days. He always comes home sugared up, trinkets in hand. Yesterday, f.s. came home with a balloon. Upon seeing such a treasure, my birth son, 18 days f.s.'s senior, said that next time, HE'LL be going on a visit. Hmm, smart kid.

Yesterday, he came home with a dirty diaper. Today, his diaper was so soaking wet, he wet through his shorts. He was changed just an hour earlier, right before he walked out the door to go to the visit. What are they giving him to drink? One has to wonder -- that's a lot of fluid. Are these DCFS workers sure that the birth mom is the only one who needs supervision here?

It stands to reason. I talked to the new case worker yesterday. This is the third case worker I've dealt with in the last six months. I told her that I wished the birth mom would relinquish her rights, so he can live in a friendly, warm, stable, 2 parent home with siblings and love and opportunity. The case worker admonished me: We cannot compare the situations!

Well, why not? I stomp my foot in disgust. I am so sick of the injustice of it all. He spent the first two years of life neglected in two different foster homes. He came to me at 23 months with practically no vocabulary, totally unresponsive, eating crayons, scared of swings and slides. What did those other people do, leave him in a crib all day with a bottle of milk? That's the way he acts. Case workers don't seem to care about such "little" trespasses against a totally innocent child. He's one of the *lucky* ones, they say. He'll turn out all right. He wasn't beaten; he's not having cigarettes put out on his arms. So we'll not worry.

No! No! No! It IS something to worry about. It's heartbreaking and sad and miserable and pathetic. I want to adopt him and then promptly divorce DCFS.

Funny, I wrote something similar on this topic yesterday, but it never did post. I lost the whole thing. Maybe that was God's way of telling me not to badmouth DCFS and Catholic Charities. Keep it under wraps. Keep it private. Shhh. Don't tell anyone the foster system is a damn disaster. Don't tell anyone that kids would be better off in orphanages. It's a secret.

Yeah, right.

In the meantime, I have to remember the veracity of that song: God is in control. All I can do while I wait for his mom to either get better or have her rights terminated is pray, pray, pray. Pray, yes, and do my best to prepare him for the day he leaves me, be that sooner or later. Oh dear God, let is be later -- much later.

Soundtrack

For me, music is not just a puzzle piece -- it's the mat and the glue that keep the puzzle stable and hold it together. I am one of those people that has minimal musical talent but always has music playing in my head. When I hear songs that were popular or well-liked, it takes me back to that era. Of course, I only remember the good parts of the past and black out the less-than-savory details. Don't we all?

This is more than just a list of favourite songs -- there is a story and significance behind each entry on my list. It would take an eternity to write that out, and it wouldn't be that interesting to anyone else. Do you remember any of these?

Moon River - from Breakfast at Tiffany's
On the Willows - Godspell
Out of My Head - Fastball
Love Song - Tesla
Thunderoad - Bruce Springsteen (though the spelling of the song title has always bugged me)
Blue - The Jayhawks
Sir Duke - Stevie Wonder
Summer Highland Falls - Billy Joel
Ave Maria - Schubert
Fuggi, Fuggi, Fuggi - New World Renaissance
Higher Ground, as performed by the Blind Boys of Alabama
Nothing Else Matters - Metallica
Khe Sanh - Cold Chisel
I Wish You Were There - REO Speedwagon
Let the River Run - Carly Simon
Every Morning - Sugar Ray

It was fun (mostly) to think about where and what I was doing when these songs permeated my movements and being. Some, not so fun: Every Morning by Sugar Ray was the last song I heard on the radio before Bruce told me my dad was dead. Every time I hear it, I'm right back there in my red VW, singing along, looking forward to a trip back to the hospital to see him again, hold his hand, read him the paper. He was gone, suddenly, too soon. And lucky me, Sugar Ray marks the sad, sacred moment. Isn't it ironic?

I will add eventually to this anemic, incomplete list. Comment or mail me and tell me about your soundtrack: karisue@gmail.com

How I quit smoking

Though I don't often apply my willpower, I am pretty good at setting goals and accomplishing them. When I put my mind to it, I'm good at things like losing weight, cleaning the whole house at one time, that kind of thing.

This is what I do: Choose the right thing now, giving myself permission to choose wrong later. Example: Instead of saying, I'll start dieting on Monday, better have that last donut today, I instead ditch the donut today, reminding myself that donuts exist everyday, and I can have one on Monday if I so choose. Works like a charm.

So when it was time to quit smoking, I tossed my pack and thought, I'll just not smoke today. If I want one tomorrow, I can have one. Then, the next day, I would work on just getting through the day, knowing that I can always go buy more when I am tired of being a non-smoker. Before long, months had passed without so much as one drag.

Have I been perfect? Goodness no. I have probably bummed a total of 10 cigs since I quit being a regular smoker. Every time I have one, I can't believe how gross it is. I have discovered that I can't recapture who I was at 25 (thinner, single, more fun, carefree, reckless even?) by acting like I did when I was 25. At the time, I felt like Audrey Hepburn, but no longer. I don't count these smoking excursions as "cheating" because I never vowed to myself to quit for good -- I just quit for the day and see how long I can keep the streak up.

They say it take 21 days to make a habit. (Who figures that stuff out?) You can get through that 21 days pretty easily if you take it one day a time -- five minutes at a time, if need be. Good luck fortifying your new good habits!

In the world, not of it

St. Paul made tents. I fix computers. And write stuff. And raise children. And keep a house clean (sort of). St. Paul wrote, too. And dealt with myriad communities that probably acted not unlike children. Wasn't he notorious for cleaning house, so to speak? Hmm, we have a lot in common.

Except for one substantive thing: St. Paul, at least in my imaginings, exuded holiness. He might have been rough around the edges, but his personality must have had liberal doses of piety in the mix.

Not me. I would love to be gentle, glowing, walking on a cloud, shifting through life on an angel wing and a prayer, smiling peacefully all the while. Unfortunately, reality and personality seem to have limited my success at this.

Perhaps, though, one of my problems is preoccupation. Was St. Paul preoccupied with the art of tentmaking? Did he subscribe to all the tentmaking magazines and go to canvas-sewing seminars? Somehow I doubt it.

Again, St. Paul and I diverge. I spend countless hours focused on the art of copywriting (I think that's what I want to be when I grow up: a freelance writer), studying commodities trading for the farm (December '05 corn closed at 2.38 today - a lousy price), and researching the latest computer issues. Why spend all that time focused on something other than being a christian, a wife, a mother, and homemaker?

The shallow answer is that I want -desperately- to ensure comfort in the future, for my children and myself alike. And by future, I mean I want to be able to pay my electric bill next month, buy Christmas presents next year, subsidize a college education for 3 boys who will be there before I know it, and pay my property taxes when I'm 80 without having to having to be a Walmart greeter.

Pressure to achieve success is overwhelming. I want to be successful. This in itself does not present problems on its own -- it's the definition of success that throws the rod. We are expected to provide for our children -- and I want to do that. But where do we stop? Could I comfortably run a household on $20K a year? $50K? $100K? And what does comfortable mean, anyway?

When St. Paul made his tents, I'd imagine his goals were simple: To pay his own way, keep food on the proverbial table, maintain a good reputation, remain self-sufficient, and evangelize to "clients." I doubt St. Paul would approve of Ebay searches for "Prada" -- his money was assuredly spent on the necessities and the surplus donated.

For those of us who want to strive for holiness, but have our intentions divided among familial, professional, civic, and Godly concerns, how do we set limits on ourselves, so that our efforts, spending, and preoccupation with financial comfort don't bleed over the edge? Will silk curtains and a new tile kitchen floor hinder my spiritual life? Should I keep the floor and window treatments I have and donate the excess money to the poor?

I don't know, and I'm not sure that I'll draw any solid conclusions soon, short of divine intervention during the discernement process. I just hope I don't trick myself into self-soothing justification for irresponsible spending. St. Paul, tentmaker and man in the world but not of it, pray for us, that we may find the line God has drawn in the sand.

How computer literate are you?

Vote at:

www.mindtoolstech.com

Golem

In Jewish lore hides a fascinating story of the golem, a monster of sorts that rabbis can raise up from the dust to protect the Jews. (It makes for a lovely childrens' book, entitled GOLEM, but David Wisniewski -- it is a Caldecott winner.)

Today on FoxNews are several sad reports of Jews in Gaza who feel betrayed by the Israeli government as they are forced to withdraw. This, after so many years of violence and bloodshed.

I wonder what would happen if the Jews could call up a Golem today. How would a modern Golem change the face of a turbulent, dark stage that shadows us all?