Health and heart struggles continue, but I did pull an A in Chem. Physiology is proving a bit of a struggle, just getting everying done.
The late summer session I will be taking Physiology & Lab, and Nursing 209 in the early fall session before taking the TEAS VI exam a couple of times before applying to the Nursing Program for the March 2019 cohort.
So after an extraordinarily difficult year of health and heart, I will be resuming my nursing degree track with Chem 109: Chemistry for Health Professionals on Tuesday, May 1st. I’m looking forward to it with equal parts anticipation and trepidation.
The late summer session I will be taking Physiology & Lab, and the early fall session will round out all of my prerequisites needed before taking the TEAS VII exam and applying to the Nursing Program.
Early spring session will be my first opportunity to take Nurs 209 the introductory course with clinicals. I haven’t yet figured out how I’m to pay for that and keep a job as the clinicals are during daytime hours. Praying for wisdom.
The Driftwood Rule
If you plan to go beachcombing, a word about a local custom. It’s not a law, as such, but you’ll cause severe offence if you break the rule that says you can only pick up driftwood and other flotsam if it’s lying below the highest tide mark. Anything ‘laid up on da [the] green’, as they say, has been put there by someone else and they’ll be back for it some day so please leave it alone. Considering the value of driftwood in a largely treeless archipelago, the fact that this rule is universally observed says something about the honesty of the islanders. — Shetland.org
There’s a BBC crime serial on Netflix by name of Shetland, and it’s making me dream again on that part of the world. That nature. Those people. The stark beauty. The ever-present wind, the sun, and the rain. It reminds me much of the beach in Fanor, Co Clare in the Burren at Rockyview Farmhouse. The people and the things they consider customary that strangers like meself find endearing and fascinating. Just now, “The Driftwood Rule”.
I never wanted to leave Ireland. Never wanted to leave the northern coast, or the Arran Islands, which Shetland puts me in mind of. Really, any part of Ireland excepting the industrialized agriculture areas of Northern Ireland. It’s lovely to be able to immerse myself for a brief period of time while watching.
I’m loving little serendipitous happenings and trying to hold onto them as tethers to this life… trying with deliberation not to let them slip by unnoticed, unremarked. As such I want to relate the serendipity before explanative background. I’m chuffed and a little bewildered.
This morning in the last 10 minutes of Sunday worship practice it was decided that I should have a go at playing a cello part for the special music during the offering. I was delighted and a bit terrified (though surprisingly not troubled by jitters). We played a song I’ve long wanted us to play, Your Glory as performed by All Sons & Daughters and I was privileged to join the beautiful piano, guitar and drums of Ingrid, Adam, and Stephen, and beautiful (During practice, beautiful. On stage, I’m not certain I heard them at all.) vocals of the first two and our Glyn holding down the low end of the vocal spectrum.
I’m honestly not certain how good it sounded, but it felt good and it did seem people were worshiping, and several were deliberate in giving affirmations afterward.
So, to the backstory. I’ve always loved the cello. I feel it has a physical resonance with the human body that allows it to touch and penetrate and stimulate and comfort where other instruments do not. That said, in all my other musical affections, the cello has always felt a bit beyond grasp. I’ve had Great Highland Bagpipes. I’ve built a practice set of Uilleann Pipes. I have three early system flutes, two of which for certain were built in the 1800s. I’ve gotten to own and have enormous pleasure from all sorts of whistles, recorders, guitars, banjos, a concertina, mandolins, a violin, a Bodhrán, a Glockenspiel, pianos, clarinets, and a bouzouki.
At university, I studied flute and bassoon and played in community ensembles. Unfortunately for ensemble work, I’ve always struggled with getting lost, confused, and muddled if playing anything not holding the core shape of the melody.
For some reason, the cello seemed beyond grasp of my silly hobbyist’s desires to make music with all the beautiful clever contraptions that have caught my fancy.
Then, a couple of years ago something very unfortunate happened. A good friend and musical mentor passed away suddenly leaving the church bereft of a bass player to lay foundation and harmonically underpin the melodic texture of the other instruments. Also, by serendipity, a young man of our church had moved on to different missional adventures, leaving behind a beautiful Ibanez 5-string electric bass, and every time I’ve inquired if he wanted it back, he has responded by saying, “If it’s being used to further the kingdom, I think it probably where God wants it.”
I started teaching myself to play the thing while sitting at the soundbooth during worship practices, without much hope of being able do the harmonic thing where I’ve always tended towards the melodic. It turned out to be surprisingly easy and fun and not the bugbear I’ve always made it… I want dots on a page, not Alphabet figurings. I fear the abstract and cling to the concrete.
I do love the bass and it’s growling percussive sometimes smooth voicings, but it put me back in mind of yearning for the beauty and resonance of the cello. Each year I would attend our association of churches’ Faithwalkers Mid-west conference and be joyfully transported when Lucas Shogren of Clocks & Clouds would lay down his bass and pick up the cello. As the bass began to seem within my reach it seemed to draw the cello along with it. If I could teach myself to fill a role on one instrument, perhaps I could do the same on one very similar in many respects.
I did not think to have the opportunity to try as cellos are very dear and I could never justify the initial outlay just to journey down a road a piece to see how I got on. I talked to friends about looking for one, but only in a vague wishful way. Enter Facebook Marketplace. I try not to look so that I don’t find a bunch of things I didn’t know I need to have. In one of my rare moments of weakness, I found what looked to be a beautiful used full-sized cello here in town when I happened also to have a few unbudgeted kopeks rattling around in my pocket. It seemed a rather low price for a lovely student-model instrument in a very good hard-side rolling case with not much more than a small f-hole crack to provoke concern. I felt bad about talking the owner down to a price I could afford, but which probably could not have purchased the case new.
Of course, I quickly found it to be unplayable with a tuning peg that had no affection for the pegbox to which it should adhere, and a bridge that was placed nowhere near where it should be and had been inexpertly carved to uselessness so that if the bridge were to be positioned correctly, the strings would lay on the fingerboard. I had to find a skilled luthier and save my shekels (They seem to hold value better than do kopeks) for a while to engage him to stop the crack, replace the peg with one stout enough to stick properly, and carve a new bridge.
I got the work done but life intruded for a couple of months, and I never got a chance to get the thing out and play with her now that she was a playable instrument. It’s been growing on my mind for a while that I need to put down the bass guitar, which is fun and relaxing to play, and start the hard work of the neophyte learner. Halfway through this last practice I remembered that determination and got my little girl out and tuned her. She tuned. Right away, things were looking up *chuckle*. I started figuring out where notes make their home. I had hoped that I would have this under my fingers somewhat considering that the Mandolin, Violin, and my Bouzouki are all tuned to GDAE. Nae. A bit of a mental rearrangement as the cello lives a perfect fifth below but doesn’t quite make it to the low B I love on the Bass. In the middle of the song they were practicing, they asked me if I was going to play with them Sunday morning for the special. I thought they were havin’ a go, as this was pretty much the first time I’d done more than fight to tune and saw out a few scales.
This morning during practice, things really sort of clicked into place. One of my friends on the stage has told me in the past that she values boldness so I decided that I could either stay silent and wonder and wish, or be bold and risk doing poorly. Risk was rewarded. As vague and wishful as the cello has always seemed, and as surreal as playing it during worship felt, this morning it was made solid.
The potential was made solid. Before me lies a good deal of work and frustration; to pull from various sources to try to learn good technique and not practice in poor habits that will hold me back further on. Before me lies the investment to make as familiar and comfortable, the notes of first-position of the cello as they have become on the bass, and to build a toolbox of techniques and ornaments to add richness and variety.
My goal is feasible. I want only to do what I’ve been doing with bass, but do it with an instrument that makes me want to simultaneously hold my breath and weep. I want to use this instrument and ask God to use me as His instrument as we seek to worship and facilitate the worship of others in our family.
Within this Christian vision of marriage, here’s what it means to fall in love. It is to look at another person and get a glimpse of what God is creating, and to say, “I see who God is making you, and it excites me! I want to be part of that. I want to partner with you and God in the journey you are taking to his throne. And when we get there, I will look at your magnificence and say, ‘I always knew you could be like this. I got glimpses of it on earth, but now look at you!”
Without being forgiven, released from the consequences of what we have done, our capacity to act would, as it were, be confined to one single deed from which we could never recover; we would remain the victims of its consequences forever, not unlike the sorcerer’s apprentice who lacked the magic formula to break the spell. Without being bound to the fulfillment of promises, we would never be able to keep our identities; we would be condemned to wander helplessly and without direction in the darkness of each man’s lonely heart, caught in its contradictions and equivocalities, a darkness which only the light shed over the public realm through the presence of others, who confirm the identity between the one who promises and the one who fulfills, can dispel. Both faculties, therefore, depend on plurality, on the presence and acting of others, for no one can forgive himself and no one can feel bound by a promise made only to himself; forgiving and promising enacted in solitude or isolation remain without reality and can signify no more than a role played before one’s self. [emphasis mine]
On the phone, before I started sobbing, still talking through with the doctor (who later started sobbing herself) how hopeless the situation was, Hawthorne in the other room started grief howling for the first time in his life. He knew the little brother he’d come into the world with and had been inseparable from for his entire life was leaving him.
Alas, neither A counts towards the Science GPA that will be evaluated in conjunction with my eventual performance on the ATI TEAS VI exam, but they are good indicator, that, with the proper accommodations, as well as increased maturity, I can perform well in academic pursuits.
This session I am reluctantly taking a 3 hr course in Medical Terminology that won’t count towards either the Associates in Nursing or BSN in order to meet minimum enrollment hours for my financial aid package. I have hopes that it at least will be beneficial in future courses, though a great deal of it is review.
Following this course my progress will be at a standstill until I can figure out a way to pay for school. I’ve exactly one year of coursework remaining (course schedule permitting) before I would be ready to apply to the Nursing program. I’ve reached the aggregate limit for subsidized federal loans (and I had hoped not to accrue more debt for this). My attempts to find full-time employment with Columbia College which would yield the benefits of a full tuition waiver have so far proven unsuccessful, but thankfully my existing employment, due to end July 31, has been extended for another full year, so I am secure… if not able to advance my degree pursuit.
I am deciding to treat this as an opportunity to try to get creative and to be careful with my budget to see if I cannot manufacture a way to continue… likely not in the fall, but perhaps in the spring semester.
Praying and trusting God. Very grateful for what I’ve been given so far and for the provisions and opportunities. So aware of how blessed I am.
When I make a promise, I bear witness that my future with you is not locked into a bionic beam by which I was stuck with the fateful combinations of X’s and Y’s in the hand I was dealt out of my parents’ genetic deck.
When I make a promise, I testify that I was not routed along some unalterable itinerary by the psychic conditioning visited on me by my slightly wacky parents.
When I make a promise I declare that my future with people who depend on me is not predetermined by the mixed-up culture of my tender years.
I am not fated, I am not determined, I am not a lump of human dough whipped into shape by the contingent reinforcement and aversive conditioning of my past. I know as well as the next person that I cannot create my life de novo; I am well aware that much of what I am and what I do is a gift or a curse from my past. But when I make a promise to anyone I rise above all the conditioning that limits me.
“Controlling the Unpredictable – The Power of Promising“
Christianity Today Jan. 1983
Suppose this black pit of a kingdom of yours is the only world. Well, it strikes me as a pretty poor one. And that’s a funny thing, when you come to think of it. We’re just babies making up a game, if you’re right. But four babies playing a game can make a play-world which licks your real world hollow. That’s why I’m going to stand by the play world. I’m on Aslan’s side even if there isn’t any Aslan to lead it. I’m going to live as like a Narnian as I can even if there isn’t any Narnia. So, thanking you kindly for our supper, if these two gentlemen and the young lady are ready, we’re leaving your court at once and setting out in the dark to spend our lives looking for Overland. Not that our lives will be very long, I should think; but that’s a small loss if the world’s as dull a place as you say.”
I have $1,000 in savings as an emergency fund that I may raid if support raising doesn’t cover it. I’m very grateful to my cousins Jerry & Tracy Cepel in California for a very kind gift out of the blue that has eased many strains and worries.
The only things standing in the way of going and rebuilding houses in Ukraine and getting to know her wonderful people and perhaps share my love for Christ with them at this point are my weight/health, the cantankerous heart of a despicable man that would aggress against the freedom of his peaceful and kind neighbors, and the possibility that I won’t be able to arrange the time off of work.
But I rejoice! I’m 271.5 lbs, and since technically I started this effort at 303 lbs, that’s halfway! 270 lbs is still the milestone that my fingers are reaching and scrabbling to grasp, but I need, right now, to appreciate the milestone I have reached and hold onto it tightly for a moment before stumbling onward.
If the goal is 60 for Ukraine well, then… I’m MORE than halfway. Halfway is a wonderful place to be. 33 lbs lighter is a wonderful place to feel. With that gift from my cousin I resolved to mend a lack in my wardrobe, a lack of any formal or semi-formal wear for job interviews, church, weddings, funerals, nice meals out, nights at the symphony, charity banquets for My Life Clinic, et. al., … What had been impossible at 300 lbs, let alone 316 lbs has become almost easily possible in the low 270s.
I feel better. I’m more confident. I feel as though I’ve matured, making deliberate choices instead of lamenting having to make do with the best I can do when a nice occasion rolls around; wearing what’s appropriate instead of ‘the best that I have’ when going to an interview. I could attend my father’s visitation and grave-side honors feeling I wasn’t dishonoring him. I’ve done some hard work and a great deal of self-denial to get here and that feels like maturity too.
The biggest gift from the weightloss, on an emotional level is that, as I have chosen to put myself out there, seeking relationship with some beautiful Daughter of Eve or another, that I am more comfortable in myself. Fretting about not wanting to saddle her with an obese person whose health might be uncertain. Fretting with not being able to respect or stand myself when I need to love what it is that I’m asking someone else to love. Fretting that she’s seeing me and judging me and has contempt for me as a man when most likely she is only seeing that I understand her and make her feel loved, cared for, cherished… and that I make her laugh and that we experience and share joy in companionship. Fretting that desires for parenthood would be selfish if I cannot play and interact with kiddos. It has given me the confidence to know that I -can- do this. Gone is that long dark teatime of the soul when I knew I simply could not, or when I would try but always fail.
God blesses. It’s like He, the omni-potent one is im-potent -not- to bless. God blesses.
I take a bewildered look around and find that I, a 42 year old man who’s clearly failing fast, am a brand spankin’ new student at University. When did they start letting all these children into higher-learning? $108 to rent a textbook for 6–8 weeks? Praying for strength as a somewhat frightening new adventure commences.
They’re all using these little flat pocket televisions without an aerial. They seem to think nothing of getting fingerprints all over them.
Many friends have read and processed and given feedback on my previous article, “All Chances Gone. No Beagle Puppy”. They have also extended to me much love and support, for which I am very grateful.
I too have read and reread, edited a bit here and there as something such as this, put out there for public consumption should be painstakingly authored. I have reread and processed, and taken into account much of the feedback and advice, and even exhortations I have received from others.
I do after all, ponder.
I came to the conclusion that I was still being manipulated and controlled… by my own fears. Was I frightened of a emotional bugbear blown out of all proportion over the years even if that bugbear may prove, in fact, to be realistic in some ways?
I was giving him too much power… where he has none.
I was letting fear be justification for not doing what I truly wished to do, forgoing two opportunities, one of which will never come again, and the other which may never be offered to me again.
The first opportunity is that of being able to say ‘goodbye’ and tell my father that I loved him in every way left open to me, and those ways fiercely. Perhaps it is selfish, and I don’t know if I have a need or not yet, but I would very much not like to realize down the road that I have need for this closure. I acknowledge that time might dampen some feelings and allow other feelings to have primacy and with those, find only regret at having made a mistake.
The second is to see family that I dearly love and have had little opportunity to be close to. The lack of closeness was my own fault. I was so withdrawn into a shell of protection that I self-denied myself one of the best gifts I have and ever will have been given. The association was too strong. Again, I think this was driven by a sort of fear. I spoke of regrets above. This regret already exists and is far greater than I anticipate the other might ever be if I again let those fears control me.
Time marches relentlessly onward and I have already lost much opportunity as now age and disease, and its thieving nature may have already robbed (No, my hurt and foolishness did the robbing, alas.) me of what I most desire. I could easily spend a lot of effort and hatred toward myself for this foolishness, but it is pointless and I must act on the lesson of giving the grace I give others to myself.
I don’t know about Beagle Puppies. That scenario, with time and temperance, seems less likely, but I do acknowledge it is still a possible reality. I honestly don’t how to handle it if those fears are realized. I only know that I cannot let those fears dictate what I do.
I had for a few days tried to pass the responsibility for how I handled those fears off onto the shoulders of my father. That is nonsense. He can do nothing to me, then or now, and he cannot ‘make’ me fearful. Only I have that responsibility. It’s past time I owned that. Another opportunity for self-grace in that I think that trying to pass the responsibility was an inevitable part of the process, but that grace only has meaning if I also admit it was wrong and chose to do that which is right.
I could wish that Beagle Puppies played no role. Such lament is useless, self-indulgent, and wasteful. I could lament that Beagle Puppies -ever- played a role, -ever- were a ‘thing’, but lamentations do not alter. Lament only hinders one from progressing forward if maintained longer than is appropriate and healthy.
I will, from this point redefine Beagle Puppy to mean only something that I very much love. I will discard that other definition in a box of useless things destined for eventual annihilation in furnace inferno. There is one Beagle Puppy like no other. He slumbers on the apex of his dwelling… when he’s not patrolling the skies over France, keeping them safe from the menace of Manfred Albrecht Freiherr von Richthofen. He admirably serves as perpetual shortstop and never lets a ground ball past in formal and pickup-games. He did once make a failed bid to forcibly replace Charlie Brown as team manager, but we will speak only of his successes here.
I had more loved images than would make sense in-line in a post already pushing those limits, so here are the remainder:
A follow-up article has been added here: Facing Fears — My Father’s Passing
All the chances I might have had to finally figure out how to forgive and reconnect with my father, and hopefully, lead him back to a saving relationship with Christ from his jaded atheism ended five days ago.
A relative searched out my contact information and let me know last night that my father was discovered by police on a requested wellness check. They estimate he passed away four days previous.
A lot of mixed emotions. There is remorse for my failure and inability; remorse for times when I became righteously angry at his (continuing) mistreatment of my mother, my sister, and myself. There is regret that he seemed a textbook Sociopath that might have never been reached by any efforts of forgiveness and reaching out. There is prayer that God gives grace to those who may have their free will compromised, through no fault of their own, by mental damage/illness. The remorse is mostly quiet remorse and it may grow more intense as God works on my heart, but I can’t see how I could have done anything much different than I did.
I am glad that he is no longer able to affect my mother and myself. My sister has been beyond his grasp since passing away at the beginning of 2005. Glad, but I did not wish him dead. I wished him all the life it took to come back to God in humility as a supplicant, and then, perhaps, a life remainder of quiet peace. Not the false peace of a sociopath unable to know of troublesome things, but of one who knows, knows he is forgiven through no act of his own, and who is able to accept that forgiveness and wrap it around himself like a comforting blanket.
If there were to be a funeral service as nearby as Kearney, Nebraska, and had I a surfeit of time and money, I would very much like to attend, and tell him that I loved him in every way that was left open to me and that I hope that in spite of my failure to reach him that he is somehow covered under Grace.
My mother suggested that I should attend for another reason, and one which, even the possibility of would make me chose not to attend even were I able. She suggested that I might get a Beagle Puppy, and since I am trying to find a way to pay for Nursing School, that it would be a very wonderful blessing to have a Beagle Puppy. I cannot stomach the idea of one more controlling manipulation, one more carrot and stick, one more act of twistedness being done to me.
Briefly, as a child, perhaps 6 years old I had been given a copy of the American Kennel Club’s Dog Breeds Book because I was nuts about anything/everything ‘dog’. I loved its bright yellow cover (my favorite colour then) and all the black and white photos of different breeds. I had poured over it like other boys pour over baseball cards memorizing stats, or in this case, characteristics, classifications, temperaments, grooming needs, and so on. I had paper-clipped pages for different breeds and honestly, I would have liked to have all of them, or even just one of them. There was one at the time that stood out among the rest and that might have met my father’s stringent requirements of an acceptable dog. It wasn’t Benji, Benji after all being a shelter dog of mysterious heritage. It wasn’t my present day loves, Shih-Tzus (I don’t think we’d yet doggy-sat me mum’s boss’ Roxy and knew Shih-Tzu joy) and Border Collies (They weren’t even recognized by the AKC at the time and more’s the pity they ever were). It wasn’t a Samoyed or an Alaskan Malamutes like my beloved (ok, she belonged to my sister Allison, but she lived with me for several years) Nikki. The page I came back to over and over; the page with two paperclips and a third big one on the few full-colour pages in the center, was the Beagle. I wanted this small scrappy smart trim little dog who just looked like it had a heart bursting with love for a little boy. Constant “Beagle Puppy” desire followed but gained no traction with my parents… or rather with my Dad who must control everything.
Mayhaps not so briefly. My parents were active in the church I had grown up in as bible-study leaders, youth ministry helpers, and as drivers for the church van. It happened that the youth group decided to go on an outing to the almost-better-than-Disneyland-way-better-than-Six-Flags Knott’s Berry Farm. It also happened that the day of the trip was my 8th or 9th birthday. When we reached the park I was given the ‘choice’ of going around the day with my father, or with my mother. How can you make a wrong choice when there’s no real choice at all. My mother made such things fun and exciting. My dad complained and groused about the price of food which he would never have purchased anyways. Mum would get small treats when she could but as she really didn’t have much of ‘her own money’ (her nurse’s salary was taken and controlled by my father), even those occasions were rare. He criticized and belittled everything. He condescended upon everyone, especially international workers and visitors. There was no fun with my Dad, no joy. He refused to ride any roller-coasters (some of the best were at KBF, The Corkscrew, Montezooma’s Revenge, etc), and my mum was a roller-coaster-nut. I went with my mum. Later in the day we reconvened at a covered picnic area and there was a surprise birthday cake and party waiting. It could not have possibly been a more perfect day and would have stood in my childhood as one of maybe 3 or 4 actual happy memories (Meeting Benji(Benjean) and her trainer was one, a certain Day at Angeles Crest Christian Camp was another).
It’s not. It’s not one of those. It was one of the other kind of days of which there were so many, and this the one that still hurts the most. As we were leaving the park and getting back in the van and I was nursing the fireball candies (They had to last. Whenever would they come again?) my mother had disobeyed my father and bought for me, my father took me aside. He pulled out his wallet and from that took a clipping from the classified section of the L.A. Times. I still remember the smudged newsprint attempt at including a photo of a litter of Beagle puppies and their mum… a little hard to make out in pure black & white process. My dad told me that he had planned, if I were to come with him for the day, for us to leave the park while others were enjoying the rides and attractions and to go and pick out a puppy from the litter, but as I had went with my mom, I would be getting no puppy. Not today. Not ever. I don’t remember how I reacted beyond sitting at the back of the bus for the long trip back to central LA with a forgotten fireball burning a hole through my cheek as I neither felt nor tasted it, crying, being embarrassed and thinking that I just didn’t want to continue. I -think- it was around this time that I tried and failed to commit suicide with my dad’s .22 auto that I had no idea how to charge or un-safe. I couldn’t bear the thought of my ‘mistake’ and that it would have ‘forever’ effects. To children, ‘forever’ means ‘ever after’, not ‘until circumstances one day change’. I didn’t think in terms of ‘unfair’ because I had never known ‘fair’. I had had so much fun with my mum, and I should have had fun with my mum, but I didn’t realize I was unwittingly making or breaking some Faustian bargain at the time. I didn’t want to be alone with my father, not before, not that day, not ever, and because of it my ‘mistake’, there would never be a puppy to replace Rascal and Samson who had both passed away long before I even got to really know them. I would never have a puppy. I don’t remember anything after that until my mother moved us out of his house. It’s all blanked out. I think I shut down. I think I was crushed beyond caring about anything at all.
Could he really be that twisted so as to do it again? Could he put some stipulation in his will where I would be ‘rewarded’ for making the ‘right’ wrong decision and punished for making the ‘wrong’ right decision. Nobody could possibly do something that heinous, could they?
I don’t want a Beagle Puppy. I don’t ever want a Beagle Puppy from him. I don’t want to miss his funeral, but I very much wish I had been able to miss that birthday at Knotts Berry Farm.
The answer is, “Yes, he could.”. Money has always been his go-to method to control and hurt or bless (not altruistically, but for the returns it brought him) people in his life.
My answer is, “No, I cannot. I Will not.” Today I would say, “I Shan’t.” but it just doesn’t seem as appropriate here. I will find some other way, like everyone else, to take care of Nursing School and other needful things, and the harder it is, the it will be all the worthier for the difficulty.
I hope he’s been granted grace and understanding for the difficulties of his own childhood and for the mental derangement(s) he suffered.
I feel free. Freedom that being half a nation away could never bring. Free of that nagging worry that he could still find some way to hurt my mother or less likely, myself. I wouldn’t have traded his life for that freedom, but the equation was not of my making.
I suppose I am finally free to change my last name to something that doesn’t hurt because now doing so won’t hurt him. I wonder at even bothering to wait, but I know it was in the hopes of reaching him for Christ. Would that I could embrace the wonderful Cepelness that was a small part of my life, my Uncle Al and Aunt Carol and all their kids and their kid’s kiddos, and a fair bit of good Cepelness back in Nebraska, but put together, all represent a drop of joy in an ocean of hurt.
The mission trip to the Ukraine is back on (tentatively) for this summer, this time at more of a safe remove from Putin’s aggression.
Today I’m very excited to go to my third or fourth Bariatric appointment since starting taking Belviq. I’d really not lost any weight for the past 6 months or so that I’ve been taking it. I thought I’d noticed a difference in cravings, but not significantly so, and even that did not last. On my last visit the doc told me that it would only work if I cut out processed carbs and refined sugars. I thought, “That will be the day.”
Today I will go in 25 lbs lighter than the last visit. Only 35 lbs remain to reach the go/no-go goal of 240 lbs.
The convenience of prepared food pretty much means processed carbs and refined sugars. I realized something I already knew about myself… a diet never works. Bad days undo a dozen good days. The only thing that works for me is an exclusion diet… forcing me to buy ingredients and prepare food… essentially making all my choices for myself before I’m in the situation of being hungry, tired, and in a hurry and apt to go get something on the run. So… out with processed carbs, all gluten, all refined sugars, and uncooked milk (That keeps my love of Chex cereal in chex, sorry, I meant ‘check’). In with lots of protein and some rice and limited potato. I began this new lifestyle on October 30.
It’s been great for the most part. It has also had a secondary benefit and a secondary motivation. Anytime I spend money it’s with the thought of, “I want to be married.” Which to me means, I have to get a handle on debt and learn to better live within my means. Not buying fast-food once or twice a day and a big (diet, caffeine-free) fountain soda every day eases so much load on my finances and gives me so much motivation not to fudge the rules. That thought also pertains to my weight as well. I don’t think I have the right to bind myself to another if I’m not doing everything to stay healthy for ‘us’ and for any children. It’s a mantra, “I want to be married. I want to be a father. I want to be of use to God.”
This makes 41 lbs lost since Oct 6, 2015.
I had hoped to be to 270 by Jan 1 and that’s still possible. I really thought I’d never see (feel) 270 lbs again. I have vague memories of the last time, exercising with the Berrys, working hard, and how much better I felt. Going back several years to my times fasting and praying as a desperate alternative to suicide after Raina left, I remember hitting 250 lbs and being stunned at how much better I felt. I hadn’t seen 250 lbs since getting sick in Ireland and coming back 10 lbs heavier (and then never looking back from there) to the sedentary depression of the Fibromyalgia and Chronic Fatigue.
I’m very encouraged. Nuvigil has helped a lot in all facets of life. I’m more active and more productive and more positive because I’m more active/productive and can think more clearly.
- 250 lbs — June 2003 after returning from the Green Isle. I’ve never since been below this weight.
- 240 lbs — the weight I had pretty much maintained for several years before visiting Ireland in early 2003.
- 238 lbs — the weight I was the day of my wedding. I fit into my suit though I still felt huge and constricted.
- 210 lbs — I hit this weight shortly (and briefly) before my friendship with Raina began. I had done another exclusion/poverty diet and my life had been going well. I fit into a 2x shirt and I couldn’t even remember when I had done that… High School perhaps? My goodness but did it feel so very marvelous.
- 170 lbs — I think I could be content here, in the normal BMI range, just below the overweight range. My cardiologist said I would have to lose more, but he was an arrogant ass who argued with me for half an hour and trotted out his degrees and accolades insisting that I’d never lower my cholesterol with behavior modification and that I -must- slave myself to use of a statin drug drug for the rest of my life. I proved him wrong in a year and I think 170 lbs would be a lovely reasonable weight provided some of it is lean muscle.
I can count on two hands examples I’ve seen in my own life. They are what I aspire to for myself. Almost without exception, they are men (and women) who have made God the head of their marriage.
This, of course, flies in the face of feminist claptrap, and I make no apologies. Any nonsense that makes less of a Daughter of Eve in silly pursuit of making her ‘equal’ is to be laughably discarded. I hope that they themselves find someone who considers them of far more worth than ever he does himself, and who likewise makes no apologies.
Most men may never reach this standard, but may be content if like a standard in battle, it goes ever before him displaying his colours and character, as much reminder to himself as caution to those ahead.
For some reason, beyond my ken, this KHOD comic was listed in the marshwiggle.org site statistics for yesterday. I adore KHOD. How very apropos. Here, Spencer’s father is showing his standard to his son and teaching him to yearn for a similar standard of his own.
why the horror of the Crucifixion had to happen.
“He Gave Us Stories”, Reformation Bible College,
2013 Fall Conference, Creation & Re-Creation.
Go back to timecode 34:45 to hear his guiding idea behind writing The Wingfeather Saga. He had a vision of who the main character Janner Igiby was and who he was to become and that it could only be accomplished through conflict. “The only way for Janner Igiby to become that person was for me to ruin his life. To send him on an adventure that would cause him pain. To strip him of everything that was familiar. To bring him to a point where he could not see the light at the end of the tunnel. And now, at the end of my story I keep thinking about how my whole point, my whole goal at the end of this epic tale I’m trying to tell is to make the darkness seem so great that it’s insurmountable. To make it so that the main characters in my story are on the brink of giving up hope, so that at the very last moment, I can lift the veil, and blow their minds and they can see that there was something stronger than all the darkness.”