February Part 2

The Demon of Control

In my last post, I worried over things I couldn’t control and fretted over the futile pride that causes me to try to change things/people/events over which I am powerless.

Oy vey, as my father would say.

The Inevitability of Pain

This has been a month of fear and funerals. February seems to have that effect on a lot of us. We slog through wind and ice and cold (at least in our part of the country), and all we have to show for it is another day of the same - aching muscles and weary hearts.

But I mean this post to be hopeful, not despairing.

As I said, my family (and here I mean both biological and spiritual) has been doing its share of grieving of late. Loved ones are either sick – and I mean sick – or have left this world to gain entrance into another. My role in all of this has been more indirect than personal, i.e., I have served as a supportive presence rather than an actual participant. In short, I’ve been shoring up the troops.

Again, I’m striving to be upbeat but…

So far, not so much.

Let me switch gears.

The Value of Accountability

One thing that’s been useful during this period of semi-chaos has been to keep a ledger of sorts. Not to wax political, but I’m thinking of the current administration’s demand that government workers account for their activities on the job. I began tracking my own activities in 2020, when the COVID crisis kept me out of work for about six months. I decided at the outset that I wasn’t going to waste that period of enforced leave. I was well experienced in frittering away down time, having spent many a summer vacation and holiday break wiling away hours and regretting it after the fact. So, this time, when the government and my employer were paying me to “stay home and save lives,” I created a schedule for myself and tried to catch up on things I couldn’t get to during a regular work week.

I drafted a book proposal. The recipients didn’t bite, but them’s the breaks.

I joined and even cohosted nightly prayer meetings. Recalling the impact of corporate prayer in the wake of the 911 attacks, my prayer partner and I drilled down in this particular area. Our efforts resulted in the formation of a weekly women’s Bible study. I can’t say how much these activities impacted others, but yours truly gained a lot of spiritual ground.

The Power of Community

I reached out to other members of my church to see how they were faring during this frightening time. There wasn’t much I could do to help, as we were all simply trying to keep our own heads above water, but it gave me a chance to go through the church directory and make contact with hitherto unknown attendees.

My Aunt Carole had a wonderful practice of checking in often by phone. She lived at a distance and didn’t drive. Her health was only so-so, meaning she couldn’t do much but encourage. But encourage she did. Regularly. Even forcefully, in the gentlest way possible, if you know what I mean. If a few calls went unreturned, a more urgent request for an update would ensue.

This lady understood the power of caring and made it a habit.

Aunt Carole’s earthly body has left this world, but her lessons have not. On days when I feel lazy or uninspired, even defeated, reaching out to others can bring me a sense of purpose. The vacuuming may remain undone, but another soul can be touched.

While I’m on the subject of aunties, Aunt Doris promised to be there for me after the death of my one remaining parent. Like Aunt Carole, her age and limitations made it unlikely that she could do much more than listen and maybe offer a few words of counsel. She did, however, coin a phrase which made its way into my head, my heart, and even my novel: “Sometimes you just need to talk to somebody with white hair.”

I realize this last comment is a bit of a digression from the topic at hand, since Aunt Doris’s phone hugs began long before the COVID era. Citing author’s privilege, I’m leaving it in anyway because it reinforces the importance of community, and not exclusively from one’s biological family.

Community matters now, it mattered during COVID, and it will matter whenever and wherever we find ourselves. My friend, Tina, figured this out long ago. It’s taken me a little longer, perhaps because I’ve been blessed with a close family. Having something as a given can make for a sense of entitlement, or rather, expectation that it will always be there. Taking for granted, I suppose. Tina has experienced many losses and thus realizes the need to not go it alone. She is and always will be an example of casting one’s lot with others and living by that concept.

The Slow Demise of Pride

All these goals are worthy and good, but just when I’m feeling indispensable (yeah, right), I fall hip deep into a flareup of an underlying condition which had been behaving itself for several months. Out comes the cane and in go the NSAIDs.

Those palliatives may be little, but they pack a big punch.

It’s not the pain I mind so much. I know how to do rest and relaxation, but I’m not too keen on helplessness. Check that. I’m not helpless; I’m simply less able to be helpful, at a time when family and friends are in need of all the help they can get.

Apparently, my heavenly Father feels I need a lesson in humility.

So be it.

Accordingly, on this final day of February 2025, I offer up the power I can still exercise in the midst of powerlessness. Power to call on a Power far greater than any I could boast. Power to relegate pride to its rightful place – as so many people I love are involuntarily having to do right along with me. Power to slowly but surely admit that divine power overpowers, overshadows, and overcomes any perceived power I’m blessed to possess.

What a Savior.

Not My Will... AKA, Counting Blessings amidst Disappointment

The holidays are upon us, and with them, the disappointment of unmet expectations. The coronavirus has robbed our family of several celebrations, and this year illness is yet again shrinking the numbers at our Thanksgiving table.

But how blessed are we that these sorrows are only temporary? So many have lost loved ones permanently to this disease and others. Empty chairs will never again be filled by those held most dear.

Others live with estrangement. Death of affection, as opposed to physical death, has left gaping holes in family gatherings. Our family has experienced its share of strained relationships that took years to repair, but by the grace of God, those fences were mended this side of heaven.

Thank You, Lord.

I must honestly confess to feeling sad today. I can't have what I want when I want it. Or, rather, I can't have who I want at my house this day. 

But there will be other days. 

My sons and their wives will again congregate at Mom's house over turkey and pie. Little feet will again traipse through Mom Mom's kitchen spilling bits of food and gobs of laughter.

It will be OK.

Beloved nieces and nephews will pause their busy schedules to spend time with their aging auntie. Yummy aromas will fill our senses, and tummies will be over-filled with stuffing and other wonderful stuff.

How blessed are we?

I can feel gratitude growing in me as I count these blessings. The things that are troubling me haven't gone away, but somehow they're less palpable when weighed against my treasures. And most of those treasures aren't the kind that put pounds on me, but rather, lighten my load considerably.

I feel lighter already.

Years ago, a Sunday school teacher brought my attention to Psalm 42, in which the writers force themselves to focus on God's goodness even as they grieve. I'm inserting this rich piece of literature here in its entirety, along with a link to a reputable commentary on the psalm to help elucidate the inspired words. I pray it reaches my readers as it has me on this morning of mixed emotions.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone, and may we all rejoice, whatever our circumstances.

As a deer pants for flowing streams,
    so pants my soul for you, O God.
2 My soul thirsts for God,
    for the living God.
When shall I come and appear before God?
3 My tears have been my food
    day and night,
while they say to me all the day long,
    “Where is your God?”
4 These things I remember,
    as I pour out my soul:
how I would go with the throng
    and lead them in procession to the house of God
with glad shouts and songs of praise,
    a multitude keeping festival.

5 Why are you cast down, O my soul,
    and why are you in turmoil within me?
Hope in God; for I shall again praise him,
    my salvation and my God.

My soul is cast down within me;
    therefore I remember you
from the land of Jordan and of Hermon,
    from Mount Mizar.
7 Deep calls to deep
    at the roar of your waterfalls;
all your breakers and your waves
    have gone over me.
8 By day the Lord commands his steadfast love,
    and at night his song is with me,
    a prayer to the God of my life.
9 I say to God, my rock:
    “Why have you forgotten me?
Why do I go mourning
    because of the oppression of the enemy?”
1As with a deadly wound in my bones,
    my adversaries taunt me,
while they say to me all the day long,
    “Where is your God?”

11 Why are you cast down, O my soul,
    and why are you in turmoil within me?
Hope in God; for I shall again praise him,
    my salvation and my God.

Rejection... Before the Fact... Again

It's happening. Again.

I've been trying to steel myself, but to no avail.

I've never been any good at keeping hopes high and expectations low at the same time.

Remember that feeling when a relationship is new? Too new, even, to call it a relationship? That feeling of wanting something so bad you can taste it, but dreading even to take that first bite, lest it not live up to the expectations you've assigned it?

I'm talking about fresh love. Infatuation, really, because love has to be cultivated, but infatuation only has to be stoked.

I'm finding out that this phenomenon isn't limited to the highs and lows of romance. No, it can rear its leery head in things as mundane as a new job or a long anticipated vacation or the prospect of anything you really want that may not come to pass.

Don't get your hopes up.

Something this good can never last.

Better to aim low than to be disappointed. Again.

I thought I was going to be open enough to tell you, lovely readers, what I'm hoping for that may not happen, but I'm finding out that my courage is in short supply. Again. 

Perhaps it's best to just leave it to the imagination, since we all know the sensation I'm talking about.

 The "what if" syndrome. 

What if this doesn't work out after all?

What if I invest in this (name the prize you're trying to grasp), and it eludes me?

What if I expend a lot of energy and not a few sleepless nights, and nothing comes of it?

What if I get hurt? Again.

I'm not one to listen to a lot of melancholy music these days - the kind that nurtures angst and pining. Oh, I used to do a lot of that. Certain songs can still tug on my heartstrings and bring me right back to my teen years when everything mattered and all possibilities seemed available and out of reach at the same time.

But I did stumble across an old tune that touches a chord right now. I'm not going to supply the lyrics here, because the songwriter and I have totally different world views and probably couldn't even hold a four-minute conversation without disagreeing on the weather forecast for that day. That said, he got it right when he penned words about lost love and the need to let things go and move on.

He's talking about a broken relationship, but I'm talking about life.

The things that don't come our way, despite our best efforts and deepest longings. The things we clawed at, ached over, yearned for. The things we trusted in that came up wanting.

The Bible says King Belshazzar found this out the hard way:

"This is the interpretation of the matter: MENE, God has numbered the days of your kingdom and brought it to an end; TEKEL, you have been weighed in the balances and found wanting; PERES, your kingdom is divided and given to the Medes and Persians." (Daniel 5:26-28)

Verse 30 tells us "that very night" Belshazzar was killed and his empire taken over by another. But before he died, the proud Babylonian ruler honored Daniel, who had just foretold the king's doom, and elevated the prophet to a position of prominence in the kingdom (v.29).

Good for him. Way to not kill the messenger. Way to respect the message even if you're terrified of its contents.

So it goes.

One man rises as another man falls. 

The ashes of one regime fuel the ignition of another.

My takeaway is that life is circular. Always has been, always will be. One day you're up, the next, you're down. But if you wait long enough, many times you'll make it to the top of the ferris wheel again - if only for a few minutes.

Unless, of course, your ticket's punched. As Belshazzar found out.

I don't mean to sound cynical. I'd rather consider these words of wisdom born from experience. Since I'm learning it late in life, it's a bit arrogant to call it my philosophy. Perhaps life lesson is more to the point.

What goes around comes around, but not always in this lifetime.

So, what does matter? 

Well, for me, what matters today is testing negative for COVID after a week of wondering if, like the friends I vacationed with, I will start developing symptoms. Assuming the virus has passed me by this time, what matters today is visiting my aunt who's recovering from heart surgery. Making progress on a writing project that's taking a lot of time and may not pan out the way I hope. Spending time with my beloved sisters. Following my Lord and trusting Him to show me how to do each next right/write thing. And inching a tiny bit closer to the goals He's set before me, regardless of how they turn out.

Rejection may well come my way. Again. If so, my God will be there to pick me up. Again.

I don't need to mourn before the fact. Maybe I don't even need to mourn after the fact - if, indeed, things don't go my way. 

Because His way trumps my way, even when it doesn't seem so this side of heaven.

"A man's heart plans his way, but the Lord directs His steps." - Proverbs 16:9

 

Two Steps Back

Yesterday I posted an article called “One Step Forward,” which related the “adventures” my sister, Jane, and I have been sharing this holiday season. I closed with a reminder that we are called to be content in whatever state in which the Lord places us.

Famous last words.

First, I’d like to correct the record. In rereading yesterday’s piece, it appears I leave the impression I’m actively ill. In truth, this post was started a few weeks ago when that was the case; at present, happily, I am largely asymptomatic. I have also secured an appointment with a specialist in the relatively near future, so hopefully, answers await.

That being the case, yours truly was really pretty upbeat while finalizing said article. The points therein were mainly meant to encourage others to count blessings when things get tough, and to accept bumps in the road as part of the human condition, to which our Savior humbly subjected Himself when He entered this world as an infant.

Again, famous last words.

No sooner did I click “publish” on “One Step Forward” than the proverbial other shoe dropped. Jane and I received word that several of our family members, with whom we shared holiday festivities, have tested positive for COVID. We, of course, are quarantining, popping zinc prophylactically, and generally trying to remain positive. Between praying for our loved ones and offering whatever assistance we can, Jane and I tenaciously cling to hope that next week she will be able to fly home as planned and I can return to work following winter break.

Those are our plans. There is every possibility the God of the universe has something entirely different in mind.

                "'For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways,' declares the Lord. 'For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts.'" ~ Isaiah 55:8-9 

Folks, I really do think our great God has a solid sense of humor. More to the point, as my dear friend and Bible mentor taught me years ago, He operates the way any sound instructor does – after imparting a lesson, He administers some sort of exam to drive the learning home.

Beloved readers, I very much want to learn whatever my Lord wants to teach me, and I aim to learn it the easiest way possible.

Apparently, hanging around the house, catching up on reading and writing, spending phone time with friends, and just generally laying low is what the Lord has planned for me this week.

Who am I to question what He ordains? And why would I even want to? Did I mean any of the things I wrote about yesterday?

If so, the wisest course of action for this writer would be to lean into the quietness and stillness of quarantine, and lean even harder into the One who has orchestrated these circumstances.

“Be still and know that I am God.” ~ Psalm 46:10 

Update 12/30/21: My sister and I caught sight of two cardinals - a male/female pair in all their respective splendor - outside our window the other day. There's every chance we would have missed this glorious sight, had we not been quarantining. Our great God always knows what's best.

Follow the Science?

There's a lot of talk these days about "following the science." 

This has become a popular mantra, often used to castigate those who don't automatically give credence to the latest advice from experts. The CDC insists that a vaccine developed on an emergent basis is safe, secure and the answer to all our prayers, and will halt a virus which seems to have no intention of staying either predictable or at bay. Many clinicians claim that prepubescent children know best about their gender, and that millennia of past expertise have been wrong about the facts of anatomical and chromosomal reality. Individuals who hold differing opinions are often dismissed, disparaged, and lately even canceled. 

For the record, canceling dissenting voices has historically been known as censorship, a tool which has been used very effectively to springboard totalitarian regimes into power and exterminate individual freedom - not to mention individuals themselves. 

All this insistence upon science being gospel has caused me to flip back through the pages of history and investigate some curious views which authorities have held through the ages. Below are a few noteworthy examples in which science got things categorically wrong, jeopardizing the health and well-being of the very people whose best interests it sought to protect. Quick disclaimer: scientists are not in the business of erring intentionally; however, like all of us, they are limited by lack of evidence to the contrary regarding positions they hold at any given time. Science by its nature is constantly evolving. New discoveries either affirm or refute scientific assumptions. Those that stand the test of time - such as Newton's laws - usually remain unquestioned; however, due to the evolutionary nature of science, it behooves the discipline to continuously investigate, rather than insist upon a gavel-striking approach to principles of the day. 

One instance in which science later reversed itself was regarding tobacco. Before they knew better, physicians used to promote cigarettes in advertising campaigns. Research has now shown smoking to be deadly, and no reputable medical practitioner would recommend it.

Experts once believed it was acceptable for women to drink alcohol during pregnancy. That stance was later reversed when evidence surfaced about the danger alcohol poses to the fetus. Likewise, the anti-nausea drug, thalidomide, resulted in untold numbers of birth defects, simply because medical science was unaware of its adverse consequences at the time. Perhaps as a society we should recall such well-intended but egregious medical mistakes before allowing physicians to prescribe puberty blockers and cross-sex hormones for children and surgically remove healthy body parts in the name of gender affirmation. 

Speaking of hormones, doctors used to routinely prescribe them to mitigate unpleasant symptoms of menopause. Having been proven unsafe, estrogen therapy is no longer the "go to" treatment plan for menopausal women. Why, then, are so many practitioners comfortable prescribing hormones off-label for identity-confused youngsters?

This author realizes that the hormone regimen being used in gender dysphoric children differs in many respects from that which was prescribed for midlife women (not completely, however - gender confused males often receive estrogen in order to align their physical appearance with their perceived identity); nevertheless, studies have revealed serious adverse effects from long-term use of sex reassignment hormones.

 

Medicine is not the only branch of science to have erred in its recommendations; anthropology has taken disastrously wrong turns in several notable instances. Various groups have historically been considered subhuman on the basis of race or ethnicity. Grotesque "scientific" experiments and studies were performed on individuals in these groups, treating human beings as if they were lab animals. Once again, science got it terribly, unutterably wrong. 

The instinct to survive is a strong one. It has caused individuals of conscience to stay silent and inactive in the past. With shame, this author must admit to remaining on the sidelines of the gender debate which is sweeping through our institutions at hurricane speed, leaving too many children as maimed as the mutilated toys belonging to Toy Story's reckless Sid. The difference, of course, between sadistic Sid and well-meaning medical professionals who prescribe and carry out hormonal and surgical interventions on minors is that, in the latter case, the goal is to alleviate dysphoric anguish. The intentions are kind - but what of the outcomes? Tragically, many who undergo sex reassignment surgery seek to "detransition" after realizing an altered body didn't cure their pain, and in some cases, even made it worse, leaving them more prone to "mortality, suicide ideation, and psychiatric issues compared to the rest of the population." I fear for the future of our youth if poorly evidenced gender treatment protocols being administered to minors are not called out and checked. My efforts may be inadequate to stop the troubling trend, but at least I will have done my part to try to stem the tide.

I once participated in a seminar in which the speaker urged her audience to contact lawmakers about an important issue. Her admonition to us was, "If we try and fail, at least we can hold our heads up knowing we tried. If we do nothing, we have only ourselves to blame." 

God forbid that should be said of this author. I prefer to stand in the company of individuals like Martin Luther who, when asked to recant his call for reform of the prevailing church of his day, replied, "My conscience is captive to the word of God. I cannot and will not recant anything, for to go against conscience is neither right nor safe. Here I stand, I can do no other, so help me God." 

"Pray for us; for we are confident that we have a good conscience, 

in all things desiring to live honorably." 

- Hebrews 13:18

Check out Do Something by Matthew West. This article is my way of doing something for the next generation.

The Great Reset, AKA, Growing Pains 2

The Great Reset

I've been starting to hear about "The Great Reset," a concept that seems to set many hearts aflutter with hope while inducing some seasoned pundits to bite their perfectly manicured nails. As I said, I'm only just learning about this idea, so am not going to comment one way or the other. I am, however, going to shamelessly coopt the phrase for the purposes of this article.

The To Do List

This aspiring author woke up yesterday with a to do list longer than the flowing scarves magicians coax out of otherwise unexceptional sleeves. Much of it was very mundane, things like cooking and correspondence, but nonetheless, important to me and the people who matter to me. Other things were "bigger ticket items" that mandate more time and attention (financial planning, tech issues, etc.).

True confessions: I just had to pause my ruminations upon remembering that I was late paying a bill. The creditor very politely emailed me two days ago, and it's been on my to do list, but, well, refer back to paragraph two. 

See what kind of a week it's been?

The Letdown

I think what's really getting to me has been brewing since Christmas Eve. It's my favorite day of the year, what with the anticipation and beauty and hopefulness that seems to pervade all 24 hours of it.

But that's just the point. It's only 24 hours. No matter how hard I try to savor each moment, Christmas Eve always turns into Christmas morning - also a wonderful day, but one which carries with it the knowledge that that's it for another year. Come December 26, decorations will start to look old and haggard, and huge trash bags will go out to the curb, full of dead evergreens and the remnants of what was and will not be again for another 364 days. 

The Growing Pains

There's a sweet scene in the pilot movie that kicked off The Waltons TV series in which the youngest child confides to her brother that she intends to "stay little" and never grow up. She even has a plan to thwart the efforts of time. By compressing between both tiny hands whatever body part seems to be expanding, she hopes to outsmart the growing pains and stay forever a child.

I get where she's coming from. But, like copper-haired Elizabeth Walton, I fail every year at trying to make time stand still where Christmas Eve is concerned.

Time, after all, will always have its way with us.

And growing pains will always hurt, and they will always be worth every iota of pain they cost us.

What Elizabeth doesn't realize is that, unless she grows up, she'll never know the joys that await the adult world. Parenting, perhaps, but maturity for sure, unless she stymies time's work in shaping her life by making infantile, unwise choices. The satisfaction of tackling hard tasks and experiencing both success and failure in the doing. The wisdom that accompanies whitening of the hair (one of the reasons I stopped dyeing mine - why try to hide the evidence of God's maturing process?). The diminishing concern for pleasing a fickle world, and heightening interest in honoring an unchanging God. Most of these accomplishments are mysteries to the young, as they should be. No one arrives on this earth all grown up, and half the satisfaction of living is achieving a form of wisdom that can only come through bumps and bruises.

The Longevity of the Cross

An insightful (if I do say so myself) sentiment came to me the other day, unbidden. I posted it on Facebook, but apparently I need to remind myself: 

Christmas Day doesn't last, but what Christ did at Christmas lasts forever!

I mean, didn't we see that in spades this year? As the wealth and hedonism of our nation has had to step aside due to the ravages of coronavirus, didn't we gain an inkling of all that we could do without this Christmas? And, folks, not to be a crepehanger, but this isn't even as bad as it can get. Not by a long shot. Political tides being what they are, and with society's fear factor edging off the charts, we could be in for anything.

But, as Corrie ten Boom and her sister discovered in the concentration camp that rewarded them for protecting their fellow man, "There is no pit so deep that God's love is not deeper still." Little did they know that deliverance would come for them as the new year dawned, and joy would take on a dimension far beyond anything found under a pine-needled tree. 

When all the tinsel and glitter of the holiday were stripped away, there lay Christ, still in that manger. Right where He's always been, at the heart of Christmas. 

But our great God didn't stop there; Christmas turned into Easter and death turned into life when the creche met the cross.

So, yes, time will march on, and some of its passage will be accompanied by anxiety and even dread. Anxiety about carefree times ending and the hard work of day to day living starting up again. Dread of happiness giving way to trouble. We mortals are prone to these emotions, and I daresay Christ expressed the same just before accomplishing His magnum opus: "Abba, Father, all things are possible for You. Take this cup away from me; nevertheless, not what I will, but what You will" (Mark 14:36).

Take a good look at what follows the semicolon, for therein lies the key. Our Savior knew God's will superseded His human one, which was largely operating in Gethsemane. He was setting an example for us that any Golgotha which may loom ahead can be handled through close fellowship with the Father.

The Greatest Reset

Likewise, this author can attack the unknown with faith, even as holidays yield to workaday life and new powers that be replace familiar ones. And whatever "great reset" those powers may wish to impose, a far greater reset awaits all who place their hope in the ultimate reset that took place at Calvary: divinity obliterating the barriers between itself and blemished humanity.

So, finally returning to my to do list, who am I to think I'm going to finish everything before returning to work in a few days? It took Christ 33 years to accomplish His earthly ministry; yet, this girl wants to complete all her self-appointed goals for the vacation within the next 24 hours. 

Not gonna happen.

But what sometimes does happen is what occurred yesterday morning. The MINUTE my prayer partner and I hung up the phone, having studied Scripture and lifted praise and requests to God, I received a call which held counsel I badly need to move forward in 2021. 

Funny how putting first things first has a way of calming panic and frenzy and pointing us to the one who holds answers to both.

Happy New Year, everyone.

Check out: Panic? The Wrong God! (Note: sermon starts at 21:50, in case anyone wants to get right to the best part; believe me, it's worth the time).

For more like this, check out Growing Pains, AKA, the New Normal

The Curse of Jo March

The tags on this article cover everything. Anger. Resentment. Rejection. Grinch. Scrooge. Bitterness.

Bah humbug.

Fear not: I sound worse than I really feel, and I promise to end this post on a positive note.

When I first got the email this morning - two days before Christmas - that the manuscript I submitted eight months ago had been rejected - well, let's just say I felt like pulling my hair out.

Oh, and that's another thing. I've always had quite the mane, but lately, more than a few gray hairs are winding up in the brush and on the pillow.

Alopecia, anyone?

My prayer partner, too, is feeling bereft, for reasons of her own (not least of which is that corona fear has kept her under house arrest since March 13). That places her aggravation a good month and a half ahead of mine, since my book proposal didn't hit the agent's inbox till April 21. I guess if there's a prize for longest running exasperation, I'll have to defer to Tina.

Interestingly, I woke up wondering what message God would lay on my heart to share today or tomorrow. I always seem to receive an emphatic heavenly nudge right in the middle of my holiday hysteria, when it's least convenient to sit down and write. 

Somehow the Lord never seems to mind upending my schedule.

So, I find myself back to counting blessings. It's the soundest strategy I know for laying resentment where it belongs, in the dung heap with the rest of Satan's tactics.

And, oh, the blessings I still have to count, in a year when disease has stolen so many loved ones from family hearths and gouged gaping holes in legions of pocketbooks .

A daughter-in-law who sends a video of me cuddling my grandson and listening to his laughter, just when I'm missing my cherubs the most. Another soon-to-be daughter, who invites me to her family's Christmas table so I won't have to celebrate Christ's birth alone. Two loving, responsible sons who have been there for me more times than I can count. A host of trusted friends - some long standing, some arriving later in life - but all cherished and held dear. A school year that, while strange and challenging, includes an adorable student who even loves my singing and storytelling!

What was I upset about again?

After reading the agent's refusal, but before counting my blessings (which I was in no mood to do just then), I decided to cheer myself up by throwing a few ornaments on our heretofore barren Christmas tree. First on the list: my Little Women figurine of Jo March, aspiring author, but in her rightful place, just below Jesus.

There, lest we forget, is where all aspirations belong.

God bless us, everyone.

"Rejoice in the Lord always; again, I say rejoice!" 

~Philippians 4:4~

"In everything give thanks, for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus concerning you."

 ~1 Thessalonians 5:18~

Check out this terrific tune from Matthew West: The Hope of Christmas

Woe is Me... or Who is Me?

COVID is really messing up a lot of plans for me. It threw a mega monkey wrench into my summer, preventing me from meeting my granddaughters for six weeks. It interfered with Thanksgiving (although my son and I had a very simple, low key holiday, just the two of us, which is a memory I will always cherish). Now the latest outbreak of the virus is threatening to undo all my Christmas plans.

Woe is me.

That's how I felt the other day when my kids and I had to face up to the realization that Christmas, like everything else since last March, is going to be very different this year.

But then I did a 180, and guess what? Woe is no longer me!

I had a little help from the Almighty (imagine that). While ruing my fate and licking my wounds the other day (as if I'm the only person in this world being kicked around by COVID), I found myself behind another believer at the dollar store. We had plenty of time to get to know each other, masks notwithstanding, since the line we were in snaked through two aisles and moved at about the same rate at which my nephew eats vegetables (he once looked aghast at his mother over a serving of broccoli, demanding to know why she expected him to eat that "tree"). 

All I know is that, after bemoaning the national plight with this smiling Christian sister, who started out a stranger but wound up a friend, I felt my own Christmas spirit ramping up quite a bit.

The following day again found me in a Christmas crowd. As I wended my way through the store (itself a miracle - with corona cases surging daily and restrictions being issued faster than the old woman who lived in a shoe could pass along hand-me-downs to her bulging tribe, isn't it a blessing we can still shop?), I kept hearing a cell phone ringing. It was always the same tone, a familiar one, but not my own. I found it odd that so many people had the same ring tone, and that no matter where I went in the store, everyone was getting calls using this same bell signal. 

Then the light dawned, the same way it did once when I was driving in traffic and kept being disturbed by an ailing muffler. It took awhile, but I finally realized the reason the obnoxious sound wouldn't go away was because my own car was the one making all the racket!

Sure enough, I searched around in my cart, and hiding under a stray bag lay someone else's cell phone! I picked it up and apologized to the owner, who had been calling for 20 minutes, and we both had a good laugh about my "smack me brow with heel of hand" moment. Long story short, I held on to the errant device till she returned to the store to reclaim it. Of course, I had to give her a Christmas tract and well wishes. 

Just another example of the Lord dumping opportunities to spread joy amidst the everyday reality of corona chaos.

Most of my 57 Christmases have been pretty joyful. Sure, some have been lackluster and a few even painful (it's tough to feel like celebrating when you're in the process of saying goodbye to loved ones or facing the breakup of a marriage), but what of it? Did God ever promise me every day would be an ice cream cake topped with pink frosting? Why should holidays be any exception?

The more I think about this, the more I like how the Whos in Dr. Seuss's classic tale handled the downsizing of their Christmas. You remember the story. The grumpy Grinch robbed them of all their
holiday trappings, but what he couldn't steal was their Christmas joy. They woke up singing, just as they had every other year, refusing to let the presence or absence of stuff dictate their peace of mind.

We could learn a lot from those colorful crooners. Rock on, Whos, and while you're at it, how 'bout replacing our Grinch-i-tude with your Who-titude, and making the latter as contagious as corona.

Thanksgiving Ruminations

The Thanksgiving theme continues in my house. Even though in my home the holiday consisted only of my son and me (due to possible COVID exposure in our family), we had a sweet time. The weekend was very low key and pleasant, providing ample time for catching up on life and some much appreciated R&R. I've been doing some reading (I always have four or five books going at a time, and a montage of articles; I'll never be "finished"), some resting, some cleaning, some chatting - just a lovely season of frolic without frenzy.

The Lord has seen fit to grant me another gift, one that will likely take a bit of time to fully "ripen," but that is well worth the wait.

Sunday's church and Bible study themes focused on Colossians 1:12-18 and Hebrews 12:12-17, both of which emphasize the truth of the first point in the Shorter Catechism of the Westminster Confession. The crafters of this timeless document rightly characterized "the chief end of man" as the glorification of God and enjoyment of Him forever. 

Simply put, if we are to give Christ preeminence in all things (Colossians 1:18), pursue peace with all, seek holiness, and spurn bitterness (Hebrews 12:14-15), these endeavors pretty much open the floodgates of gratitude while simultaneously closing the lid on grudges. In the process, we glorify God by keeping our focus on Him, as opposed to giving heed to anyone or anything that seeks to undermine us.

Ah, but there's the rub.

In recent months, I've struggled with anger towards certain individuals and entities which I felt wronged me. Promises were broken and hopes dashed. At one point I was so enraged that I sat down and composed a gripe list which I directed to the Lord, who is, of course, fully capable of righting all these injustices, if only He would choose to do so! I sought the help of fellow believers, asking them to pray for fairness, but also for a changed heart for me. 

The latter is much more important than the former, so the Lord gave me an up close and personal lesson about how to keep a tender heart the other night. I was speaking with a Christian sister, whose circumstances could warrant far deeper resentment than any I might entertain. This particular person has experienced much disappointment on many levels over the years. Let me repeat that. I have watched my friend go through wearisome trials for quite a few years! 

As we caught up with each other's lives, she shared with me the details of the latest challenge she is facing. I might add that she didn't bring the subject up, but merely responded to an inquiry I made about something we had been praying over for her. Not only were her hopes not met, but the manner in which things played out added insult to injury.

I couldn't help myself. In complete puzzlement and awe of the equanimity with which she accepted her situation, I exclaimed, "How do you keep from becoming bitter?"

Her response? 

"You have to try to look at things through the eyes of God."

She went on to affirm her complete faith and utter trust that our great God will always take care of her, because He always has. In short, she will not allow grievances in this broken world to trump thankfulness for the riches she has in Christ.

Let me tell you, this writer was humbled. Humbled by my own lack of forgiveness, but even moreso by the attitude of this saint, who refuses to let life's difficulties and people's cruelty cheat her out of the joy of the Lord. 

So, again, I continue to celebrate Thanksgiving in my corner of the world. My friend reminded me of that crucial exercise the other night. Thanksgiving, despite adversity, unfairness, or unmet expectations. Thanksgiving in joy or sorrow, celestial happiness or crushing despair. 

What a gift I received from my dear friend, which my church leaders then underscored the following morning. Hands down, it's the best Christmas present I'll get this year... or ever.

Beats anything I could ever find under a pine needled tree.

Mélange of Mishmash

The Artist

I want to give a huge shout out to my nephew and dear friend, Brian Quirk, who recently released his first solo album, What Makes You Happy. Let me tell you, his happiness makes me happy! All partisanship aside, this is an impressive piece of work, with clear, strong lyrics that will resonate with listeners, and hummable melodies which wend their way into one's consciousness and find themselves welcome to stay!

The Angst

I must admit, though, Brian's success is causing me a bit of angst. I had a chance to chat with him the other day, and he shared some of the marketing tools he's been using to make his work known. He really is quite the self-promoter, and shares himself with the public in such a winsome way. Alas, the old comparison monster has reared its ugly head, and I'm finding myself wanting to "catch up," so to speak, with where he has landed, and do more to launch my product.

Numerous blog ideas have made their way into my mind of late, but I haven't taken them to the next level. They haven't graduated from scribbled notes into finished pieces of composition. I'm just irritated enough with myself today to try to change that.

The Whining

One reason for my procrastination has been general busy-ness. School has started, and this isn't like any other year. Normally by this time, the lay of the land would be pretty much settled. Educators might not adore each and every class or student, but they would have their schedules and routines well in hand. 

Not so in 2020. COVID has seen to that. Staff and students alike are feeling fatigued over the unpredictability of each new week, and the (literal) extra layers - think PPE - that have been added to each day.

This writer is no exception. 

I don't mean to sound petulant. My superiors are working their posteriors off to adapt to the constantly changing school landscape that used to be so straightforward; all people like me have to do is jump through each new hoop they lay out for us. And on that note, the chain of command has taken time they really don't have to add a new role - cheerleaders to those of us in the rank and file, making sure we know our efforts are appreciated, and mistakes, forgivable - to their already cornucopia-ish plates. And let's not even mention health care workers and policy makers, who have been camping on the front lines for months now.

Still, the fact is I've been tired. Physically tired, but also ministry-weary. My dearest friend and I have taken an active approach in that department, teaching Bible studies and hosting prayer meetings, and we've ramped things up since the virus came along. We've been tag teaming each other (truth be told, her share of the load has weighed heavier than mine much of the time), and we've even built a day off into the picture, but the work is as real as the needs, and we feel both keenly.

Again, I hear myself sounding whiny. I could easily edit out the complaining, but I'm trying to be honest here. Honest with myself about why I'm not popping out book proposals as fast as Netflix churns out ill-conceived "art" for unsuspecting viewers to devour. And honest with my readers, which is something I always strive for. If I can't be transparent with my audience, I ought not to call myself a blogger, let alone an aspiring author.

Enough already! I said I had things to blog about, but the ideas that have been rattling around in my brain are no closer to making it onto the page than they were when I started this post a week ago! So, without further ado (or excuses), I'm going to spit them out in the order they present themselves to me.

The Waste

I recently saw a gorgeous Lincoln Town Car. The vehicle was well cared for in every way, inside and out. For example, the owner had placed antique model cars and a pillow bearing the image of Abe Lincoln on the rear deck, along with a carefully folded American flag. The upholstery and body were immaculate. 

Sadly, though, a trespasser (and maybe his gang) had wreaked havoc on the otherwise pristine automobile. Atop the hood lay the unmistakable results of some ignoble, winged creatures having mistaken this work of art for a public restroom. 

Moral of the story: nothing in this life is perfect. We can dress ourselves up and strive for perfection, but life is messy and bird poop finds all of us eventually.

The Tongue

My latest affliction of middle age is sleep apnea, a condition apparently caused by the tongue relaxing during sleep and blocking the airway. I've been duly diagnosed through the use of a home sleep test, which involved rigging myself up with an octopoid set of wires, then trying to ignore the clumsy apparatus and nod off.

Having achieved the impossible and fallen asleep, the unthinkable happened. That's right - the other curse of midlife, which I affectionately call the "wee hours wee" - only on this occasion, there were one or two encumbrances to, uh, work around.

A good night's sleep was had by all. Not so much.

There are several treatments for sleep apnea, none of which excite me. I could invest in a CPAP machine, a cumbersome nuisance which will add to an already somewhat complicated bedtime routine (rebellious joints require nightly exercises, and of late, we've thrown an inhaler into the mix). Another option is a dental appliance which will shift my jaw position to keep the troublesome tongue under control (I haven't managed to do that in 57 years, but, hey, who knows). Last but far from least, there's a pacemaker-type deal which gets surgically implanted under the tongue (and a few other places), the net result being to shock the offending organ back into compliance.

Um, I don't think so.

Who knew all these years my tongue has been the enemy? 

I mean, I have known it to be a bit unbridled at times in the eating and speaking departments, but up until now, I hadn't viewed the thing as a life-or-death offender. So, now, apparently, not only do I need to reign it in during waking hours, but when I'm unconscious as well.

Good to know, even though it'll never happen.

Takeaway: James was right when he condemned the tongue!

The Tragedy

COVID-19 has done its work and done it well. It's cost this world in general and our nation in particular untold numbers of lives and jobs, not to mention any sense of normalcy. Now it's threatening the body of Christ. Never-maskers won't go to church because masks infringe on their freedom, and always-maskers stay away because they fear the germs from never-maskers.

Here's a thought: while the virus has absolutely provided an opportunity for gross overreach among governing authorities, it is most definitely a very serious and contagious condition. Since medical professionals can't all concur on the importance of masking, how about Christians agree on the need for consideration of fellow believers? Unless I'm mistaken, the weaker brother passage is still alive and well in the Good Book. Seems like this might be a fine time to dust off that concept and exercise it accordingly.

Before adherents to either position get their feathers ruffled, I disclaim any disrespect to either viewpoint; both have valid reasons for their positions, and as has been noted, even the medical community has not reached complete consensus. But it would truly be a tragedy if, in defending our freedom of conscience, we actually helped worldly authorities destroy church life in America.

The Dynamic Duo, AKA, Hovering and Covering

I'm going to end here on a positive note. While we are nowhere near Passover in the calendar year (either Jewish or Julian), I have recently gained insight into this holiday of deliverance that I hope will encourage many.

The Hebrew word "Pesach," which is usually translated "Passover," has shades of meaning. One of its connotations has to do with hovering in an effort to protect. The impact of this is that, not only did death "skip over" the Israelite households during that awful night, but the Lord Himself hovered over the homes of His people to save their children from destruction.

The Jews were already familiar with the idea of blood being needed to atone for, or "cover," a person's sins. On the night of Passover, the lamb's blood covered the Israelites' doorposts, keeping them safe from the angel of death. 

While no one can promise believers immunity from disease or calamity, it's pretty comforting in these times to know our great God has a history of hovering over those who fear Him, and covering their sins for all eternity.

Do you know the safety found in the Savior? If not, I pray you will leave a comment below asking for more information about this vital subject. It would be my privilege to help you make His acquaintance!

Rolling Bandages Part 2: 100 Ways I Avoided Doing Housework During the Quarantine

Alright, that's an exaggeration. But I am going to offer up a number of ways I've managed to avoid doing domestic chores during this crazy time. My reader, should he or she choose to accept the mission, is welcome to take up the slack.

Housework Heebie Jeebies

I hate housework. Always have. I'm well aware that many who were homebound during the COVID-19 quarantine spent bunches of time catching up on home duties. That makes sense, and bless their hearts. There's a part of me that feels I should have done likewise, as I, too, remained mostly at home for weeks on end due to the pandemic.

Don't get me wrong. I love tidy. My sons will tell you, I'll wake them up from a cozy sleep to come downstairs and fold the blanket they left strewn on the chair last night. OK, that may be a stretch, but you get the idea. But to me, tidy is a way of life, while clean may just be a way of death. I can't understand folks who find it burdensome to put a glass in the dishwasher or toss a gum wrapper into the trash, but neither can I relate to friends who pencil in spring cleaning on their calendars and - horror of horrors - actually accomplish the task.

I just couldn't wrap my head around the thought that this isolation was imposed on me for the sole purpose of making my floors sparkle and my end tables gleam with lemony luster.

So, instead of fighting the guilt that reared its ugly head every time I viewed a Facebook friend's account of waxing the floor or detailing the car, I owned it (if others can embrace their shortcomings, so can I). I decided if this was how God made me, He must have had other tasks for me to accomplish during this time of national peril.

Successful Laziness

My older sister lives by the motto, "Organization is the key to successful laziness." Her hall closets and refrigerator, in all their orderly splendor, make me want to scream. However, I've given her philosophy a chance during the quarantine, on the slim chance that she might be onto something.

It seemed logical to start by implementing a daily routine, even a loose one, and trying to stick with it. This included an early wake up time (OK, it's gotten later as time has gone on), getting dressed in clothes (as opposed to just changing bathrobes), and trying to build a bit of exercise into each day (I'm pretty lax on this one - walking counts, even from bedroom to bathroom, and so does breathing).

Not wanting to live in total slovenly squalor, I've allowed a few small cleaning jobs and mini house projects to make the list, but room overhauls have been strictly off limits. Progress, not perfection, has been the goal. I've kept in the forefront of my mind that, if self-discipline is a continuum, I was born on the wrong end of it.

Next, my prayer partner, whose walk with God is only a step down from Mother Teresa's, "suggested" it might be wise for me to clear some space in my dwelling. This idea met with reluctance, as cleanouts aren't too far a cry from doing housework (which, as I said, isn't in my genetic code). However, one oughtn't to argue with a chip off Mother Teresa's block. Suffice it to say, my garage and basement let out sighs of relief when unneeded stuff found its way to the curb; cobwebs have been swept away and precious floor space reclaimed.

For the record, I'm not finished yet. My friend keeps reminding me that other rooms, drawers and closets await my intervention, like mythical monsters waiting to be fed.

Knowing that some days would be more productive than others has allowed me the freedom to make mistakes without chucking the whole organizational endeavor. Also, having some built-in structure, such as morning and evening prayer times with other believers, has encouraged me to get back on track if it's been a less than stellar day.

The Ever-Present Need for Bandage Rolling

In a previous post I discussed an important way I found to "roll bandages" during the corona lockdown. Specifically, I described the vital work of sharing the gospel with folks who may have been more open during a deadly pestilence than they otherwise would be to considering eternity. This work was an outgrowth of one of the first ideas God gave me - to check in on others far and near, to see how they were doing and try to help if I could.

As our nation inched its way towards the Yellow Phase of COVID seclusion, we simultaneously careened into the anguish and ensuing violence of a nation still agonizing - well over two centuries since our country's inception - over race issues that could have been addressed with a few pen strokes by our founding fathers.

Hear my heart. I don't wish to oversimplify an incredibly complex and tragic issue. However, it does seem painfully clear that the institutionalized racism on which our country was literally built continues to plague us to this very day, leaving wounds which are not only unhealed, but still gushing actual blood.

A city not ten miles from my home was ravaged by looters and violence. This proximity caused me to fear for the well-being of many brothers and sisters I worship with - many of whom hail from another continent, and whose racial backgrounds differ from mine. Their homes and/or businesses sit right in the heart of or just around the corner from that sacked city.

For this reason, my calls and notes evolved from inquiring after folks' health to checking on their physical safety, and that of their properties. These small actions, along with countless hours of communal prayer, are for me baby steps towards reunifying a battered America.

Sharpening Skill Sets

Other doors have opened for ministry and learning. I learned to navigate some new online communication platforms, enhancing my skill set along the way. Technology is a wonderful thing, and it has been used to its fullest during this health crisis. Prayer meetings and Bible studies have sprung up over phone lines and computer networks. Many pastors began preaching from virtual pulpits and continue to do so. I felt compelled to take advantage of these opportunities, to put some "currency" into my own spiritual "bank account," since my future, like everyone else's, remains unsettled.

There's nothing selfish about rolling bandages to stock one's own medicine cabinet.

In addition, I switched the biweekly Bible study I teach to a phone format, and upped its schedule to every week. I felt the accelerated pace would benefit the group, as well as build extra spiritual muscle into the instructor.

No one ever accused me of being altruistic.

I also had the chance to finally finish several books which have been on my back burner longer than the Ty-D-Bol Man's been out of business. No, that's not an allusion to where I did the reading, although it did feel cathartic to check them off the list.

Novel Pursuits

These meaningful activities still left me with time on my hands, so I jumped back on the publishing bandwagon. Compiling a book proposal isn't quite as much fun as getting a root canal, but then again, you don't need dental insurance to query an agent.

Alas, the person to whom I sent my manuscript seems not to comprehend the true worth of the gem she holds in her hands.That's a face-saving way of saying I've heard nothing. Sadly, the distasteful job of tweaking my pitch to send to other agencies now looms over me the way a final exam scoffs at a student with a raging case of senior-itis.

At least I won't die of boredom.

First Things First

Clearly, there's no end to the cornucopia of things one can find to do that don't fall into the "H" category - and I haven't even scratched the surface. Let us not forget facetiming with loved ones, trying out new recipes, praying through church directories, writing letters and articles like this one, keeping up with social media, managing finances, dubbing certain days "retreat days" to simply soak in God's splendor, learning fun, new skills like how to use the weedwacker (it's so simple a child could do it), finding fun, new skills like how to break the weedwacker (hint: it's only supposed to be used on skinny weeds, not husky wonders like beanstalks), finding ways to repair the weedwacker (I'm still working on that one)...

The one thing I knew going into the imposed isolation was, I couldn't fill that glorious gift of time with nothing but scrubbing and polishing. A little, yes, but for me, that can't be a career. While I admire those who keep house meticulously, I lose interest and heart if that's all I have to do.

So, for me, the quarantine hasn't been boring. Scary, yes. Anxiety- producing, no question. Did I mention the many frightening dreams I had early on, and sometimes still have, as I ponder my employment future and the rough road that lies before our country?

Still, I find the surest way to shake off those fears is to start and end my day with the Lord. Somehow, the rest always falls into place.

"But seek ye first the kingdom of God, and His righteousness; 

and all these things shall be added unto you."

~ Matthew 6:33 ~

Rolling Bandages

Coronavirus has all of us scrambling for masks and sanitizer to evade an evil we can't even see. But before delving into corona's effects on society, allow me a spiritual rabbit trail.

In a similar, albeit spiritual, sense, the prophet Isaiah described the futility of our efforts to cleanse ourselves of a far more deadly (and often invisible) pathogen - sin.

To simplify this intense theological subject, let's consider the following scenario, cleverly presented at a church picnic by a guy with whom I used to worship. He used soda in his demonstration, but I'm tweaking his metaphor just a bit.

Break out the finest wine with the best vintage you can find. Uncork it, then spit into the bottle while your guests stand around watching. Will anyone want to drink it?

Of course not. It became defiled and corrupted the minute the first trickle of your saliva entered the bottle (even if you just had your teeth cleaned). This is how God sees us. The first time we sinned, we took ourselves out of the running for heaven.* We may "clean up nice" on the outside, but "the heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked" (Jeremiah 17:9). God says, "'For though you wash yourself with lye, and use much soap, yet your iniquity is marked before Me" (Jeremiah 2:22).

Jesus's death on the cross was the only way to get us out of the mess created by our sinfulness. He was the perfect, ultimate sacrifice. His death paid for our sins once and for all - but we must place our faith in Him to have that payment applied to our account.

Let's bring our minds back to COVID-19 now. Herculean efforts of researchers and first responders notwithstanding, we will all die eventually. No one gets to stay permanently on this planet.

If we're relying on the fact that we are "good people," how can we be sure we're "good enough" for God to let us into heaven? How many good works does it take to tip the scales in our favor to be sure we make the cut?

Most of us think of ourselves as being fair. If the Bible is true (and there's lots of geographical, historical and archaeological evidence to prove that it is), we must accept its assertion that the God of the Bible is fair. Part of His fairness involves allowing people to choose their eternal destiny, as opposed to forcing them to accept His gift of salvation.

I would ask my reader, have YOU chosen salvation?

Many may be wondering where all this is going. Scary news - I'm not sure myself! I only know these are some of the truths I recently shared in a phone conversation with a dear friend.

Being housebound due to the pandemic, I feel a certain responsibility to tend the home front, much the same way our predecessors did while dealing with strange and frightening times. The current situation brings to mind past wars and the Great Depression, when everyone did what they were capable of doing, from wherever they found themselves. With this in mind, I've been contacting lots of folks, checking on their well-being and trying to assist from a distance.

I'm not unique. Many are doing likewise, trying to "roll bandages," as it were, during this unsettling time.

The conversation to which I alluded previously was one vital way God showed me how to "roll bandages." I had this person on the phone. A chance presented itself to share the gospel. I had nothing pressing to do, no prior commitments, no work schedule dictating my time. I snatched up the opportunity with both hands, and did what I could with it.

I don't think it's a stretch to characterize battling for souls as the ultimate form of bandage rolling. Medical interventions can and do save lives, but in an important sense, they only delay the inevitable. Spiritual interventions can affect a person's eternal destiny.

One important caveat. No one can roll bandages 24/7. Even the most dedicated professionals have to sleep sometime. All our routines have been disrupted and, as a society, we're still in the process of rolling out new ones to try to impose order on the chaos COVID-19 has brought us. It's necessary to give ourselves breathing room (social distance?) to navigate the new normal.

In short, we need to strike a balance between aiding our beleaguered nation's efforts to stem the results of a devastating virus, while still finding a semblance of normality in everyday life. That said, I would encourage each of us to consider...

"What am I doing to roll bandages at this time?"

*with appreciation to Gabe Forest for this compelling analogy

For more like this, check out: Rolling Bandages Part 2: 100 Ways I Avoided Doing Housework During the Quarantine