Ruth's Visions and Revisions

Late Bloomer

rhchatlien@aol.com (Ruth Hull Chatlien) — Wed, 11 Nov 2009 13:16:00 +0000

One of the rose bushes in my yard is blooming. The astonishing thing about this is that we have had several hard frosts. Nevertheless, Stanwell Perpetual has several blossoms even though the foliage has already started to turn. (I forgot to take the photo until dusk yesterday, so I had to use a flash. That's why the background is so dark.)

I'm taking this unexpected blossoming as a personal symbol that being a late bloomer . . . in life or in art . . . is a wondrous thing.

A Modest Proposal* for Defeating Healthcare Reform

rhchatlien@aol.com (Ruth Hull Chatlien) — Tue, 10 Nov 2009 06:10:00 +0000

My regular readers may find the title of this post startling. Bear with me for a few minutes. I've decided to speak directly to the most vociferous critics of the plan to reform our healthcare system, the ones who shout down conversation at protest rallies.

I understand that you claim to oppose the current healthcare plan because you fear the effect of socializing medicine.

If you want to convince others of the unassailable rightness of your point of view, I have a strategy you might want to use. It is stunning in its simplicity and will address so many of the flaws you find in the proposed healthcare plan.

Opt out of Medicare.

That's right. Opt out of Medicare and take out your own privately funded health insurance policy. Pay for the premiums from your own resources.

If you are too young to qualify for Medicare, persuade your parents or grandparents to opt out of the system. Offer to help pay their premiums as a demonstration of your family values.

Just think how much propaganda value this protest would have, especially if it became a mass movement. During the upcoming debate over the bill, conservative senators could stand up on the Senate floor and thunder, "My constituents are so opposed to socialized medicine that 30 percent of eligible recipients have chosen to opt out of Medicare."

Not only would you be striking a blow against socialism, you would also be accomplishing two other things you hold dear. You would be helping the insurance companies compete by giving them more business, and you would be helping to reduce government spending.

I know that, liberal as I am, I would be impressed by such a principled stand. And it would be a lot more relevant to the issue than mailing teabags to Washington or waving them at public protests.

Nothing less than such a radical consistency between ideology and action will convince me that you have been honest about your reasons for opposing the public option. If you fail to act in a way that is true to your stated principles, then I will continue to suspect what I have suspected all along . . . that you are simply infected with an "I've got mine, screw everyone else" hypocrisy. Alas, it's an epidemic far deadlier than H1N1, and it threatens to kill all of us.

* Hat tip to Jonathan Swift

"Unfair competition"

rhchatlien@aol.com (Ruth Hull Chatlien) — Mon, 09 Nov 2009 13:12:00 +0000

Have you read about this? Blue Cross / Blue Shield mounted an anti-reform campaign in North Carolina that seems to have backfired.

The other big argument against health-care reform, which I did not mention yesterday and which Blue Cross used in its campaign, is that the government will undercut private insurers so much that it will drive them out of business, leaving us with only one provider in this country.

It sounds logical. We've all seen how the U.S. Postal Service drove UPS and Fed Ex out of business.

Oh wait, that didn't happen, did it? Instead, the various shipping options, including the one run by the government, have made each other more competitive, so that we now have things like U.S. Priority Mail, a relatively recent development. That's how competition is supposed to work. Why shouldn't the same thing happen with healthcare?

Just think about it.

P.S. If you want some more background to the Blue Cross campaign, go to Wormwood's Doxy's post here.

A few thoughts on health-care reform

rhchatlien@aol.com (Ruth Hull Chatlien) — Sun, 08 Nov 2009 12:21:00 +0000

Yesterday, our lawn-maintenance guys came to do the final fall cleanup. And Smokey barked furiously at the sight of three men using loud machines in his yard . . . even though he's seen these people bi-weekly every growing season of his short canine life. They are not new, and yet he acts as if they are a terrible threat to our well-being.

He reminds me of some of the people using scare tactics to try to block health-care reform. To listen to the opponents of the current legislation, passage will end civilization as we know it. It's the biggest domestic threat to our health we face.

You would think that the idea of a public option for health insurance is utterly untested. But the truth is, the United States is the ONLY industrialized nation not to provide health care to its citizens. Instead of being the leader here, we are the Neanderthals.

Yes, I know there are fears about rationing. But health care is already rationed. Corporations are doing it instead of government.

As I see it, we have a choice between the system we now have . . . in which millions of people go uninsured because they can't afford it, while the elite get to have premium health care and pursue every last option . . . and a system in which everyone will get a decent amount of health care but fewer will be able to explore every last recourse.

The latter is my preference. I am willing to accept that there may be limits to my own health care as long as everyone receives the same level of basic benefits.

You see, I accept that money can't fix everything. And I accept that not every thing is curable.

When Michael and I were trying to conceive, we were finally told that in vitro fertilization was our only option . . . and even then we had only a 15% to conceive. We didn't pursue it for two reasons. First, I didn't like the moral dilemma it presented: They usually fertilize extra eggs to make sure they have enough and I didn't want my leftover embryos in cold storage somewhere, nor did I want to risk becoming Octomom.

But equally troubling to me was the ethical dilemma of spending thousands and thousands of dollars (and probably doing so multiple times) on a procedure that had such a low chance of success. I didn't believe that I had a God-given right to a child . . . only a God-given right to try having one. And I didn't think it was a good use of society's resources for us to pursue that treatment option. (I don't intend this as a criticism of people who have used the procedure. I'm talking only about our own circumstances and the limits they presented.)

The most basic of all economic concepts is that resources are unlimited while wants are infinite. Despite what our culture tells us daily, we cannot have it all. There are limits to what's achievable and choices have to be made.

My choice is for a health-care system that is more equitable, even if it does have limits that might one day impact me.

This morning, I emailed my congressional representative to thank her for voting last night to make such a system a reality. And now I pray the Senate follows suit.

Touching Base

rhchatlien@aol.com (Ruth Hull Chatlien) — Fri, 06 Nov 2009 23:17:00 +0000

Sorry. I forgot that my last post left things hanging.

I did get the computer back Tuesday. They were not able to migrate any of the old files. I could have had them try "hard recovery," but I was falling behind in one of my jobs and was desperate to get the machine back. So I'm rewriting some things for the other job, which has slower deadlines. At least I have a memory that retains that kind of stuff pretty well. I've been able to remember the content of much of the lost pages.

So here is the news I didn't feel able to tell you the other day. One of the two jobs I have has just converted me from the status of independent contractor to the status of temporary employee. Starting January 1, I will even have benefits. It's only till the end of next October, but I think I'm going to go on their insurance even for that limited amount of time. If they don't sign me up for another project, I'll still be able to do COBRA. I had been beginning to think of looking for a staff position again because of the benefits situation, but I was reluctant to go back into an office. This way I'll have benefits and still work at home. This is such an answer to prayer. You can't imagine what health care has cost us this last year between our very expensive premiums and our huge out-of-pocket costs. I may regret doing this in two years when it comes time to self-insure again (especially if we have trouble finding insurance), but that's too far down the road to control my decision now. And who knows, maybe Congress will do the right thing by then!

Because of the sudden glut of work, I'm looking at a very busy schedule for months to come. But I think I'd rather be fatigued from too much work than stressed out about not enough money.

Michael has also had a couple of other projects come his way. Things are looking fairly stable at the moment, despite the $800 in repairs this week.

I would like to ask you all to pray about his film project. He's at a sticky place---needing name talent to attract investors and needing money to attract name talent. There has still been some movement on the project, but he needs a big breakthrough. Please pray for something miraculous to occur, so he can finally use his talents to the fullest.

Monday Evening Update

rhchatlien@aol.com (Ruth Hull Chatlien) — Mon, 02 Nov 2009 22:49:00 +0000

Hello, all.

I still don't have my computer back. I think it's supposed to be fixed tomorrow . . . but something is wrong with our car, so that has to go in for repairs tomorrow. Which means I might not get my laptop back until Wednesday. I miss it. A lot. (I am now typing on my husband's very old iMac. It's slow. I don't like it. I'm spoiled.)

Let's see. What else is going on. I have good news on the job front, for me at least. I have work lined up for the next 12 months! I have two half time jobs from now to the end of the year and then full-time work roughly until October (with the possibility of part-time stuff tucked around the edges). Michael is busy for the next month, and there are possibilities beyond that. So at least our economic situation feels less desperate. This is a good thing considering that we have two large and unexpected repair bills looming. But as my brother pointed out to me, at least this means we have a car and computer to start with.

I wrote a fun article yesterday about why the Chicago River runs backwards. At least, . . . I had fun with it. I'm not sure how my new busyness is going to affect the Suite101 plan. I still hope to do one article minimum a week, but we'll see.

Anyway, that's the news in my world. Hope you are all well.

Ruth

Prepare the Hearse

rhchatlien@aol.com (Ruth Hull Chatlien) — Fri, 30 Oct 2009 00:19:00 +0000

I'm typing a brief post on my husband's laptop because (cue dirge here) my hard drive is dying. My laptop won't boot up anymore, and I went to the Apple store this afternoon only to find that they could not repair the drive or retrieve any of my files. I'm going to take it to someone else tomorrow who supposedly knows more about the process but to quote Elizabeth Bennett from the BBC version of P&P, "I haven't the smallest particle of hope. I know that nothing can be done." (Not sure if that's exact, but it conveys the idea.)

The shop where I'm taking my laptop tomorrow will also replace the hard drive. I probably will not get the computer back for four or five business days. Michael is under a tremendous writing crunch for the next two weeks, and I don't expect to be able to snatch his laptop for blogging. So don't expect to see me posting or reading your blogs for about a week.

In the interest of being helpful and trying to make a good thing out of bad, let me offer two pieces of advice.

First, if you ever hear your computer start to make occasional grinding or chugging or whirring noises . . . even if they are slight and stop fairly quickly . . . you should probably get it checked right away. It could be a sign that your hard drive is struggling.

Second, find a way to back up all your files often. We all know that, but I'm living proof that it's possible to become complacent. The only reason I'm not in complete despair is that we signed up for an Internet storage site this summer, and all my fiction and poetry and quite a lot of my work files are safely on that site. But not everything. I neglected to upload some of my work files this last month, so I have some documents to recreate. (I was working ahead and writing things not due till January or February, so it's not quite as bad as it sounds. Except for the tedium of having to redo things.)

There is still the faint possibility that the technician will be able to retrieve some of my documents, . . . but I doubt it. I talked to an expert in California this afternoon--at a company that specializes in data retrieval--and she (of course) wanted me to use their service instead. She explained all about the safety precautions they take, and their highly controlled clean room, and the high success rate they have. However, . . . taking the cheapest option (5 to 7 day service rather than 1 to 2 day service) would cost me between $700 and $2,400. If my novels were in danger of being lost, I might consider it, but not for social studies worksheets that I can redo.

Sigh. Twenty-three years without a hard drive malfunction and now I've had two in six months. What are the odds? . . . Or maybe the odds are just catching up with me.

Have a good weekend, everyone.

a writing experiment

rhchatlien@aol.com (Ruth Hull Chatlien) — Wed, 28 Oct 2009 19:48:00 +0000

Hi all. I've started a new writing experiment. I'm producing articles for an online content site called Suite101. To start, I'll be doing mostly history and historical biography, but I may eventually branch out into other areas. The site pays on advertising revenues, so I may add topics if I find things that pull more readers than history--and if I think I have something unique to contribute. I'm planning to do only one or two articles a week at first because my writing schedule is booked pretty solid right now. That's why I'm calling it an experiment.

I put a widget in the sidebar that will allow you to see the titles of my last three articles. They are always short--400 to 800 words--so they won't take much of your time. Feel free to pop over and check it out. Since the history articles are similar to (but less censored than) my educational writing, it will give you a chance to see what I do for a living.

P.S. If anyone is interested in subscribing to the feed, you can do that at my profile page on the Suite101 site.

Reading Update

rhchatlien@aol.com (Ruth Hull Chatlien) — Tue, 27 Oct 2009 13:31:00 +0000

I haven't posted an update of my reading in a long time.

I'm sure it will come as no surprise to anyone that I've been reading a lot of novels about painters lately.

First, I reread two Chaim Potok novels:

My Name Is Asher Lev is an extraordinarily compelling novel about a young Hassidic Jew who turns out to be a child prodigy in art. This, of course, creates great conflict in his Brooklyn community--which takes the commandment not to make images literally--and his family, as both his parents are preoccupied trying to save Jews from the Soviet Union. Asher is relentless in his artistic vocation, and the book recounts the great pain that the struggle causes to both him and the people around him. I first read the book in the 1970s when I was still in high school. It is one of the novels I have reread four or five times.

The sequel The Gift of Asher Lev follows the events in Asher Lev's life several years later when he is experiencing a crisis in his art. He has been living in Europe, but family events cause him to return to Brooklyn, where he begins to suspect that a great sacrifice is about to be demanded of him.

Then I read three historical novels about real painters by the author Irving Stone. Two of the book are quite famous and one is lesser known (but better loved by me).

Lust for Life (Plume) was Stone's first well-known book, and it recounts the story of Vincent Van Gogh and his efforts to first find a vocation in life and second to fight off the insanity that threatens to destroy him. If you know anything about Van Gogh's life, you will know that this is not a happy book, but I think it is a great one. Stone based it largely on Van Gogh's letters to his brother Theo.

The Agony and the Ecstasy: A Biographical Novel of Michelangelo is Stone's novel about Michelangelo. The movie version of this book focuses only on the painting of the Sistine Chapel. The novel is far more comprehensive and devotes chapters to the creation of each of his masterworks. It also reveals a great deal about the Italian Renaissance, if you're interested in that period of history.

Finally, my favorite of the Irving Stone "painter novels" is Depths of Glory: A Biographical Novel of Camille Pisarro, partially because I love the Impressionist period and partially because Pisarro was a more even-tempered man than any of the other artists I read about. As with most artists, Pisarro had a terrible struggle to make a living, yet he remained true to his vision and his calling. He had a very stable family life, remaining with the same woman his entire adult life and having (I think) eight children with her. He had to overcome a lot--including family disapproval, the destruction of years of work by the invading Prussian army, and the wave of anti-Semitism that occurred during the Dreyfus affair. (Pisarro was Jewish.) In some ways, I found this book more inspiring that any of the others.

In addition to the painter books, I also finished reading two volumes of poetry, both of which I enjoyed:

Memorable Halloween Costumes

rhchatlien@aol.com (Ruth Hull Chatlien) — Mon, 26 Oct 2009 00:44:00 +0000

I just read a post in which Dawn showed her children's Halloween costumes, and I thought her daughter's candy corn costume was adorable. It got me to thinking about some of my own favorite costumes, and I thought it would be fun to do a blog meme about them.

I'm going to describe three of my favorite all-time costumes. If you would like to do the same, just leave a comment telling me and I'll come read about yours.

My favorite costume as a child was when I dressed as Wee Willie Winkie:

Wee Willie Winkie runs through the town,
Upstairs and downstairs in his nightgown,
Tapping at the window and crying through the lock,
Are all the children in their beds, it's past eight o'clock?

I wore a nightshirt, a stocking cap, and carried a candle as we went trick or treating. None of the neighbors knew who I was supposed to be, but I still enjoyed it.

One Halloween when I was single, my room-mate and I gave a party, and we told our guests they had to come as something from the Bible. I dressed as a rainbow: red socks, purple tights, blue shorts, yellow top, rainbow striped clown wig, and rainbow stripes painted on my face by a friend. (My roommate Joyce went as a burnt sacrifice. She was all in black with soot on her face and a belt of sticks with construction paper flames.)

Another year, the same roommate and I were asked to a Halloween party given by one of my coworkers. We went as Rhett Butler and Scarlett O'Hara. Joyce was six inches taller than me and probably 30 pounds heavier, but she had a Southern-belle-style bridesmade dress. So she wore that and I wore a brocade vest and blue suit coat I borrowed from my brother, and died my hair dark and painted on a Clark Gable mustache. My co-workers didn't even recognize and thought I was a very short man. (I'm not quite 5' 2").

I've always enjoyed costume parties. :-)

A Productive Day

rhchatlien@aol.com (Ruth Hull Chatlien) — Thu, 22 Oct 2009 12:16:00 +0000

I don't know about you, but when I have a lot of undone stuff hanging over my head, it tends to color my feelings about my whole life. Lately, one of the things that has been bothering me is the onrush of autumn. There is always so much to do to get the yard ready for winter. Our lawn guys did some of the cleanup, but there were still a lot of things left for me to do.

The other fall-related problem has been that my light-therapy lamp has been broken the last couple of weeks. I knocked it over and broke the bulb, and when the replacement came, I found out that another part had been damaged too so I had to get a replacement for it. I have seasonal affective disorder, and with the shorter days, I've been noticing the onset of the blues lately.

Yesterday was beautiful--70 degrees and sunny. In fact, judging from the forecast, it might very well be our last truly Indian summer day. And this was what I accomplished:

Fixed the lamp.
Unhooked the outside hoses.
Called the plumber about the dripping outdoor faucet.
Dug up my canna and dahlias to try to overwinter them in the garage.
Moved my one tender rose into the garage for overwintering.
Moved my terracotta pots into the garage for protection.
Pulled up my dead squash, tomatoes, and bean plants. Also pulled up the beets I let grow for six months and refused to eat because of fears they would be too tough.
Stored the tomato cages and squash trellises in the garage.

Plus I did about half a day of freelance work and completed an application to write for an online articles site, something I've been thinking about and gradually working on for a couple of weeks.

Being out in the sunlight did wonders for my mood, plus I feel so much lighter now that have so many things off my To Do list.

Maybe this will help me relax in some of the other areas of my life.

Zucchana bread (or is it banini?)

rhchatlien@aol.com (Ruth Hull Chatlien) — Wed, 21 Oct 2009 12:45:00 +0000

Sunday I made zucchini bread with the last zucchini from my garden. We had a hard frost very early this year, so no more fresh vegies.

Anyway, this is the recipe I normally use:

3 eggs

1-1/2 cup raw sugar

2 t. vanilla

1 c. corn oil

2 c. shredded zucchini

2-1/2 cup whole wheat flour (graham)

2 t. baking soda

1 t. salt

1/4 t. baking powder

3-1/2 t. cinnamon

1 c. chopped walnuts

Mix dry ingredients. Mix wet ingredients and slowly add flour mixture. Add nuts. Bake in two greased and floured bread pans for 1 hour at 325.

Except that Sunday I had only about 1.5 cups of shredded zucchini. However, I did have a small very ripe banana, so I added that to the batter. Hence, I invented zucchana bread.

It tastes pretty good!

P.S. I feel like there is a metaphor in here somewhere about cobbling life together in unexpected ways from the things that turn up rather than the ideal.

Monday, Monday

rhchatlien@aol.com (Ruth Hull Chatlien) — Mon, 19 Oct 2009 12:58:00 +0000

I've been dithering about what to write.

I worry that you must be sick of reading about this angst, but I'm still waging an internal war within myself about my art. I don't doubt any longer that I have talent--I've received too much positive reinforcement the last few months--but apparently, the old programming of "You must be a workhorse. You had to work, work, work and not pursue something so impractical" is very deep and powerful. Saturday, I was in tears again before leaving for class and Michael had to talk me through it.

I wish I could explain exactly why I have this terrible fear that it's wrong and selfish for me to study art. One of the things that is so distressing is that I never even suspected I had those controlling messages in my subconscious. A year ago, if anyone had asked me about why I stopped drawing, I would have said something like, "Oh, I don't know. It was one of those things you give up when you stop being a kid. I decided to pursue my writing, and you can't do everything in life, you know." But judging from the way I'm beating myself up about my art class, the reasons and the decision were not nearly so benign.

One of our friends at church (also an artist) thinks that part of the problem is the way our society as a whole devalues art.

When I am actually in class doing the work, I am happy and confident and focused. It's when I'm at home preparing to go to class that the demons set in.

I think that if I just stick to my guns, continue to fight to negative internal messages, and go to class every week, eventually I will resolve the internal conflict. If my past is any indication, if I put in the necessary effort of emotional processing and if I continue in prayer, I will form a new set of beliefs and mental constructs to guide my life. But I have to tell you that this is some of the hardest emotional work I've ever done in my life, defying an old and powerful set of constructs week after week. If we could afford it, I would go back to my old therapist so I wouldn't have to fight this alone, but our financial situation does not allow for that right now.

Another factor adds to the difficulty. The class is from 1:00 to 4:00, and it takes about 75 minutes to drive there and time to set up and put away my stuff each week. So the class takes a chunk (11:30 to 5:30) right out of the middle of every Saturday. I can't really schedule much of anything around it, so it's very awkward. I liked having a Saturday morning class better, but Richard teaches portrait in the morning and human figure in the afternoon . . . and I've discovered that I LOVE drawing the figure. So every Saturday, I find myself thinking, "I hate losing half of every weekend, but I love what I'm giving it up for." And I think that ambivalence triggers the old guilt messages.

I'm going to try taking Mondays off and see if that helps by giving me more of a "weekend" and more time to relax. That will be doable from now till the end of the year, but come January, I'm supposed to go back to full-time again, and I probably won't be able to manage keeping Monday free. But I guess I can't borrow trouble from the future, can I?

Anyway, I'm sorry to keep harping on this issue, but it's still a struggle and sometimes it has me so paralyzed that I just don't have energy to blog.

P.S. The top picture is one I did on my own. The bottom picture is a continuation of the figure I'm doing this month in class.

Shadow (a short story)

rhchatlien@aol.com (Ruth Hull Chatlien) — Tue, 13 Oct 2009 12:28:00 +0000

This is a short story I wrote nearly three years ago. Normally, I don't post my fiction on this blog because I don't want to damage its markability. However, I don't think I'll be submitting this one to any more markets. I wrote this to cope with a very old grief. It's not autobiographical (i.e. I've never been a stalker), but it was strongly influenced by some events in my past.

Sara supposes that in the eyes of the law what she’s doing is stalking—but she only does it twice a year, and anyway she prefers to think of it as detective work, like shadowing a suspect. Annually on Jon’s birthday and again just before Christmas, she rises in the middle of the night and drives to the town where he lives, parking across the street from his apartment building and about half a block away so that her stakeout isn’t obvious. She rents a different car each time, also to prevent detection—not that she thinks he’d recognize her even if she walked up and knocked on his door. She’s gained at least 50 pounds since they knew each other in school, and her hair, once long and straight and shining platinum, is now cut short in punk fashion and dyed a strident red. Sara knows she is no longer attractive, but she doesn’t care. The only man she’s ever loved lives like a prisoner in a cellblock of paranoia, and she isn’t on his approved visitors list.

He abhors change and hasn’t moved in 15 years, which is good for Sara because she is no longer friends with his sister, who used to be her main source of information. Jon has schizophrenia. The first few years after his diagnosis, his mother took him from doctor to doctor and also to faith healers, running after any treatment that promised relief. He has even had shock therapy, a treatment that Sara thought had long since been discredited. Nothing seemed to help him except medication, which he has refused to take since the year his mother died. He believes the pills were the government’s attempt to poison him, so he won’t go near doctors anymore.

He lives without automobile or telephone in a studio apartment in a seedy town 40 miles north of Chicago. For a number of years he worked at a dry cleaner’s, pressing clothes in the back room. Then one night a pizzeria in the same strip mall was robbed, and after he heard the news, he never went back to work. As far as Sara knows, he survives on food stamps and Social Security.

Sitting in the rental car, eating a powdered donut and drinking coffee from a thermos, she sees in her rearview mirror that the sky has finally begun to lighten. As soon as she arrived that morning, she ran across the dark street and used a tiny flashlight to check the name cards by the doorbells to make sure Jon still lives here. Then she took up her post in the car. She always tries to be in place by 5:00 in the morning because she doesn’t want to risk missing him if he should exit his building early. He doesn’t go out very often, and when he does, it’s usually at odd hours when he is least likely to run into other people. He hugs the walls when he walks down the sidewalk and refuses to meet the eyes of strangers.

He was always shy, even in high school before the illness manifested itself. Sara first met him in a creative writing course that they took their sophomore year. His work was so brilliant that it intimidated every kid in class. While other students struggled to master the structure of the short story, Jon wrote an entire science fiction novel during the course of the 18-week semester . . . and drew detailed illustrations to accompany it. By the time they graduated from high school, he had written two more novels, completing a trilogy about a complex civilization threatened, not by extraterrestrial aliens, but by hostile parasitic viruses unleashed by an unethical medical experiment. Sometimes Sara wonders if, in conjuring up that plot, his subconscious was warning him of the horrific internal conflicts he himself would have to face.

After swallowing the last of her second donut, Sara brushes the confectioners sugar from the front of her faded Star Trek sweatshirt and leans back in the bucket seat. The last time she saw Jon, at Christmas, he appeared gaunt and ill, although admittedly it’s difficult to get a good look at him from the distance at which she stations herself. But no matter how shabby he seems, the important thing to Sara is to reassure herself that he’s still living, that he hasn’t killed himself or died from neglect and poverty.

As a teenager, he was beautiful in a stern way. He had thick, pale gold hair and light blue eyes, a straight nose and a strong jaw. When he smiled, dimples formed at the corners of his mouth, softening his face and making it boyish. Sara thought he was like the science fiction character Mr. Spock, seemingly cold and aloof. However, hidden beneath the logical exterior was a human side—funny, generous, and loving—that only his closest friends ever saw. Like Spock, Jon was tall and thin, and he never involved himself in romance. Yet once he and Sara became friends, he grew fiercely loyal to her. He liked to surprise her with her favorite candy, to loan her books he thought would amuse her, and to encourage her interest in fashion design. When she began to help with costumes for the school plays, Jon attended every performance to support her efforts. He even taught himself the seamstress’s vocabulary of gores and French seams and self-covered buttons.

With his own artistic ability, he became a master at imitating Charles Schultz’s drawing style. He used to create his own take-offs of Peanuts cartoons and distribute them to a select handful of friends. Toward the end of that series, Jon’s version of Charlie Brown evolved from being a downtrodden, discouraged loser to a paranoid madman. The last cartoon showed him at Lucy’s psychiatrist stand, leaning over the partition, grabbing Lucy by the neck, and demanding to know why she gave his patient files to the FBI.

By then, Sara had already realized that something in Jon’s mind—that gifted intelligence she so admired—had turned dark and fearful. The night after they graduated from high school, he buried the manuscript of his novels in the back yard because he said they came too close to revealing the truth about the government’s secret laboratories. Sara tried to tell herself it was just the effect of the beers he’d downed at their graduation party; neither of them was used to drinking. Yet it troubled her to see him acting so furtively. After he finished, he stood close to her, gripped her arms just above the elbow, and whispered, “You’ll never tell, will you? You won’t betray me?” And when she promised she wouldn’t, he kissed her.

That was the first time he had ever treated her like a girlfriend, yet the next day he acted as though nothing between them was different. That fall, they went to the same college, a small liberal arts school in a suburb about 20 miles from home. Although they weren’t officially dating, they spent many of their evenings studying together and part of each weekend going to movies or football games. Jon seemed to be growing more comfortable with her, occasionally taking her hand or giving her a stiff hug. Sara believed he was testing the romantic waters to see if their relationship could handle such a momentous change, momentous at least for him. She had been in love with him since they were 16. She told herself that once they passed over the frightening hurdle of admitting their true feelings, everything—including Jon’s increasingly suspicious and antagonistic manner—would improve. His negative feelings would evaporate, and they would make each other happy. But when she used what she believed was harmless flirtation to nudge the friendship toward romance, he accused her of trying to seduce him from his work.

As the semester wore on, Jon frequently misinterpreted things that Sara said or accused her of gossiping about him with other people. Their quarrels grew more and more bitter. At the same time, Jon began to display his paranoia and hostility in other, more public settings. Sara clung to the hope that once he adjusted to the demands of college, he would snap out of whatever was troubling him and go back to being the shy, sweet boy she loved. However, his difficulties intensified until his parents were forced to take him out of school. She tried to stay in touch, but Jon refused to answer her phone calls and letters. And so she lost him.

For the rest of college, she kept waiting for Jon to get well enough to return to class, but whenever she asked his sister how he was doing, the reports were discouraging. During her senior year, Sara tried to get an internship with a New York fashion house, but none of her applications were accepted. She told herself it was for the best because it would have meant moving far away from Jon. Instead she settled for a job in retail as an assistant manager of a trendy clothing store. She dated a few guys over the next ten years, but none of them had Jon’s depth of character or his quirky intensity. When her girlfriends asked what the problem was, Sara replied that she was looking for a soul mate, not some pathetic junior executive eager to get laid. After a while she withdrew from the dating scene altogether and spent her evenings watching science fiction videos or reading novels about tragic romances.

As for Jon, she imagines him living in a perpetually grey world, the window shades drawn against the intrusion of the sun, the apartment cloistered from the corrupting influence of televisions, computers, and music. She sees him shuffling like an old man from the sofa bed to the tiny dinette set to the counter with its sink and two-burner electric range. What does he do all day? she wonders. Does he still write and illustrate science fiction epics? Does he reenact world-famous chess matches out of books? Does he ever think of her?

The morning has worn away without her seeing him. In the past, she has sometimes sat here till sunset without his making an appearance, but she doesn’t fear that kind of disappointment anymore. Three years ago, she devised a way to lure him out of the shadows, and her plan will go into action sometime around two.

As Sara waits, she eats her lunch—a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, a double bag of potato chips, a package of Hostess cupcakes—and keeps her eyes fixed on his building just in case he comes out early. It is a nondescript, four-story brick structure with a flat roof, more like a factory than an apartment house. The windows have neither shutters nor wooden sills to soften the industrial appearance.

The building stands at the corner of two busy streets. Sara is parked next to an abandoned and boarded-up factory, a business that was still in operation when she first started coming here seven years ago. That summer during a weekend visit, Jon’s sister Gretchen had accused Sara of maintaining their friendship just to get news of him, and when Sara was unable to deny the charge to her satisfaction, Gretchen left in a huff. But not before Sara rifled through Gretchen’s purse to obtain Jon’s address while Gretchen was in the bathroom.

Across the thoroughfare on the west side of the apartment building stands a small hospital and adjoining medical building. Gretchen once told Sara that the clinic was the last place Jon went for treatment, which was how he came to be living here. Sara wonders what continues to bind him to this dreary place—is it an inertia so exhausting that moving is impossible, or is it a half-formed intention to someday, when the voices in his head grow too vicious to endure, return for help and perhaps get well at last? Or does he stay here simply because this wasteland is all he can afford?

Sara empties her Diet Coke and tries to ignore the insistent pressure of her full bladder. There used to be a hot dog stand on the corner where she could purchase an order of fries and so gain access to the bathroom, but when the factory that supported this neighborhood shut down, the hot dog stand closed too. Her discomfort grows worse by the minute, but she doesn’t dare leave her post now.

Shortly after two, the dark brown box of a UPS truck pulls up to the apartment building across the street. Sometimes the driver parks where he blocks her view of the doorway, but today she’s in luck. A small hatchback stands in that place, so the truck must park behind it. The driver retrieves a carton from the back of the truck, climbs out, walks to the doorway of Jon’s building, and rings a doorbell. It’s the kind of building to which strangers cannot gain access unless a resident buzzes them in. Sara sees the driver talk into the speaker mounted above the bells and then he waits. At least two minutes go by, and he backs up to stare at the windows overhead and then checks his watch. He rings the bell again, but this time no conversation with the speaker ensues. The driver cannot leave the package and go, Sara knows, because the shipping instructions specify that Jon himself must sign for the delivery.

Finally, the door to the building opens, which is the moment Sara has been waiting for. This year, she was clever; she managed to rent a car with tinted windows. Because of that, it is safe for her to raise binoculars to her eyes and get the first good look at Jon she’s had in 27 years.

He is frowning at the UPS driver, who holds out a clipboard and asks for a signature. Shaking his head, Jon refuses to take it. His face is drawn and thin, and his hair has darkened to a dull mouse brown. He has a bald spot on the top of his head. His faded and frayed clothes are at least five years out of fashion. As he stands with hunched posture, he has difficulty meeting the driver’s eyes. He takes a step backward and rubs his chin with his right hand. The UPS man gestures emphatically with the clipboard and pushes out the carton slightly with his hip. Finally, Jon signs the form, accepts the carton, and disappears into the foyer.

Sara’s eyes fill with tears. She pictures him standing in that dingy entry—with its scratched baseboards and cracked glass door leading to an inner hall—and staring at the carton that he’s set on the scuffed linoleum while he tries to determine if it’s safe. Closing her eyes, she wills him to pick up the carton and carry it upstairs. When he opens it, he will find shaving cream and toothpaste; boxes of macaroni and cheese; cans of soup and tuna; three packages of Oreos; four pairs of socks and a lightweight navy sweater; a vintage book of Peanuts cartoons that she found in a used bookstore; and an unsentimental birthday card signed simply “A Friend.” Every six months when these packages arrive, he looks more and more disturbed by their unexplained appearance. Even though Sara suspects that someday Jon will muster up the will to refuse delivery, she cannot stop herself from sending the anonymous presents. These practical odds and ends and inexpensive treats are all that she has to give him, the only way she can express the love that has possessed her for the last 30 years.

After waiting a few more minutes, praying for a raised shade and a glimpse of movement through his window, Sara gives up hope once more. She starts the rental car and drives toward the west, toward home. And her shadow follows.

Work in Progress

rhchatlien@aol.com (Ruth Hull Chatlien) — Sun, 11 Oct 2009 21:21:00 +0000

This is the figure I'm doing for October. I didn't want to go five weeks without posting some of my work. Clicking on it makes it bigger.

I'm drawing the whole figure. At this point, the bottom half is only an outline sketch. I'll probably post the full monty when it's done. If anyone thinks that will bother them, let me know in the comments or email me privately and I'll make sure to include the word "nude" in the title of such posts, so you can avoid them.

Saturday Summary

rhchatlien@aol.com (Ruth Hull Chatlien) — Sat, 10 Oct 2009 14:24:00 +0000

It occurs to me that I've haven't given an update on my life in a while. Let's see, where to begin.

As I mentioned a couple of weeks ago, we've had some work issues. Michael's freelance job ended early, and another job he was promised didn't come through. The hours on my job have been cut back as well, so we're rapidly depleting our savings. In mid-September, I got two weeks of work from a new client, and after a week, they took Michael on to help finish the job, which was massive, rushed, and extremely difficult. (We were writing test questions for state assessments--the tests kids have to take to see if they can graduate. That's all I can say about that. The confidentiality requirements are intense, so I can't even tell you the state.)

The job did not pay as well as I'd like, but it was work at a time we desperately needed it, so I was grateful. The client hopes to use me again, so that's a good thing too.

Even with that job, however, we are still on a pace to run short of funds by late December. I've told Michael that as a freelance writer, I have discovered that my comfort zone is about three months. Once we get a writing assignment, it takes time to finish, and then once we invoice, it can take anywhere from two to twelve weeks to get paid. So that's where the three-months' comfort zone comes in. As long as I can see enough income coming in (from completed jobs or jobs that we've actually started) to take us through the next three months, I stay fairly calm. If we get in a tighter scenario than that, the stress mounts with every day.

Well, as soon as we entered October, we were in that "less-than-three-months red zone." I've been praying and asking for prayers and trying to manage my anxiety, but it's been difficult. One thing that added to the worry is that the assessment job, while welcome, was an example of working very hard at a pay rate that could not possibly sustain us if we continued it full-time. Many of the job leads that Michael was following up (because they were all he could find) were equally low paying, so I had visions of us working incredibly long hours and still coming up short.

Wednesday, I rebelled. I finished my work for the day by early afternoon. Then, instead of doing something related to work or job hunting, I sat down and wrote a short story, my first in about three months. Once I finished that, I cooked chicken and zucchini for dinner, while listening to the iPod and dancing around the kitchen. It felt good to blow off the stress and say to heck with the nonstop discipline and practicality. I felt like I was taking my life back.

Thursday morning in the shower, I told God, "You know what we need much better than I do, but I think that we need Michael to get a job that pays at least $X,000 by the end of the year."

If you've read this blog for any length of time, I'll bet you can guess where this is going. Yep, that's right. Thursday afternoon, someone contacted him about a job that will pay somewhere in the vicinity of $x,000. The work is due early November. We've worked for this company before, and if past patterns hold true, he should be paid by the end of the year.

It's not a done deal yet. Michael has to submit a formal bid and get approved. Then he'll be given a contract to sign. But I think this is going to work out, so I can relax for another month. LOL

P.S. In all fairness, I should tell you that there are plenty of times I ask God for specific things and they don't happen. That actually tends to be the norm. But I do get these incredible answers often enough that it encourages me to keep on asking.

P.P.S. Pray that the paperwork goes through ok, and he does actually get this job.

Seeking "Medical" Advice

rhchatlien@aol.com (Ruth Hull Chatlien) — Mon, 05 Oct 2009 22:37:00 +0000

Not about how to treat an illness but how to seek treatment.

I have had the same doctor (internist) for about 16 years. I like her. She's my age, and she's easy to talk to.

But she's in the office for only about three hours a week. (That's not an exaggeration; that's what she told me.) She teaches in medical school and barely sees patients anymore. She'll see people for their annual checkup because you can schedule that far in advance.

However, she doesn't see people for sudden illness. Instead, if something like that happened, I would have to see her nephew or her niece who are in practice with her. (I guess it's a family practice in more ways than one.)

The niece is new to the office. She hasn't been practicing very long, and I know nothing about her other than the fact that my doctor says I'd be fine with her. I've seen the nephew once or twice, and he seems personable, knowledgeable, etc. But I prefer women doctors. (Not to mention the fact that he is young and distractingly handsome. I know that shouldn't matter but somehow it does.)

My husband sees a different doctor, also a woman. His doctor and my doctor used to be in the same office, but they split the practice about ten years ago. (Maybe to make room for my doctor's relatives???) Michael thinks I should switch. His doctor is more responsive than mine. Anytime he has tests, she calls at the end of the work day and will discuss the results thoroughly with him. My doctor has her nurse call.

Part of me thinks he's right and I should switch doctors. But I hate starting the patient / physician relationship all over. And I have this over-developed sense of loyalty. I feel guilty for considering leaving my doctor . . . even though in one sense, she has already left me.

Any thoughts? Am I making too much of the fact that my doctor has cut back hours? Or is it normal to think of switching physicians in a situation like this?

Please Pray for Evan

rhchatlien@aol.com (Ruth Hull Chatlien) — Sun, 04 Oct 2009 12:51:00 +0000

Long-time readers of this blog know about Evan, the son of some friends from church. He has been fighting leukemia for about 15 months.

He had two different bone marrow transplants, and his leukemia has not returned, but he is battling a host of other respiratory and digestive issues. He continues to have to go in and out of the hospital.

This is what his mother posted on her online journal last night.

So, now the why. When Evan was diagnosed we knew things were not good. As I was reminded the other night by Dr. Dave, he had a horrible cancer. Once the genetics of his Leukemia came back we knew that due to his Flt3 (pronounced flit 3) mutation, his relapse rate was pretty much a given. We knew that his best (and pretty much only) chance was to have a Bone Marrow Transplant. We knew going into transplant that there were many risks, many being life threatening. We have found out many of those side effects and continue to do so. We never imagined to still be in the thick of it almost one yr later. Do we regret the decision, no. We may not have our precious son here today without it. The reality is that he did not have one, but two transplants and his body has been beaten up a lot. He has chronic issues as a result of his treatments. Many people thought that once his BMT was done he'd be fine and we go on with life as we once knew it. That is not the case, life as we knew it is gone. We will never be the Dustan's PC (Pre Cancer) no matter how hard we may try. Our lives are forever changed, some things for the better and some far from. The fact is that Evan's medical issues are a direct result of AML. It stinks, but we must find a way to make the current circumstances the best we can. Watching your child work so hard to breathe after all that he has already fought is like being punched in your stomach over and over.

Please pray for this family.

No Crystal Ball

rhchatlien@aol.com (Ruth Hull Chatlien) — Mon, 28 Sep 2009 11:40:00 +0000

Friday, I briefly went back to my alma mater, Wheaton College, one of the all-time bastions of evangelicalism. Since I no longer think of myself as an evangelical, it's not a visit I make very often, even though my sister-in-law lives a mere 5 minutes from the campus.

The reason I went was to see an art exhibit at the Billy Graham center there. The drawings were astonishing. If any of you live in or plan to visit the Chicago area by February, I'd recommend seeing this one.

Being back on campus always feels a little odd to me. Walking up the lawn to Blanchard Hall, I can't help but think about the young woman I was 30 years ago. And here is the honest-to-God truth. If I'd had a crystal ball at the age of 21 and could have seen a vision of the person I am now, I would have been horrified. I would have gone down on my knees and begged God to spare me from such a future.

My plan for my life was to teach high school English, to marry an evangelical man (although one who was more liberal than most), to have three children, to stay at home with those children until the youngest started school, and maybe if I was very lucky to publish a novel.

I taught high school for only one year and left the profession.

I married a divorced Catholic.

We have no children. Wanted them but couldn't have them.

I have been in the workforce for 30 years with no end in sight.

I've written three novels but not published any of them.

I've started to study art, which was so far off my radar that it never even occurred to me as a possibility.

I would not have ever believed that I would make the risky decision to live with both myself and my husband working as freelancers.

But the part that would have distressed me the most is that I've been though four denominations: Baptist, Mennonite, Catholic, and now Episcopalian (which I hope will be my stopping place). Had I foreseen this, I would have labeled myself a backslider and someone who'd been corrupted by the world. I would have begged God to keep me on the straight and narrow.

And yet, obviously, I don't think of myself that way now or I wouldn't be living the life I live.

The point I'm trying to make is that I would have refused my future because I had no way of knowing the unpredictable path God would lead me along or the way I would change and grow along the way.

Sometimes I think that's exactly why God doesn't let us know what's coming too far ahead of time. There is a very real danger that we would refuse his work in our lives because we think we know where we're supposed to be going.

It was good for me to be reminded of that. Especially now with the job and income uncertainty we're experiencing. We never know what is going to be beyond the next curve in the road.

And if my past and present are any indication, it will probably be much different than anything I can predict.

Follow up post . . . and my first nude

rhchatlien@aol.com (Ruth Hull Chatlien) — Sat, 26 Sep 2009 23:06:00 +0000

I titled my post intentionally, just in case someone would be offended by accidentally stumbling across a nude image.

First of all, thank you to all who commented on my last post. Your insights have helped me a great deal, and I'm trying to be more accepting of myself.

Part of what is wrong with me is that we're scrambling a bit for work right now, and when I am anxious about money, I tend to harp more on the lack of rewards for my fiction. I'm still praying for God to increase my trust and faith.

Now onto the new topic. I wanted to tell you all how much I am LOVING my art class. I feel as though I have come home to a place I belong but haven't been to in decades.

Richard Halstead is a wonderful teacher. He comes and looks at your work and says, "Let me tell you a couple of things." He never makes you feel stupid. He just shows you how to do what you are trying to do.

Here is my first month's drawing. We had this model for three weeks. And yes, she's pregnant.

Richard redid the hair (I had made it too complicated by trying to draw too many individual strands), and he darkened the shadows on her face, but everything else is my work. This is more or less my first figure drawing ever . . . unless you count a half drawing I did when I was ten. I'm pleased with it.

We start with someone new next Saturday.

Parable of the Talents

rhchatlien@aol.com (Ruth Hull Chatlien) — Mon, 21 Sep 2009 13:21:00 +0000

Let's talk a little bit about horror stories, the things that frighten and haunt us.

One of mine is the Parable of the Talents;

For it is as if a man, going on a journey, summoned his slaves and entrusted his property to them; to one he gave five talents, to another two, to another one, to each according to his ability. Then he went away. The one who had received the five talents went off at once and traded with them, and made five more talents. In the same way, the one who had the two talents made two more talents. But the one who had received the one talent went off and dug a hole in the ground and hid his master’s money. After a long time the master of those slaves came and settled accounts with them. Then the one who had received the five talents came forward, bringing five more talents, saying, “Master, you handed over to me five talents; see, I have made five more talents.” His master said to him, “Well done, good and trustworthy slave; you have been trustworthy in a few things, I will put you in charge of many things; enter into the joy of your master.” And the one with the two talents also came forward, saying, “Master, you handed over to me two talents; see, I have made two more talents.” His master said to him, “Well done, good and trustworthy slave; you have been trustworthy in a few things, I will put you in charge of many things; enter into the joy of your master.” Then the one who had received the one talent also came forward, saying, “Master, I knew that you were a harsh man, reaping where you did not sow, and gathering where you did not scatter seed; so I was afraid, and I went and hid your talent in the ground. Here you have what is yours.” But his master replied, “You wicked and lazy slave! You knew, did you, that I reap where I did not sow, and gather where I did not scatter? Then you ought to have invested my money with the bankers, and on my return I would have received what was my own with interest. So take the talent from him, and give it to the one with the ten talents. For to all those who have, more will be given, and they will have an abundance; but from those who have nothing, even what they have will be taken away. As for this worthless slave, throw him into the outer darkness, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth.”

Surprised? For as long as I can remember, I've had people telling me that I'm gifted. And for nearly all of my life, I have heard this parable and listened to it with deadly seriousness. I feel that I must invest my talents in ways that please and serve God, and that if I make a mistake, . . . if I don't work hard enough, if I don't figure out the right way to use my gifts, I won't just be making a mistake but committing a sin. While I don't think I'll be "thrown into outer darkness" for such failure, I must say that the parable paints a fairly vivid picture of God's displeasure toward those who don't use the gifts he's given them wisely.

This is why I experience so much angst about my writing and my art.

Since I was 23, I have felt a very strong vocation as a fiction writer, yet in the world's terms, I am singularly unsuccessful at it. Nearly 30 years, and all I have to show for it is five published stories. I have two completed novels I've been unable to sell and a third novel that is nearly done. And I can't seem to summon the energy to finish that last edit and prepare the query letter and synopsis I'll need to market that third book. I'm tired of collecting dozens of rejections. I seem to have lost confidence in myself as a fiction writer. But doesn't it seem like a waste to spend five years of my life writing a book that I don't even try to sell--not to mention disobedience toward God (according to my interpretation of the parable)? I'm conflicted, and inner conflict is exhausting.

My poetry is less burdened by guilt because I never claimed it as a vocation . . . even though many people over the years have told me they prefer it to my fiction. By not viewing it through that lens, I think I've protected it. I still seem able to do it with joy.

Now I'm starting on a new artistic quest, that of the visual arts, and I am struggling greatly to find a way to be responsible to my talent without putting the same heavy burden on it that robbed me of my joy in fiction.

So I'm asking if any of you can help me untangle my thinking. How do you interpret that parable? What does a wise and faithful investment of talents mean?

P.S. i realized from the first comment I received that I have left out part of my explanation. When I talk about being unsuccessful in the eyes of the world, it's partially about money but it's mostly about something else . . . finding an audience. What is the point of having a writing vocation if I can't find readers? That is what troubles me more than anything.

Newport

rhchatlien@aol.com (Ruth Hull Chatlien) — Sat, 19 Sep 2009 14:59:00 +0000

Hiking a well-known trail

along Lake Michigan’s shore,

I turn from the rocky, scenic coast

inland, deeper, into a leaf-canopied forest.

The path pulling me forward

like a mulch-strewn conveyor

swiftly narrows, crowded by the spreading weeds

and encroaching shrubbery of high summer,

until only a thin and breakable thread

spools out before me.

Doubt pinches my heart.

I know this place . . . or do I?

Have I missed some carved-arrow sign

giving hikers direction?

Halting, I glance backwards,

then once again ahead,

mired as if by quicksand

within the same relentless questioning

I sought to escape on vacation.

P.S. I may have posted this prematurely. There are some cliched lines that I'm not happy with and still pondering. But the emotional content reflects where I"m at, so I'll leave it here.

Where in the world is Ruth?

rhchatlien@aol.com (Ruth Hull Chatlien) — Tue, 15 Sep 2009 00:43:00 +0000

I seem to be on a blog break. I didn't plan it. It's just happening. I think I have too many things to process in my tangible life to devote any attention to my virtual one.

See you when I have something to say.

Living on Manna

rhchatlien@aol.com (Ruth Hull Chatlien) — Sat, 05 Sep 2009 03:58:00 +0000

I wrote this post several days ago, but I held it in draft form because I was waiting for some details of what I was writing about to be finalized. It's a good thing I did because things didn't work out quite as I planned.

A couple of weeks ago, Thailand Chani wrote a post about having a True Day, in which bloggers would admit something true about ourselves that we usually hide from others. The idea started me thinking, but I wasn't ready to write about it until I'd mulled it over.

I don't like to admit this, but sometimes, I really wish we could receive some big windfall—enough money to live on for about two or three years. I wouldn't stop working at educational writing, but I would work fewer hours so that I could spend more time on my personal writing and my art. I'd use the "windfall" to make up for the lost income, at the same time trying to earn money from the work I'd rather be doing.

So I was thinking about this one morning during my devotional time, and I remembered the parable of the man who built a big barn to store all his wealth, only to die the next night. And I realized sheepishly that I was thinking along the same lines as that foolish man By dwelling on the idea of a huge safety net of money, I was putting my faith in the wrong thing—in money, not in God.

At that point, I had one of those epiphanies, the kind that feels like a hand reaching out and grabbing your throat to get your attention. I remembered that about a year ago that the nature of my visions changed. (For many years, I've had sporadic visions in which I see myself in a forest where I usually encounter Jesus and receive encouragement or guidance.) Well, starting a year ago, instead of going to a forest as usual, the Lord led me across the lake to a new rocky, barren place. In other words, I was in a desert, and the Lord told me that I wasn't going to return to the forest. Well, the epiphany I had the other day was really rather simple. What do people eat in the desert? Manna.

When the Israelites spent 40 years in the wilderness, God fed them by giving them just enough manna for each day. If they gathered more than they needed for a day, it would rot. And suddenly, I saw that living as we do, with both Michael and I working as freelance writers and never knowing too far ahead where our income is coming from, is like living on manna.

At the same time, it occurred to me that there was a way to look at our situation that was the opposite of my usual perspective. Instead of obsessing about how stressful such a life is and wishing for the false security of a big pile of money, I should realize that it is a privilege to have to rely on God's providence each and every day. It's not a situation he puts people in as a punishment. It's an opportunity to grow in faith and trust. As we have had ample proof the last year, banks, stock markets, and real estate are no true source of security. God alone is worthy of our faith and trust.

I don't mean to suggest that I have completely absorbed this idea. It is so foreign to my natural way of thinking that I fear I'm going to have to relearn this lesson again and again. But at least, I now have an interpretive framework to help me make more sense out of the financial ups and downs.

Of course, God does have a sense of humor. These insights hit me about a week and a half ago. A few days afterward, I received a call about taking on another part-time job. I was excited because Michael still hasn't found more work to replace the freelance assignment that's ending. I thought this was our chance to make up for some of his lost income. I told the woman who called me that I couldn't give a solid answer on how many hours a week I'd work. I wanted to contact the other editor I was working for to see about their schedule so I could judge how much work I could take on in addition to my full-time assignment.

When I did that, I was shocked to learn that my hours on the original job will be cut in half for the last four months of this year. So the bad news is that the new job will NOT make up for Michael's lack of work. But the good news is that God provided me some replacement work even before I knew my hours were being cut.

The incredible timing of those events is helping me to trust God to provide for us. We still have a lot of uncertainty about finances the next few months (I have no idea how many weeks the new job will last), but I'm starting to understand that maybe having such uncertainty is just the way our lives are going to be.

As much as I still occasionally yearn for some long-term relief from the ups and downs and the anxiety, I'm trying to remember that this is my opportunity to learn a new and more godly set of values. And it is a privilege to be so dependent on God for our daily bread.

Canna Lily

rhchatlien@aol.com (Ruth Hull Chatlien) — Sun, 30 Aug 2009 23:19:00 +0000

This is the drawing I've been working on the last two weeks. I wanted to continue practicing even though I'm between classes. The colors are a little washed out compared to the original. I'm still struggling with how to photograph my sketches.

Clicking on it makes it bigger.