Thursday, January 27, 2011

“Wait for Yahweh; be strong and let your heart take courage; yes, wait for Yahweh!” ~Psalm 27:14

Frankly, I really detest the hiccups. Uncontrollable, they are. And embarrassing. It’s impossible’s cousin trying to behave like a sophisticated adult and carry on an intelligent conversation when every other sentence is broken up by an insufferable “hic!”

Lydia has been leaching her amusement out of me these days. In the past, she discovered that humming or playing or singing only a few bars of a song would send me into continuous replay mode, humming it all day, entirely unaware that I was even humming it. She chose real hum-dingers of songs, too. “What are you humming?” she’ll ask, and then giggle, when I suddenly realize I’ve been busily humming “Blow the Man Down” or “Bill Grogan’s Goat” while rolling out pie crust. But the last few days she’s been giggling because, all on my own I’ve been humming two golden oldies from two ancient movies. Try “All I Want” from My Fair Lady and “If I Were a Rich Man” from Fiddler on the Roof. She thinks it’s funny because of what it suggests, I suppose. And perhaps, with the combination, all I want is a rich man. Now, wouldn’t that be lov-ely?

As technology would have it, hauling my load of internet work to the Dtown library didn’t prove very beneficial. CenturyLink apparently was experiencing technical difficulties, since their network connection was not much better than our own. I gave up on several items of business, but managed to relist everything on Ebay and discover a rather interesting message on my nanny profile.

I must confess, when I put up a profile on, it was not a very hopeful affair. Sure, I wrote a nice bit about myself in an effort to trick poor, hapless parents into believing that I am responsible, professional, capable, smart and talented. But I realized that the number of caregivers looking for work was vastly higher than the number of parents advertising for care needs. In fact, it looked like my profile was quite likely to be lost in the smelting pot of “I can take care of your kids” pages. I’d “applied” for a couple of old postings, just in case those folks hadn’t found anyone, but never expected anyone to actually find me.

Signing in today, I saw a new ad up—“Christian Family Seeking Christian Live In Nanny.” In Cville. Curious, I clicked on it and took a look. Christian. Homeschooling. Wanting like-minded nanny. Fifth child on the way. Live on a ranch. They looked like fun, but I couldn’t handle live-in, nor even full-time, and it was far enough away to make a commute not something I’d volunteer.

I clicked over to my profile and, lo and behold, Christian Family had sought me out. “Your profile caught our eye,” the message read.

Curious, I ran a search over caregivers in their area. I’ll bet it caught their eye. Standing out bold were the first few lines of my profile, declaring to the world that I was homeschooled, liked to be outside, could handle large families, etc, etc.

This one is certainly a more promising lead than the guy contacting me about tutoring for his son. English tutoring. He sounds like a second-language English speaker. His situation sounds far-fetched. He’s far too compliant. Doesn’t seem to care about the price…or how far his son would have to travel…or the fact that he’ll be in Canada and he’s never met me, done a background check or has any idea as to my qualifications. Oh! But he wants my address—my physical address, not a P.O. Box—to mail a check. And my phone number and cell phone number. Perhaps he’s for real and I’m losing a good client, but every fibre of my being shrieked “RAT!” I’m not sure what his game is. Maybe he’s an identity thief. Maybe he’s a forger. Maybe he’s a stalker. Maybe he’s a bored fourteen-year-old. I wrote him back an exorbitant price and asked for a bunch of corroborative information. Oh, and I gave him my credit card number. Just kidding.

Miss Nancy and her husband, Walt, joined us for supper. She sounded so ticked when I called the other night to invite them. She’s a super lady and a sharp cookie. Walt, too. Nancy described Berlin in the nineteen forties, where her family lived for just a year before the Berlin wall went up. She had to be air-lifted out when the threat of Russian attack forced Americans to flee. Walt experienced the war at home, in a cotton field, full of sun-burnt POWs cheerfully picking cotton by hand, glad to be away from the war and well-fed. His father, who had left home at twelve and never progressed past third grade, had become a sought-out engineer making improvements to the cotton gin.

I’ve been digging deeper and deeper into women’s health. The clockwork of the female system is a delicate balance of power and productivity. Once again, with growing understanding comes growing sadness. Because most women have no clue. And many health care providers really don’t understand the female functions, either. Because of this, women are all-to-willing to take the easy route now, cheerfully oblivious to the hard road they might encounter later. I can’t even tell you how horrible a monster, packaged in a tiny, pink pill, that birth control pill is. Yet here it stands, a pillar in so-called women’s health. A staple in the American woman’s diet. A hero in the American drama.

I swallow a sigh because I really had hoped to be studying First Peter in depth. Ryrie’s Basic Theology lies forsaken and alone on my bookshelf. And “Run, Baby, Run” whispers alluring suggestions to me, from beside it. I know if I dare to pick that book up, I will not put it down again until I have rushed through it, start to finish.

Instead, I read a few chapters in Psalms and Proverbs and scurried about my day.

Lord, it is so very hard to be in two places at once. How can I be both here and there?

One thing I asked from God, my Love,

That where He is, there I may be

That dwelling in His house above

I’ll gaze upon His majesty

And gaze, unhindered, in His face,

Where death can touch me not, nor fear,

And then in realized faith, His grace

Will be the hand that draws me near.

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