be thou my vision

Obviously this photo isn't as recent as today or even yesterday, but it is on my mind this evening - or often times even.
Last Wednesday evening we celebrated Grandma and Grandpa Peterson's 60th wedding anniversary. This photo was the wallpaper on my computer and was therefore sitting on the screen as we waited to know what was happening before the slide show started. Grandpa read the verse and (although I interrupted because it was just my wallpaper and not a planned part of the presentation) his reading it added truth to the sentiment. He and my grandmother have given their lives for the inheritance of and in heaven. This verse from 'Be Thou My Vision' sums up all that I hope for and long to embody more truly. I can think of all that I 'have' - all the material possessions and even relationships, that, in truth - have me. I am realizing that before I can even think of leaving here - the house, the state, the country - I have so much stuff that I need to sort through. I have rationalized not flat out getting rid of everything in the facts that I will probably continue to teach in some capacity and there is no sense in getting rid of one project to replace it (and thereby pay for) with another one.
Tonight's thoughts on 'Be Thou My Vision' revolve around the layers of meaning within the phrase. The fact that God is our vision - that which we see the world by and through as well as our vision - that which is revealed before us, often inspiring. Existing simultaneously in both capacities God is our present and our future; our life and functioning as well as our capacity and potential.
There are the similar layers in the verse "Delight yourself in the Lord and He will give you the desires of your heart." (Psalm 37: 5-7) Having known beautifully faithful Christians who have for decades prayed for prodigal children I don't always like this verse. I am sure there are prodigal children who go to meet their maker with their parents never knowing the state of their relationship in Christ. For me, this verse is one that is answered on more layers than granting my wishes. I have also heard many people say that if prayers are unanswered the fault is mine in the fact that I must not be delighting myself in God, doing good, or committing myself to him fully enough. I think that God is more often unknown to me than He makes His blessings contingent on the level of my good doings.
The layers in this verse revolve around the phrase 'give me the desires of my heart'. It is the human capacity to desire, to hope that separates from the rest of creation. It may be that this is part of the attributes of humans that we are created in the image of God. He also hopes and desires. So God gave us the desires of our heart in our very capacity to desire anything. So why then would we be created to desire things that will never come to pass? Because in this we share in the heartbreak of our creator. In this fact we share the pain of people who can and will refuse Christ's sacrifice and go on to live separated from God.
Most commonly I am told that as we grow close to God He places within our hearts His desires. I think this is certainly true - but I do not think that simply because our desires are placed there by God that these wishes will come true. It seems that millions of God's own desires have gone ungranted in the joining of 'He wills that none would perish' and 'the wages of sin is death'. So either He doesn't will that none would perish or hell isn't real.

(The photo was taken from the new deck on October 2 in the golden light of sun setting - the next day the leaves were past prime)

good ol' boys and the horrors of Thanksgiving

I am privileged to the be the teacher for the 4-yr-old Sunday School class at church. Four-year-olds have a deserved reputation for chasing rabbits. (and cats, and puppies and parrots when available). In attempts to bond with my class and make the entire experience one that is relevant to their lives we talk about their lives, their concerns and we pray for the things that they bring up. We often talk about pets because I have figured that it is a topic that I can ask them about and the answers will be in 'safe' territory. We have prayed for Gracie's cat, who has had to adjust to a new type of food when the store stopped carrying the kind that it was used to. I have been assured that the cat, apparently a very old cat, has adjusted well to this unexpected change in diet. Not to be upstaged by a distressed cat, Andrew announced that his dog 'got dead'. It has apparently been a bit a while since the vehicular demise of the dog, but a traumatic retelling all the same. (and an excellent opportunity to reiterate the importance of not crossing the road without adults, so that we stay safe and do not 'get dead' like the dog). During singing time with the nursery group, each week Paula asks the children to sit quietly and raise their hands to request a song. They are very good about requesting songs that we know and have sung in this singing time on previous Sundays. They persistently ask to sing 'Twinkle, Twinkle Star, and we have gently asked for song requests that pertain to Jesus or God. (We have since, due to their persistence, decided that emphasizing that it is God who made the stars is sufficient for Twinkle, Twinkle.) Andrew rendered all the adults in the room unable to respond without laughing when he stated he would like to sing the 'Dukes of Hazard' song. I suppose Jesus could've been a 'good ol' boy' and he was in trouble with the law from the day he was born... One of my initial introductions to small town Wisconsin life was sitting at a table and listening to three 'good ol' boys' quote the lyrics of the 'Dukes of Hazard' song -- spoken, without the tune. The moment was a bit of an epiphany and the light bulbs in my head each blinked 'We're not in Kansas anymore'.
This week we made Thanksgiving turkeys from hand cut-outs and foot cut-outs. Dorian brought hers to her dad and he asked why her turkey was so sad. She laughed as she said, "Because he doesn't want to get shot."
Last week, during the same singing time the kids were asked what their lesson was on. They responded that Jesus had made a 'drink'. Paula, patiently probing them for greater retention asked what drink. (I had not emphasized what drink since the painting in our story book depicted a rollicking crowd, that looked to me, quite inebriated.) The kids did not miss the question though, annunciated 'Kool-Aid!' -- to their delight and my embarassment. To their credit, this had been the prop in the class. I told them that Jesus didn't have to use powder and sugar to make the drink. They said is was because he had powers because he was God and I think that was the truth of the matter and the alcohol content was beside the point.
Life, for me, is in the little things -- the side shoots and tangents; pet concerns and the availablity of kool-aid. Obviously in God's requests for us to pray without ceasing, He takes an interest in these little things as well.

without a coat

Today, walking to class at ten of eight in the morning, I thought, 'I don't need my coat'. It is quite confusing to not need my light jacket on the eighth of November.
I have spent the last 3+ weeks reading books and texts, listening to audiobooks and lectures, and watching documentaries about global warming. I haven't gotten through the books and arguments written by the 'so-called skeptics'. After tiring myself out with facts, figures, arguments, opinions, and the varied lenses to read the same data - I have decided that if the dire predictions about global warming, the direct relationship to carbon dioxide emissions, and the anthropogenic sources and influences on it all are correct -- there is nothing we can do about it.
and in this cynical state of mind, I will simply enjoy my day without a need for a jacket.

tired like an onion

Layers of fatigue go in layers like onions. The outermost layer gets tired and is rejuvenated with a good night sleep. As the fatigue sinks further and further through the layers it doesn't seem to matter how many 'good night sleep's I get -- I'm still tired - increasingly so. I don't mind always having something to do, it's the always-having-something-to-do-under-pressure that is getting to me.

we bear what we must

The resilience of the human spirit and will are remarkable to say the least. Ask anyone who has survived hell how they did it and they will always say 'One day at a time'. (Sometimes mixed with support, God, counseling, or drugs) If then, we survive what we must, I wonder if it all begins to crack up when there is an inkling that the 'must' is not as imperative as we had thought. Contrariwise, I wonder if life has become so comfortable that the 'must' has lolled off altogether. This summer's drought prohibited the sunflowers around the bird feeder from coming up until about a month ago. They have just started to open and despite their small size are still quite pretty. They seem to stand in brave defiance of the imminent fall and ensuing winter. Wisconsin has its own 'must' built into the seasons and surviving the inevitable. But I do suppose a person could say that all of life is surviving the inevitable.

LCD

Yesterday a friend of mine said that her manager at work had stated that 'There was not one person at work that she could have an intelligent conversation with'. My friend had found this offensive, and rightly so. Today while I painted at my own place of employment I thought of something my mom had said to me in high school. I had come home stating that everyone hated me and I didn't get along with anyone at school. Rather than telling me to go eat worms, my mom said that it probably wasn't everyone's problem. (I was then certain that mom could join the club. ) She stated simply that in situations that one person is having a problem with everyone else, the responsibility for the situation probably lies with the one person and not with the masses. I thought of not being able to have any intelligent conversations at work. I, for one, have had delightfully intelligent conversations with Penelope Lane. At least half of the discourse is downright brilliant. (At least in my humble opinion - she is a bright little thing.) So perhaps before stating that there are not intelligent conversations to be had it may be best to first consider the common denominator.

concerning road kill

When I saw this deer along the road this morning, I thought 'That deer looks burnt'. When I drove past it coming home this evening, I thought 'It really does look burnt - how odd.'
So now I'm sure about it, but I think there are more questions than answers.

curiouser and curiouser

death in the basement

I began this post the 6th of September, (It is now the 6th of Ocotber - the blog's date is the date is was begun, not posted) Bimquist died the night/morning of the 5th/6th. Since then, school has begun in full force and I have had little time to type more than my notes. I have also not had time to 'grieve'. I couldn't grieve for a mouse in the way the word denotes the emotion, but there is a loss. Something that I was taking care of is dead, and there was nothing I could do about it - and I tried. His eyes had opened a day or two before he died. I was so proud of him. I don't suppose it makes sense to be proud of something that happens naturally, but I was proud nonetheless.
About two weeks into the semester, we had an assignment in Secondary Reading class to tell the class of a mistake we had made or a time that we had gotten into trouble. I sat and tried to think of times I had gotten into trouble and nothing came to mind. I tried to think of mistakes, and nothing came to mind that I could tell my class. Then Sheryl mentioned Bimquist and the hole under the bathroom cabinet. So I told my class of my long history of rescuing. I knew that there were ways that this instinct has encouraged me to make decisions in life that have had devastating consequences, but I also knew that I could not share this with 30 strangers. I began the story with our squirrel Nutkin. While we all still lived in the cabin in WeirWood, Dad brought home a squirrel that he had found walking along the driveway at work. It was in sad shape and it certainly needed a mom - we knew that ours would do it wonders. And wonders she did. During the day she monitored the goings-on of a four-year-old and a two-year-old while feeding a sickly, orphaned squirrel. Our squirrel Nutkin thrived and, still a juvenile, moved to town with us. He matured at the new mansion of a house and began to live outside. He still came in for treats and attentions, but he was getting less and less domesticated. We would see him in the yard and offer him food. He began to bite us as he took the food and (wisely) we offered it to him less often. We were certain that he was doing well and saw him about the yard often.
One day on the bus to swimming lessons, the neighbor girls came unto the bus singing 'We shot your squirrel, we shot your squirrel.' I don't remember how we got the whole story, but they, essentially, had. One of them had been trying to feed him and had been bitten. Concerned, another neighbor had shot our Nutkin. We learned from this, not that we shouldn't rescue animals, but that we should wean them into the wild - safely away from people.

For my class, I then told of the guinea pigs adopted from the petting zoo. I don't think that they actually needed to be rescued, but I am certain that I did not need to have them. Both of them were 'wild hair' guinea pigs - one had two colors and one had three. They were named Beely (Mbili) and Tatu respectively. I was violently allergic to them, only less than Sheryl was - who could not step into the basement. When the guinea pigs came to the basement, there were in residence: two cocktiels, one rabbit, two fish tanks, a dog and me. The menagerie was a bit overwhelming and my allergies took a turn for the worse. Apparently I was not the only one being affected by the mix of animals in the basement. The guinea pigs both became ill from a bacteria that I believe they may have gotten from the rabbit. I hadn't believed that a guinea pig could express pain until I was with those two piggies through their deaths. Thankfully, their final hours were just that - hours, not days. I had class right after Beely died and we always started class saying a little about ourselves- if the day was great or horrid. I had come from holding my dying guinea pig to class and didn't make it though my statement of how I was doing. I felt ridiculous for crying about a guinea pig in front of my class. But I suppose being real with each other on some level was the point of starting the day that way. I also knew that Tatu was sick and there would be nothing I could do for him. I tried though. I blended vegetables and feed him with a syringe. I hoped if I could keep him hydrated he would stay alive long enough to beat the bug he had.

After the story of the guinea pig I told of Bimquist and his hopping and his escape under the bathroom counter. Finally I told of his untimely death.

The instructor for the class tied my retelling of our pets' death to the lesson that I wished to portray by saying specifically we cannot always rescue - nor are we 'called' to. As teachers there will be students that we may want to rescue. Families that we want to rescue. Rescuing is not the calling. Rescuing so often times means trouble for all parties and in the worst cases, death to one and possibly hurt to the rescuer as well. I think my rescuer tendencies go hand-in-hand with my inability to hurt someone - at least to their face. This lack of assertiveness tends to wreck havoc on my boundaries and has made for some situations, that had the hurt been dealt with and dealt out early on, the resulting pain and suffering would have been far less.
(Digston did not die in an untimely manner, he lived to a ripe, old (unknown) age after his borrowed time given him by our cutting his teeth for him. - it did make more sense than getting him braces.)

controlled 'pest', more effort

The mouse, Bimquist Greystone, has been living with us for 3 days now. Yesterday I brought home kitten formula for him which was supposed to help with the diarrhea that had started Friday afternoon. When I took him out and set him on the bathroom rug to feed him the new formula he ran under the sink counter cabinet. There is no access to 'under the bathroom counter', there also is no exit. As his tail disappeared beneath the 1/2 inch gap, I thought 'You've got to be kidding' and 'Hey, you move pretty well' simultaneously. My pride in his demonstrated vigor evaporated as I ran to get something to sweep under the gap. I could not swipe him out with a dowel, carpenter ruler or yard stick. I was concerned that blindly poking at him with sticks could break a leg or in some way hurt him. Lying on the bathroom floor using the smallest flash light we have for light - I could periodically see his feet in amongst the Japanese beetle shells. With both Dad and I lying on the floor we could see his feet more suredly. After locating him and with greater accuracy performing a stick swipe to remove him, he made a horrid discovery. He could crawl up on a piece of particle board that serves as the base of the counter unit and be clear of the removal sticks. With him sitting on that 'ledge', there was no way for me to get him out. I tried a bent wire hanger with a rag tied on the end and then knew that this would be it. (and it wouldn't smell good.) But as it turns out, fathers can remove barriers that are otherwise impassable. Thirty seconds with a jigsaw and a 6"X6" hole provided the necessary access to the (unbeknownst-to-him) doomed mouse. Now Bimquist is no longer allowed to sit on the bathroom floor for his feeding and/or bath time. But he seems to be adjusting to his new formula and his eyes should be opening shortly. I have never felt so relieved to see a mouse as when Dad pulled him from under my freshly remodeled bathroom cabinet. It is good that I will be able to clean the beetle and cricket bits and pieces from beneath the cabinet.

pink frogs and high chair monkeys

Today I got to work in the 'baby room' at the day care. Two summers ago I worked primarily in the baby room. There were four babies born within 2 months of each other. They all learned to sit, crawl (one chose to scoot), and walk at very much the same time. That class will now soon be graduating to the 3-year-old room. They are potty trained and communicate quite efficiently in verbal English. They communicated quite efficiently when they were babies as well, but it wasn't in English.
Isabella's verbal skills have always been good. She told me once that when you cook a frog you can tell it is done when it turns pink. Her favorite color has been green from about 18 months old, perhaps cooked frogs are not then as appealing as live ones. One afternoon, Bella's advanced communication skills contributed to a bit of a squabble in the buggy. (We have a 6-seater buggy for the infants thru two-year-olds.) We all went walking and I asked all the kids in the buggy if they would like to go back to the day care or over to the park. Isabella enthusiastically replied 'Park!' Another girl, younger than Bella, equally enthusiastically answered 'No!' unbeknownst to Bella, the younger girl was not in actuality arguing with Bella or stating that she didn't desire to go the park - she was only verbalizing one of the only words that she knew well. What she clearing communicated was her enthusiasm and interest in answering the question and contributing to the conversation. Bella yelled back 'Park', to which hearty 'No!' was returned and on we went - to the park.
Kamden would climb anything in the baby room - he has always been a strong boy. Once (while I was sitting across the room feeding another infant) he pulled himself to standing on the high chair. He then grabbed the tray and did a full chin up while I panicked on the other side of the room. I was sure if I ran he would startle and fall. After checking the tray top, he lowered himself much more slowly and calmly than my heart rate did. Today I came outside holding an infant and Kamden came running and said 'Watch me'. He then ran up the side of the geodome, turned around on the bar, and jumped off. I couldn't resist the standard line, 'Be careful', but I have always wondered why adults think this statement will change the behavior of a child. Today was Kamden's last day. I don't feel ready to miss seeing the heights he will climb to, although it has been a blessing to witness those he has conquered.

controlled pests

There is a line which once crossed makes pest control more difficult.
It is just sleeping, but not yet weaned and I have no idea where its mother is. (I am sensible enough to have washed my hands.)

elephants in the flood waters

I'm just home from a brief stint in New Orleans attempting to assist in gutting houses with Samaritan's Purse. There is somewhere between too much to say and no way to put it all into words. The devastation has been well documented, pictorially and in articles, by individuals and news staff since the hurricane. What cannot be portrayed in a photo is the impact of the damage that is evident as you drive past miles and miles of demolished homes, or gutted homes with FEMA trailers parked out front. In the face of the enormity of the clean-up that will be necessary to restore some sense of normalcy to the coast it is seemingly impossible to know where to start in the process. More than once someone on our team or on the staff voiced the question, 'How do you eat an elephant?'. The answer, as we know, is 'One bite at a time.' The pessimist in me wonders if there is any good in eating an elephant if it is rotten beyond benefit by the time you finish. Many of the people of New Orleans have relocated as new opportunities have risen in their 'temporary' homes. There are continues to be red tape for individuals dealing with insurance or settlement issues. The entire clean up process is overwhelming in its magnitude as well as the interlaced and compounded issues surfacing through the process. I ended up thinking that perhaps you end up eating something other than an elephant. But, more so, the people affected have worked as community and neighbors to help each other when possible, but more importantly communicate hope.The greatest gift of the trip for me was the meeting the people that I worked and traveled (+40 hours) with. After the time spent with the team from Menomonie as well as the people of Samaritan's Purse it was quite difficult to think of returning to life without the camaraderie that was enjoyed all week. I have been in missions/ministry much of my life and after this trip I decided to just let it hurt to be separating from the people that I spent the week with. We spent some times together that have to be among the best memories of my life. (Not to mention that I have been taught how to remove a door frame.) The friendships formed remind me that one of the greatest gifts of heaven will be the time that we will have to spend with each other - regardless of schedules, obligations, or physical separation. Time spent with others within tight quarters and hot working conditions was an excellent opportunity for growth. After long days pounding down walls and shoveling plaster, I was still happy to see them when we left the work site. As a self-proclaimed hermit (half the time) this was notable to me - and now it is a bit sad to not have seen them for three days. I suppose when my schedule picks up and obligations increase, perhaps the physical separation will be less noticeable. In some ways, I hope not. I hope that we would learn the importance of community and serving each other before it takes a hurricane to call us to spend time with each other. Samaritan's Purse is an excellent charitable organization. Not only is the work being (albeit slowly) done, the gospel is being shared and individuals have ears to tell their stories too. The accommodations for volunteers are more than adequate as needs are met spiritually, emotionally, and physically. Our safety on the job site was of top priority as were our physical needs of food and water for the work days. The atmosphere created and encouraged by the Samaritan's Purse staff is conducive to enjoying the time there while in the midst of a lot of hard work as well as being surrounded by the destruction from the storm. The trip was the perfect combination of extreme de-construction (hot, sweaty hard work), French cuisine (or at least a French chef), and time spent as Christ's hands and with His people.

So the answer to the age old question 'How do you eat an elephant?' is the answer that has worked for thousands of years. It is best to invite friends and neighbors, especially those who are hungry, to a feast of togetherness and there, one bit at a time, devour that elephant.

slightly distorted

In March, Christine Ruth, at Cedarbrook church was speaking on marriage: the refiner's fire. She used the analogy of a mirror to depict how a marriage should operate as a way to see ourselves. It was interesting that she pointed out that at times our spouses (or closest friends) bring out the worst in us. It is that this is to be expected, and we have the opportunity to grow because of it. Our soul's mirrors extend to our relationships with our children, co-workers, and friends. This is then one of the many ways that community is used as a 'refiner's fire' to expose the flaws within us.
Just recently I have been reading Circle of Quiet by Madeleine L'Engle. She also writes of the our need for a mirror in others.
"I don't know what I'm like. I get glimpses of myself in other people's eyes. I try to be careful whom I use as a mirror: my husband; my children; my mother; the friends of my right hand. If I do something which disappoints them I can easily read it in their responses. They mirror their pleasure or approval, too."
She goes on to say that we aren't always careful of our mirrors. We choose to view ourselves through someone else's mirror, rather than the mirror that is meant to be distinctly for us. Christine Ruth closed her talk by saying that it is in a relationship with Christ that we have the opportunity to allow his refiner's fire to "surface the dross and form us into the pure, tested, and beautiful image of God". I would pray that there is more reflected from within than just me - my wishes, my desires, my thoughts, my demands; but also the love of Christ and the peace of the abundance of life lived in relationship with Him.

cricket control

The basement is full of crickets. I have decided that I won't wage war on the spiders, they eat a lot of crickets. This spider was on my laundry hamper - that's the blue background - then he hopped onto the floor. Then he just hopped all over.

Would crickets lay eggs in houseplants?

I have also tried feeding the crickets to my fish, but they don't eat them and I just ended up rescuing the cricket I had tried to murder anyway.

Ironic: I just paid $5 for algae to feed to my $3.50 plecostomus. Considering the condition of Tainter/Menomin lakes, this seems absolutely absurd. That also exceeds my own lunch budget by 100%.

that's a mighty big toadstool

and it must've been a mighty big toad.

less bright, more contrast: one year ago

One year ago today I ripped off the end of my middle finger on my left hand. I got the finger stuck between two pieces of steel and then pulled - apparently wild animals aren't the only ones capable of pulling off appendages or limbs to free themselves. I, of course, have pictures of the entire healing process. I was off work for about a month. It wasn't possible to diaper kids due to the nature of the injury. Not to mention the fact that my finger was crushed and there were times that it hurt quite a bit. It is evident from the photos that I have interspersed with those of my finger that I was able to take pictures of butterflies and flowers while my hand healed.

This first photo, taken two days after the accident, shows that there was apparently good circulation present across the top of my finger. There were hopes that the entire top would 'simply' heal back to the rest of the finger and all would be normal-like. The finger was torn at an angle as I pulled upwards to free it. I can't quite remember, but I think there were about 11 stitches in there. As it turned out the stiches were not allowing the top of the finger to heal to the bottom, they were pulling the top piece in to provide structure for the healing that would be taking place from the inside out. The end of my finger was just a smudge on the x-ray - the bone was obliterated.
From the beginning of the healing process I sat out in the yard next to the zinnias and took pictures of butterflies. I couldn't drive while on the narcotics, so I was only at the house for awhile.One stitch went through the nail. It was interesting that much of the way this all felt was exactly as you would expect it to feel - that stitch ended up feeling like something permanently stabbed under my nail.It was immediately evident that the top layer of skin was going to go. We left it in place to provide a cap to stuff antibiotic ointment under. Mom did all the wound dressing on it at first. She boiled water and allowed it to cool. I then soaked it in that water with dish soap. We smothered it in antibiotic ointment and wrapped it all back up again. I also began to learn how to use my camera in 'macro' mode.
I think these are called sulfur butterflies. They are very common and rather easy to photograph - but hey, I was injured.After a week and a half I went (with a date) to get the stitches out. (First date) After the stitches were out we went out hiking, but I didn't take my camera. The stiches wouldn't have stayed in much longer, the flesh was just mush. When he pulled the stiches out I realized that this wasn't going to heal like I had thought it was. Two pieces weren't going to grow back together because all of one piece was goo. Whatever finger I was going to get back was going to grow back from the inside - using the goo as a blueprint. (As it turned out it was also the last date.)This butterfly (an admiral, I think) is a bit harder to catch a picture of.
Life did go on - I just watched more than was part of it. I took this picture of Grandpa's wagon wheel while everyone else unloaded stuff out of the hay mow.
The picture of the sunset at Tainter is one of my favorite. I took about 30 shots of that sunset, but I won't put them all here.




















All that flesh that looks like a green glob of goo - died. It is now the reason that my finger is considerably shorter than it was.







The whole flap could be lifted relatively easily. I felt like I was dissecting myself, but it kinda looked that way too.











Swallowtails are not always sitting about waiting to be photographed. This one is altered to look watercolored. Perhaps someday I will learn to watercolor for reals and then I won't have to have the computer make it look like watercolor.













The flesh glop on the end of my finger looks less and less like part of my finger.

































I decided to remove the skin just because it was there and I could. Without the flap of skin, the living tissue was apparent. The normal feeling in my finger now is on the live side of the finger in these pictures.












The palm-frond-like thing is from Sheryl and Mark's wedding.

The flowers were a get-well gift from Mom and Dad.
























This is not how my finger looks now, but it is how it looked for a long time. The dead tissue gradually grew smaller and smaller. Eventually I had to pull a chunk of it out/off and that seemed to allow the remaining hole to seal up. Now my finger is shorter than it was. The part of it that was that green glob did not completely regenerate and my finger nail quickly grows out over the dip on the left side. But I do have a finger nail and I can feel most of it in some capacity. There seem to be bone chips working out of it, but it rarely (really) hurts. I suppose all's well that ends well. I can play the piano and type, I don't suppose much more is needed.

We went to see the Body Worlds exhibit at the Science Museum of Minnesota last Friday. There was the skeleton of a left hand on display so I went to go look at what the bone of my finger is supposed to look like and the display hand was missing the last digit of its middle finger! Apparently it is a common accident - in December of last year Mom did the same thing to her right hand. Hers is a cleaner cut, but with more nerve damage. So it looks more normal, but feels less so.That was one year ago. One year from now I don't know where I will be working or living. I would like to stay in the area, but may end up in South Dakota or North Carolina. It will all depend on what surprises (or lack of surprises) this year brings.
For I know the plan I have for you...