Our Charlie Brown Christmas Tree

Have you ever tried to decorate a scraggly "Charlie Brown" Christmas tree? I usually end up with one, the full, lush green ones already taken before I get around to buying ours.

It's really quite a challenge. If one can start with a stalk, three brownish branches haphazardly sticking from it, and somehow make it into something the Christmas Eve guests won't snicker at, one has accomplished an artistic feat of considerable merit.

After the "what an ugly tree" phase, I begin to feel compassion and I promise it a magnificent and regal send off to the "tree-house" in the sky.

First, it must go into the tree stand. It is always too thick. It must be cut off. The dull-bladed saw teeth catch in the trunk every other pass through. Why is nothing easy? I inevitably cut off too much. What began as a tallish hideous tree is now a short repulsive one. One either settles for that or goes out and buys a new tree.

Then it's never straight. It usually has a 45-degree crook in its middle. My very favorite part in all this is crawling under the tree (the needles from three branches can put out an eye just as effectively as twenty), unscrewing the screws of the tree stand, adjusting the trunk of the tree. You ask the kids if it's straight yet.

One says, "Yeah, it's pretty good."
One says, "Huh-uh."
Another says, "What an ugly tree!"

By this time, Scrooge has stiff competition. Bah humbug!

By now, the tree has fallen over twice and is secured to the window by wire, baling twine, a belt, or whatever happens to be handy.

Tree fairly straight. Now to distribute six strings of lights, five boxes of balls, Santas, snowmen, and bells on three scrawny branches, along with one star that won't fit over the three stupid prong-branches projecting out of the top of the tree.

"How come those lights are hanging in mid-air, Mom?"
"Because there are no more branches to hang them on."
"But it looks stupid, Mom!"
"Go to your room!"

Ever try to wire on extra branches in the bare spots? Fun, huh? Looking good, lights distributed; then, perfectly synchronized, the false branches all come loose, fall off completely, or point downward.

"Is the tree sad, Mom?"
"No, why?"
"'Cause its arms are drooping."
"It's just tired."
"Why is it tired, it just got here."
"Go to your room!"

One string of light won't work, bulbs tested and replaced, some tinsel here and there to disguise wide-open spaces.

"What's my giant snowman doing on the tree, Mom? He'll break it down."
(I hope it does!) "It's to cover up that hole where the branch fell off. Isn't he cute there?"
"Looks dumb, Mom."
"Go to your room!"

I've done the best I can; I'm weary, wondering why I perpetuate this hassle year after year. It's now twilight and tentatively I plug in the lights.

The kids have tiptoed down from their rooms. They gasp in delight as they peek around the doorway.

"It's beautiful, Mom! I can't even see the holes!"
"My snowman looks nice there."
"It's the prettiest tree we've ever had!"

Was that a wink from the center light of the star or just a defective bulb?

Oh, Tannenbaum, how lovely are your branches!

bj
12/18/1980

Part-time Mother

There’s so little time to be her mother,
Twice a month doesn’t count for much.
I try to pack as much love
As I can into those times,
Try to include discipline, listening, teaching,
Understanding, encouragement,
Fulfilling her needs enough to last
Until the next time she is with me.

She looks up at me, questioning,
Always questioning, trying to decipher
What is happening –
And my sometimes evasive answers,
My childish confusion as to how to answer her
Do not satisfy either one of us,
Because I’m as bewildered at times as she.

How can I give her courage
When I’m scared all the time?
Stability when my life has no pattern?
Assurance when I’m so unsure?

There’s so little time to be her mother,
I hope it’s enough – it’s got to be enough
So she won’t forget I’m still her mother
And I love her so very much.

Don’t forget me, little one.

1984

Flying - Falling

It’s difficult to fly with a broken wing –
Almost impossible, in fact.
As one tries to rise above the clouds,
The effort becomes too great.
The world seems tilted, unbalanced, teetering.
Perhaps it really is flat with a falling-off point,
I feel I am there.

I haven’t felt so weighted down in a long while,
Or so jumbled in my head,
Staring into space occupies my time,
A volcanic well of tension and anxiety reacts sharply
To a telephone’s ring, a child’s chatter,
Even a broken fingernail.

I plod from hour to hour
Longing only for the day to end
So I can say I made it through another day.
People pass in and out of my world –
I pay them no mind.

It’s lonely isolating oneself from human contact,
But perhaps necessary when waiting for a wound to heal.
I wonder if you are isolated too,
If a crippled limb prevents you from flying.

I wish we could fly together, just us two,
I would love you to heaven and back.
I would leave you no time for regret.
I would lift you to heights you’ve never known before,
If only you would let me.

Broken wings mend –
Perhaps I’ll fly again, perhaps I won’t –
I cannot say just now.

I’ll have to learn to walk again
Before I try to fly.

I have no motivation for doing either ---
Without you.

Father's Day

Sometimes I wish I were a little girl again,
I’d climb upon your knee,
Show you my hurt and have you kiss it away.
With your strong arms to hold me,
Your fortress of love to protect me,
Nothing could ever harm me again.
But I am not a little girl,
And you are asleep in Jesus.
But I feel your presence
Near to me when I hurt.
Your fortress of love combined
With God’s care for me is awesome.
I thank God for giving me you –
To mold me and guide me when I was small.
I thank Him, that by His grace,
You knew Him before you died.
And I thank Him that all pain for you has ceased,
And you live with Him for all eternity.
Father’s Day for me is a mixture of pain and joy,
Pain because I miss you
And joy because you dwell with God.
Happy Father’s Day, Dad,
I’ll meet you later on.

Finis

Two long years of hurt,
of loneliness, some discovery,
uncertainty, some tenacity,
Waiting to hear the words
that will set me free --
free at last.

Finally I hear them,
hear them in every part of my being,
ripping through me.
Not with exultation as I had expected
but with aching, twisting pain.

I wasn't prepared for the pain,
the sadness, the mourning,
As if something vital and important
has died a long, slow
yet sudden death.

I feel the lump in my throat,
tears slipping from my eyes
As I hear, "You are no longer man and wife --
divorce is hereby granted,
you are both free to go."

Free to go? Go where?
Go alone? He has my children.
How did that come to be?
I've been alone for two long years
but this alone is so -- final.

I loved him once,
part of me does yet,
maybe always will,
But not enough to live on.

That part of my life is over,
blown away like chaff in a field.
What's ahead?

The long, slow process of rebuilding --
this time on the solid foundation
of me -- because I still AM.
I do have me and I have others
who respect that ME
as he never did or could.

I know I can do it,
I'm prepared to do it,
I just wasn't prepared for the sadness,
the sense of a deep, real loss.

Did I win or did he?
Neither. Neither.
There was no victor in this war.
Rather, I lost the most --
I lost my children.

I do have me -- whole, strong, healthy,
I can go on.
I just wasn't prepared for the sadness.
-9/23/82

Time

We think of time as endless
Of years and years ahead
We think we'll go forever
Our book of life unread.

In youth, we played with life,
We dared it to be real,
We laughed and did whate'er we pleased,
Took life as no big deal.

Then maturity comes along,
We still think life owes us,
"God? I'll think of Him someday,
Have to run to catch a bus!"

There is so much we'd like to do,
But think, "Not now, no time,"
A kindness that we might have shown,
An easing of a mind.

We think, "When I get older,
I'll have more time to spend."
But time cannot be bought and saved,
It soon comes to an end.

And then the clock stops ticking,
And we're afraid to die,
We cry to God, so sorry then,
That we have passed Him by.

We ask Him to forgive us,
For all our many crimes,
His eyes are sad, He's crying now,
"I'm sorry, there's no time."
- 1980

First Things First

If i were prettier
Would you love me?
If I were smarter
Would you love me then?
If I were thinner
Would you want me?
If I were braver
Would you admire me?
If I were famous
Would you adore me?
If I were young
Would you desire me?

I would be all these things
If you first ---- just ----
---loved me.
-1984

Disintegration

I feel as though I'm crumbling
into a lot of little pieces.
I haven't felt this way
for a long time.

My past is shattering around me,
My present, not much better.
My future, not so bright.

The brightest light in my world
is boarding a plane tomorrow
and with this daughter goes my being -
I can't BE without her.

She's with me always in my heart
but each time she goes away from me,
A new hole is ripped inside.

I feel so trembly, so weak,
so unsure,
Like I'm going to tumble
and crash upon the ground.
It doesn't feel good.

I've picked up pieces before
and made a stronger me.
I just wonder how many times
I have to do so
Before the Crazy Glue that I use
to patch myself with each time
doesn't become brittle
But finally takes hold
until I mend for good
And become an honest-to-goodness
whole, healthy person.

Don't believe the advertising --
Crazy Glue does not hold a ton,
It doesn't even hold a heart together
for very long.

12/30/87

Even As She Sleeps

Eyes closed
Long dusky lashes
Against soft, pink cheeks
Mouth slightly open
A little arm flung above her head
Blonde-brown hair splayed upon the pillow.
I brush my lips across her baby-smooth face
My breath catches in my throat
At the beauty of her innocence, her youth
Yet awed by the premature wisdom shining from within --
Even as she sleeps.

I gaze down at her and wonder
If she dreams as her eyelids flutter
Does she feel confusion, hurt or pain
Or is it possible she is secure
Knowing she is loved beyond all doubt --
Even as she sleeps.

Are there questions in her mind
That can't be answered?
Does she love me as she did before?
As much as I love her?
No, she never could, not half as much.
My love for her bursts through my being
I will it to enter her mind, her heart, her soul --
Even as she sleeps.

I silently beg her to understand
Why I'm not there for her every night
To tuck her in, to hear her prayers
To protect her, to assure her --
Even as she sleeps.

I snuggle in beside her, kiss her once more
Pull her warm little body next to mine
My tears fall on her hair, her cheeks, her eyes
She sighs deeply, and seeking a more comfortable position
Turns away from me --
Even as she sleeps.

I touch her hair, she moves --
Her arms go around me
And I weep for something lost
Something precious to both of us.
I age ten years in one night
Every other weekend --
Even as she sleeps.
-1984

Gifts of Love

Ask a child, “What is your all-time favorite gift?” and he or she may give you a variety of responses: a Wii game program, an iPod, a cell phone or a laptop computer.

None of these acquisitions comes cheap. Sadly, our society and our children sometimes place values on possessions in direct relation to cost. Keeping up with Johnny or Joanie next door, giving a child what a parent never had, or buying a child’s affections may explain the need to shower young people with the very best that money can buy. My two favorite gifts, however, cost little or nothing; yet whenever I call them to memory, my heart warms and expands with pleasure.

When I was growing up, we had little money. My dad eked a living from the land; my mom made a home. We ate well off the farm and wore our home-sewn clothing stoically, but there were little extras.

When I was twelve, the price of corn and grain hit rock bottom. The summer netted bumper crops, sating the local feed markets and driving profits to farmers downward. Wheat bins and corn cribs bulged with more produce than cattle and hogs could consume. Since we depended on the sale of excess crops to pay the farm mortgage, land taxes and heavy utility bills, and to buy shoes, boots, and winter coats, the coming winter seemed bleak indeed. My siblings and I knew nothing of the threat to our livelihood. We only knew that Christmas might not come to our house that year.

As December 25 drew closer, I overheard my parents talking in hushed and worried tones. “What will we do? The kids need presents. I need staples for Christmas baking. What about lutefisk and lefsa for Christmas Eve supper? Christmas won’t be Christmas without any of these things.” My mother began to cry.

Dad comforted her, saying, “I’ll ask Bob Johnson down at the feed mill if he’ll buy some corn even though there’s no market for it right now.” Tears streamed down my face as I snuggled deeper into my downy quilt. I didn’t mind for me. I was old enough to do without, but my little sister and brother would be devastated.

Several days later, Dad blew through the door, propelled by an icy draught of winter wind. A sad little smile played around his mouth. Mom looked hopeful. “How much?” she asked.

“50 cents a bushel. I told him my kids need a Christmas. He finally agreed to buy 50 bushels.” He shoved a small wad of crumpled bills into Mom’s hand.

We awoke Christmas Eve morning to the cinnamon aroma of cookies baking. Norwegian lutefisk (cod soaked in lye) cooled in the refrigerator. Mom, elbow deep in flour, rolled out lefsa, a flatbread made from mashed potatoes and flour, the required companion to the fish – a meal that marked our family dinner on Christmas Eve as far back as I could remember. A small pile of gaily wrapped presents rested expectantly beneath a Charlie Brown Christmas tree. We danced around and giggled, tugging on her apron strings. How would we get through the day?

At last, evening fell and we watched the lights go out in the barn as Dad finished up the milking and evening chores. We endured our traditional Christmas Eve supper and thanked God that this one night of the year, the dishes could be washed and dried later. Dad played Santa, reading the tags and distributing our gifts – another yearly tradition. Dad’s heart was bigger than his imagination, so his gift to Mom was predictable – a chenille bathrobe. She feigned surprise and hugged him. Dad raved about the Old Spice cologne, his yearly gift from his unimaginative kids, bought with our pooled allowances.

Then it was my turn. Ripping the candy-striped wrapping from a rather large box, I pulled out a two-foot tall rag doll with a softly stuffed cloth body, painted-on green eyes with long lashes and a lush red mouth. Her yarn hair was orangish-red (like mine), braided into two pigtails and tied with fabric that matched her long, circular skirt. I recognized the cloth as coming from one of Mom’s discarded Sunday dresses. Naturally curious, I peeked under her skirt – and screamed! Another doll stared back at me! With blonde curly hair (like my sister’s), huge blue eyes, and a pink mouth, she was dressed in a coordinating blouse. When I held her up, the red-haired doll was completely obscured by the shared, reversible skirt sewed to the middle of the two connected dolls. Watching my delight as I turned the dolls over and over, my mom glowed with satisfaction and pride.

Baby brother Terry moved plastic animals in and out of the wooden barn, painstakingly cut, sanded, and nailed together by Dad’s big, rough hands, then painted a fire-engine red. Sister Cookie played with paper dolls and a cuddly, lopsided chenille-covered teddy bear – yes, made from Mom’s last year’s Christmas robe.

My second gift made me weep. Nestled inside an envelope of tissue paper lay a beautiful, white, lace-trimmed blouse. I gasped, afraid to touch it. Was this mine? Tears streaming down my face, I asked, “How could we afford this?” Mom ducked her head. “I made it from one of my petticoats. Do you like it?” I hugged her fiercely and ran to my bedroom to try it on, my two-in-one doll tucked beneath my arm. I wore the blouse everywhere until, I think, it finally fell apart. I still have the dual doll.

Slightly more affluent Christmases came to our home in later years. Store-bought toys and clothes excited us, I suppose, but I remember none of them. I fondly recall a home-made two-dolls-in-one keepsake and a delicate, ruffly blouse with puffy sleeves.

Hard times? No, not hard times – lovely times, memorable times, precious family times.

WIGGIN' OUT

My husband’s and my favorite place to go for dinner in Wisconsin was a supper club on a small island in the Mississippi River. The only way to get there was on a ferry boat. One hot August night, I decked myself out in my best wear and my reddish, French-twisted human-hair wig (all the rage in the late 70s). I didn’t need to wear one – my hair has always been thick (and red), but, God forbid, I should be out of fashion! We set off with my in-laws for a nice dinner on the river.

I had rarely, up until my 30s, imbibed in alcohol. It was always Diet Pepsi for me. We ordered dinner and sat up to the bar to wait for our table. That night my husband suggested that I try a screwdriver, a cocktail with gin and orange juice. I agreed. From the first sip, I was refreshed. Tasted just like OJ and I kind of guzzled it, the night being so hot and humid. The other three in my little party were drinking beer. As the bartender replaced empty beer bottles with fresh ones, my drink was also refreshed – about 12 times!

About that time, I started to think that my husband was Tom Selleck, my mother-in-law was looking more and more like Betty White, my father-in-law, Andy Griffith, and I, of course, was Elizabeth Taylor (in a black wig). I also became very sick. I slid/tumbled off the bar stool, making my way to the bathroom. I’ve heard of hugging enamel before but I was trying to BECOME enamel, melding myself to the stool with desperate perspiration-drenched hands and arms. My head lolled inches above the water as I gave back every one of those screwdrivers that I had so enjoyed. I was empty as a Super Bowl stadium 6 hours after the big game.

Coming back into the restaurant and seeing my lobster dinner on the table sent me into paroxysms of nausea. The outside deck looked refreshing so I took my skewed wigged head out there to sit, hoping some fresh air would revive me. The deck had an open-slatted floor. Every few minutes, my body would chug up again and I would roll my lolling head over the arm of my lawn chair and release everything to the mighty Mississippi.

Needless to say, my husband ate two dinners that night. Time to leave. We got back on the ferry. My husband and in-laws sat in the covered portion of the ferry, but, still seeking relief from the perspiration that yet stood out all over my body (part humidity, part nausea-induced), I elected to sit in the back of the ferry wanting to catch the wonderful breeze coming off the water.

The ferry took off for shore. I leaned my head over the side and whoosh! I felt a lovely cooling wind on my head – not just on my face, but my head. It actually felt cold. I put my hand to my head and OMG! My wig was gone! Now, if you know anything about wigs, a woman would put her hair up on the top of her head with pins or just use the top of a pair of pantyhose as a “turban” to keep rooted hair from popping out of the wig, also making the wig quite secure. So you can imagine my horror to realize I was sitting on a ferry wearing the top of my pantyhose on my head! My husband was furious that I had lost the wig (human-hair wigs were quite expensive) and totally embarrassed by me, but what could I do? I had to, as gracefully as I could, disembark from the ferry and, with the greatest of dignity, walk to the car with a nylon stocking on my head.

Right about then, some scavenging beaver hooked onto my beautiful, French-twisted human-hair wig, drug it home, crying “look, Mom, what I found,” making it into the ritziest beaver home on the Mississippi! I feel I have done my part for nature and its critters.

Hill of Dreams

Many adults fondly remember a childhood retreat, a place all their own – secret, special, soothing. I know such a place -- my hill of dreams.

Farmland in Wisconsin gently rolls from valleys to mounds to hills – some rather large, but always gentle, rounded on top. Just above our farmhouse was a hill wanna-be. Larger than a ground slope, it was safely accessible to a youngster and, from the top, served up fantastic views of the surrounding countryside. Huge flat rocks lined the perimeter; some stood precariously on end like Town House crackers in a bowl of guacamole dip. Leafy branches formed a sieve-like roof, peppering the grassy center with dots, streaks, and splashes of sunshine. And now, as an adult, I return there often, and when I do, immediately I am a child again.

I go to my hill when I feel sad or when joy bubbles in my heart. I escape there every chance I get. An introverted youngster, I enjoy my own company, preferring conversations in my head to actual oral exchanges with other people – even my family.

With my chores finished, I grab my diary, a pen, and a library book, and ascend into heaven – atop my hill. I position my small back against the tallest, flattest rock, stretching my legs before me. I sit quietly for several moments, drinking in the welcome privacy, the solitude. Birds and ants share this haven; I let them. There I reign as princess in my leafy tower room – my castle on the hill, waiting for Prince Bob to rescue me.

Etched with a screwdriver into the rock opposite me is a crude heart, encasing “B.S. loves B.O.”, Bonnie and Bob. Destiny speaks to me now; our names even start with the same letter of the alphabet. It is meant to be. Each time I enter this little paradise, our initials on the enduring boulder assure me that our love will remain so forever. Prince Bob won’t be riding up on a white horse. I know that – I’m not stupid. He’ll be in his father’s Chevy or Studebaker (I never could distinguish between makes of cars), and he’ll sweep me off to a farm similar to this one where I will reign eternal as his wife.

Below me, Mom works in her riotous flower garden, stooping as though preparing for a game of leapfrog. My siblings laugh and chatter somewhere beyond my consciousness. My hill becomes everything; my family and my life retreat into nothingness. I think to myself, “I shall stay here forever and be happy.” I quickly scribble in my diary my intention to never leave my hill and then I laugh aloud at my foolishness. Of course I will leave. When Prince Bob comes for me, I will be happier still.

I thumb my way through Wuthering Heights and immediately transport myself to that dark, foreboding age of the Bronte sisters, walking on the undulating moors in cold, piercing rain, my castle shimmering in the distance. I smile. There on my hill, I can do or be anything I like.

But shy, daydreaming children sometimes grow into sad, disillusioned adults. Pollyanna becomes Roseanne: reality slaps mature faces. Prince Bob was delayed. Actually, he never came at all. He became infatuated with a well-to-do “townie” with perfect teeth and hair who owned dozens of mix-and-match mohair sweaters, a genuine leather purse, and bazillions of 45 rpm records. Some time later, she lost him, too. He married someone else, etching the first deep crack in my heart. I feel it yet.

There on my hill, I was invincible. But my hill is gone, bulldozed into oblivion long ago, my rocks pulverized in the name of progress. But in my mind and memory I still go to my hill when I am sad or when I feel joy. I see it all just as it was – the initialed rock, the trees, the grass, the sun. And again I smile.

God, Here is My Child

When I was little, I didn’t think it would be particularly hard to be a parent. Seemed to me that we kids did most of the work – following directions, obeying (most of the time), helping with farm and household chores. I had no clue.

It’s especially hard to be a parent when one of your kids is going through tough times, and even harder when the kid is not a kid anymore. There are boundaries as to what you can advise, how much you can question, if you should question at all.

And then there’s always guilt – what did I do to not prepare this child for the trials and pitfalls of life, what did I not instill in him to create the ability to make good choices, what did I not teach him that would have made life less problematic for this child?

And a parent’s heart – oh my, how it hurts a parent’s heart to see that child suffer, to see that child struggle, to watch this mature child rebel and resist authority, to have this child strike out at a parent’s caring heart with venom and hurtfulness. Parenting must be the most conflicting occupation in the universe – there is such tremendous pride and caring and warmth, juxtaposed with hurt, bewilderment and worry.

I turn this child over to God – then take him back. Turn him over to God – then take him back. It’s so difficult to turn your child over to someone else to take care of, because that child has been your life’s work since he was born. But God tells me I cannot correct this situation – only He can. So once again, I give this child of mine over to Him; I hand this child over from my arms to the Lord’s arms asking only that this man-child know God’s love for him, my love for him, and I ask God to work out the situation in His good time, in His own way.

But it’s hard. It’s very hard.

“And he took the children in his arms, put his hands on them and blessed them.” Mark 10:16

"Move" Me, Lord!

I just moved into a new place – with God’s help. Several weeks ago, I learned that the condo I had been renting for five years was being put up for sale. I inwardly (AND outwardly) groaned since it meant I would have to look for another place to live. I went into work the next day and told my co-worker, Lyn, about it. I was a little stressed, thinking of searching in the papers, the Internet, etc. for apartments to rent. That night, I told God, “I just can’t deal with this, Lord. You’ll have to take care of it for me.” And I meant it. I didn't think about it again. The next day at work, Lyn handed me a typewritten “spec” sheet on a townhouse for rent. That morning, the owner of a townhouse had called the church asking if she knew of anyone needing to rent an apartment, wanting to rent to a Christian. Lyn said “yes,” told her about me, the lady came into church with the “spec” sheet and contact information. I called her, met with her and her husband, and I had a new home.

Now, can you tell me that God isn’t interested in every facet of our lives? That he doesn’t care about the “little things”? He absolutely does. He knew my energy level was low. He knew how much I hated having to look at apartments to rent. He fitted me with Christian owners, who had prayed for the right person to rent their apartment. He found the most beautiful apartment I have ever lived in. He worked out the financial details. He worked out the moving dates. He sent friends to help me move. He did it all – because He cares, because He loves me so much!

This situation was "so God," that it was impossible to think otherwise. I am humbled by the so evident hand of God in my “moving” experience. I praise Him every time I look around me. I did nothing except turn it over to Him. In three days, He worked it out. AND in three days, he worked out our salvation! Jesus died on the cross. Three days later he rose from the dead and our scarlet sins were washed as white as snow. I did not fail to recognize the parallel here.

He may not always work so quickly to answer our prayers. I have some prayers that are 25 years old and I’m still waiting for a favorable answer. But it’s the quick answers that give us the fortitude to keep praying, to know that God loves us and hears us, to know that He’s working – in His own time.

“This is the confidence we have in approaching God: that if we ask anything according to his will, he hears us.” 1 John 5:14

Stay Out of My Space!

As the comic strip character, Dilbert, so succinctly put it, “Welcome to my cubicle hell.”

Work cubicles help companies recoup costs of expensively leased office buildings by cramming in more employees per square foot than “Cheeseheads” at a Green Bay Packer game.

A cubicle cannot be considered an office. An office cube’s drab blue or gray walls are only eye-high, doing little to preserve the privacy of the workers or to block out the sound of a neighboring employee’s annoying habit of snuffling his nose or clearing his throat every two minutes. Cubicle engineers favor the alphabet letters, “L” and “U,” and use them most often to design the interior configuration of cubes.

Most cubicles house two “cube-mates” in an 8’ x 10’ space. Each worker has the requisite computer consisting of a CPU (desktop or tower), over-sized monitor, extended keyboard, mouse, mouse pad, and wrist pad. Some computers also sport a woofer, usually placed on the floor, and two speakers located on either side of the monitor. The cubicle is already crowded, without even considering necessary workspace or other peripherals.

Next, employees need something to sit on. So now let’s squeeze in two ergonomically designed high-backed office chairs with arms. To avoid collisions, careful chair “dances” must be choreographed and executed by both cube occupants. Some reported chair crashes have been blamed for debilitating work-related whiplash, and consequently, days of lost work and sometimes temporary or long-term disability.

Two telephones per cubicle times 24 cubes per module equal 48 phones, all with the potential of jangling at once – cacophony to say the least. It’s like the close of a trading day on Wall Street. Attempting to hear the caller, trying to placate him coherently and courteously, and simultaneously dodging a cube-mate’s chair create an Indy 500 atmosphere filled with frustration, mental fatigue, and downright fear.

After installing the space-gobbling Computer & Co., desk space amounts to usually no more than two or three feet (if that!). Leg room is negligible. Gouged and bruised knees result from designers placing the regulation slide-out pencil drawer at the center of the “leg hole,” barely about knee level. Floor space beneath the work area diminishes by the addition of an adjustable footrest (optional). Add to the computer cables, telephone wires and power strips: now the floor becomes a minefield of potentially fatal jolts of electricity should the equipment ever short-circuit.

Counter space is also reduced by in/out baskets, desk organizers containing pens, pencils, scissors, rulers, paper clips, and the indispensable Post-It and telephone message pads. A plant, artificial or real, sometimes may be squeezed in for a touch of greenery to brighten the otherwise depressing décor. Behind and above the counter, attached to the walls by adjustable vertical metal rails, are padded, cloth-covered horizontal 15” strips for displaying company memos, holiday schedules, business cards, or personal photos, making the cube “homey.” Upper wall cabinets, resembling airplane overhead compartments, hang from the same metal rails, providing lockable storage space for each worker. When opened suddenly, these cabinets can cause serious bodily injury; notebook and files fly out with the deadliness and precision of Scud missiles.

A white board is usually installed on the only cube wall left and must be shared. Great anguish and resentment can result when one cube-mate demonstrates white-board hog-like behavior. Consider drawing a vertical line down the center of the white board; this sets boundaries and helps to prevent one cube-mate from writing an unusually long sentence or equation, imposing upon the white space allotted to cube-mate #2.

The opening to the cubicle is small: employees must enter or exit one at a time. Visitors to the cube gobble up precious oxygen; therefore, hyperventilation by one or all occupants may occur. Set a time limit when visitations must end. Brown paper bags are standard issue.

Outside the cube, nameplates are attached by Velcro. This allows interchangeability of workers should pressures become too much, causing the “going postal” syndrome – immediate grounds for termination. A nameplate comes down; a new one goes up.

Welcome to Corporate America.

To Tell the Truth

“No matter what you’ve done, if you tell the truth, we won’t punish you.” Our parents drilled this directive into my head from the moment I understood the English language. Telling a lie was like starving an animal or shooting Grandma. The promised retribution for lying (a willow switch hanging in the mudroom) instilled unmitigated fear in my brother, sister, and me. Therefore, when my mother unknowingly forced me to lie to protect my sister, Cookie, the act wracked me with terror and guilt, but not regret.

The middle child, (Cookie) it seems, oftentimes suffers from insecurities, a “where do I belong?” complex. She is too young to do grown-up things with an older child (me), and yet she is too big to be petted or coddled like the baby of the family (our brother). Cookie, desiring visibility in the family structure, continually “acted out” to gain favorable or negative responses. And she paid dearly for it.

At the end of a sauna-like summer day spent hauling hay from the fields to the barn on our farm in Wisconsin, tempers crackled like lightning. My mother’s favorite dime-store vase lay shattered on the hardwood kitchen floor.

“You did it, didn’t you?” screamed my mom, yanking my little sister’s spindly arm. “You’re such a klutz! I know it was you! Tell me the truth!”

“No, Mommy, I didn’t do it! I found it broke. Please don’t hit me!” Cookie’s sobs cut deep into my soul. I dearly loved my siblings, although as a budding teen, I sometimes resented the responsibility of their care.

Now, terrified of confrontations, I backed into the pantry and peeked through the crack in the door. I realized I was crying.

“You’re lying to me, I know you are! What have I told you children about lying? Tell me you broke it and I won’t spank you any more.”

Enormous teardrops spilled from Cookie’s wide blue eyes as she looked up at my mom. My little sister shook her head, her golden ringlets bouncing from side to side. With her stubby little hands, she tried in vain to ward off each new blow that was raining down on her shoulders and backside.

Then my mother, her eyes wild, kicked my baby sister; her small body crunched and crumbled on the floor. I could stand no more.

“I did it! I broke the vase. Punish me! Please don’t hit her any more!” My voice broke into the din of screams and cries as I fearfully stepped into our shabby kitchen. Bracing myself, my chin rose as I waited for the first slap.

It never came. Instead, my mother looked scornfully down at my sister who was whimpering, lying in a fetal position on the floor. Calmly, Mother said, “Why can’t you be more like Bonnie? She told the truth and I won’t punish her. She’s earned some chocolate ice cream.” Then she walked to the icebox as though nothing had happened.

My sister’s red-rimmed eyes beseeched me from across the room: her unspoken words sliced through my bruised heart. “I told the truth and she beat me. You lied and you get to eat ice cream. But thank you for saving me.”

As I choked down my once favorite treat that now had turned to dry, flaky sawdust in my mouth, our gawky, clumsy younger brother quietly slunk into his bedroom, his chin nearly resting on his chest.

A lie is a lie is a lie.

Next in Line for Heaven

My Mom passed away on March 9, 2009, in Wisconsin at the age of 84. Having lost my Dad many years ago and my step-dad 3 years ago, the bone-jarring realization that I’m next in line for heaven hit me hard. I no longer have the buffer of a parent between me and eternity.

Sobering, yes. Frightening? No. There is nothing to fear, knowing, as I said at my Mom’s memorial service, that Jesus Christ, having died on the cross for our sins, promises us eternal life with Him if we but believe. And I do believe.

Losing all three parents does, however, leave me feeling somewhat vulnerable. It’s like – oh my! I’m on my own, truly now. I really have to be a grown-up! That child-like fear comes over me and I get butterflies in my stomach. I have flashbacks of being lost at the county fair, seeking desperately the familiar faces of my parents. The terror was real. And then, there they were, holding out their hands to me, tears streaming down all of our faces. I ran to them, was enfolded in their arms. I never wanted them to let me go. And now it’s really difficult to finally let them go.

But that’s how it will be when God calls me home, in His own time. There may be a short time of fear when death calls, but it will end quickly when I see Jesus’ arms reaching out to me. I will run toward Him and He will enfold me in His arms. I will be home.

“If anyone loves me, he will obey my teaching. My Father will love him, and we will come to him and make our home with him.” John 14:23

Hold Hands and Sing "Jesus Loves Me"

Sage words from my beloved Grandma Sime whenever we cousins would disagree/fight with each other.

Every Sunday after church, each of Grandma and Grandpa’s ten children, their spouses and children would gather at her house (poor Grandma!) for food, companionship, and playtime for us kids. Given the amount of children (about 25 of us then - many, many more now!), disputes naturally arose in all areas of play – tag, hide and seek, ball games, climbing trees, chasing chickens, cracking open walnuts, walking across step stones in the creek, whatever.

Our frustrations, tears, or anger were taken inside and placed literally and vehemently in Grandma’s lap – our peacemaker. Inevitably, the solution she recommended (no, demanded) was that we hold each other’s hands and sing, “Jesus Loves Me.” How many times I sang that through clenched teeth, we wouldn’t be able to count. But after about three verses, it was difficult to remember what we were upset about. It worked!

Wouldn’t the world benefit from Grandma’s advice as well? What if all the leaders of the world got together (like at Grandma’s house), held hands and sang, “Jesus Loves Me.” It would certainly be accompanied by the requisite clenched teeth, I’m sure. But what if they kept singing until all anger and resentment was dissipated? Then the talks could begin in earnest, knowing that each one was loved by Jesus, that by inviting Him into all world conferences, that by asking that His will be done, that by turning disputes over to Him as a Higher Power, an all-knowing God, there would be answers, there would be solutions, there would be His saving grace for all, in all situations.

Feeling this love of Jesus, each leader would depart, share the love of Jesus with his people, one would tell another until all conflict in-country and between countries would cease. All would know that Jesus loves them. The result? World peace. Amen.

“Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called Sons of God.” Matthew 5:9