Focus. What is important?
I've been getting it wrong.
The picture has been focused on entirely the wrong things and now I'm out of touch with what really matters.
Brains don't always make the right decision.
Now I am struggling mightily with the reality that I have listened to the brains and been ignoring the heart which should have taken precedence.
Now, I am truly heartbroken.
I have not applied mercy, love, tenderness or compassion.
And my Daddy has taken all the suffering because I couldn't see what was best FOR HIM.
Oh God, will I ever learn to be what Thou would have me to be?
My tears feel like they are an unending internal flow with times of complete external breakout. I am NOT strong enough for this!
My pitiful prayer is that God in His mercy will do for Daddy what I am simply not able to do - be merciful and tender.
The blessing I seek is not for me for I am most undeserving, rather it is for my kind Daddy who has stood between me and disaster all of my life. Now, he needs God to be there FOR HIM.
My alleged intellect has failed me. I let it overtake my heart and now everyone has lost.
Right now, I truly wish I was more like Kari. She is tender of heart and compassionate in every thought.
I really hate being a grown up sometimes. It isn't all that it's advertised to be.
February 7, 2014
February 6, 2014
Choking to death on my own spit
Normally, cold and flu season does a bump and run. This year, it has applied the force of a Mack truck and then decided to put the parking brakes on and spin the wheels over us. I feel like we've all just been swapping our germs around amongst ourselves and never truly killing them off.
I've begun to review my whole position regarding filling the bathtub with Lysol and giving everyone a quick dip.
While sitting at the computer trying to get a little bit of genealogy sorted out, I had one of those insidious coughing fits sneak up on me. At first it was minor: coff coff.
No biggie.
Popped in a honey lemon lozenge and life was good - for a while.
Then, a second coughing round. This time a bit more heavy: COFF COFF COFF COOOOOOFFFFF! I am quite certain I have coughed up either a badger or half a lung.
Bright girl that I am, I decided that maybe that annoying tickle just needed to be washed down with a sip or two of cold water. Sip, sip, sip. Aah, that's better!
Lulled into a completely mean-spirited and extremely hateful false sense of security, I turned back to the computer to type in the next name when suddenly my throat was slammed shut with liquidy, gooey weirdness that descending from my sinuses that can only be described as 40 weight spit and or mucus. Unable now to either breathe (kinda important!) OR swallow (getting a big panic going now!), I realized that I was in trouble.
Because I am always concerned about stupid things like people finding me dead in compromised circumstance, I flashed to the clothes I was wearing and truly wished I had on a different shirt. I don't want people to find me dead in my "I'm-only-at-home-so-it-doesn't-matter" dinosaur shirt with all the holes in it great and small... and my track pants were disgustingly dirty but since all I was doing in them was sweating anyway while I exercised, one more bike ride wasn't going to hurt them... and now here I was going to die choking to death on my own spit wearing junky clothes that no one needs to know I own.
Here lies the body of Shelley Merrill who choked to death on her own spit in the most unfashionable ensemble imaginable. Nice. Send in the clowns. Someone needs to enjoy this.
When a tiny hole in the clog opened up and the coughing finally DID start in earnest, I was in deeper distress than I'd like to admit. You see, for women "of a certain age" and for some who have experienced lots of pelvic injury over time, the simple acts of coughing, sneezing and laughing present their own little deadly danger.
Hauling my carcass up from my desk chair, I sputtered and choked and coughed and spit and gagged my way along. Coughing while dragging my zombie like frame arms extended in front of me as I lurched down the hallway to get to the bathroom must certainly have presented a comical sight to anyone who might have been watching. Thankfully, Jared was asleep. I'm sure he would have pointed his finger and laughed because that's just how boys roll.
Staggering into my bathroom to continue the spit flinging festival of grossness while attempting to keep myself from puddling up in other non-exciting ways should be some sort of survival merit badge or something like a small monument with an eternal flame. In any case, I refused adamantly to go quietly into the arms of that soft night while realizing that spit and pee would be the death of me.
Not cool, body, not cool at all.
When the coughing finally stopped and the nose blowing and sneezing that replaced it were over, I realized just how thankful I was to be in the bathroom instead of the living room.
Just at that crucial juncture, Jared's afternoon helper had arrived. Carolyn is much too nice to be compelled to see me in that kind of condition. When I got myself put back together and rinsed my face and washed my hands, I realized my eyes were so bloodshot from the coughing violence that I looked like Ned the Wino and not in a good way.
Making my way back to the living room to the door, I was able to gasp out a feeble "sorry I didn't hear you knock, I was in the bathroom" and to her credit, Carolyn didn't act like I looked like an extra from the "Thriller" video.
Never underestimate the power of bodily fluids to render you completely incapable of managing your life. They are out to get us all.
Just in case that happens again, I'd better get in some practice. Don't want to leave anyone disappointed who might just happen to drop by...
what to do when spit comes for you
I've begun to review my whole position regarding filling the bathtub with Lysol and giving everyone a quick dip.
While sitting at the computer trying to get a little bit of genealogy sorted out, I had one of those insidious coughing fits sneak up on me. At first it was minor: coff coff.
No biggie.
Popped in a honey lemon lozenge and life was good - for a while.
Then, a second coughing round. This time a bit more heavy: COFF COFF COFF COOOOOOFFFFF! I am quite certain I have coughed up either a badger or half a lung.
Bright girl that I am, I decided that maybe that annoying tickle just needed to be washed down with a sip or two of cold water. Sip, sip, sip. Aah, that's better!
Lulled into a completely mean-spirited and extremely hateful false sense of security, I turned back to the computer to type in the next name when suddenly my throat was slammed shut with liquidy, gooey weirdness that descending from my sinuses that can only be described as 40 weight spit and or mucus. Unable now to either breathe (kinda important!) OR swallow (getting a big panic going now!), I realized that I was in trouble.
Because I am always concerned about stupid things like people finding me dead in compromised circumstance, I flashed to the clothes I was wearing and truly wished I had on a different shirt. I don't want people to find me dead in my "I'm-only-at-home-so-it-doesn't-matter" dinosaur shirt with all the holes in it great and small... and my track pants were disgustingly dirty but since all I was doing in them was sweating anyway while I exercised, one more bike ride wasn't going to hurt them... and now here I was going to die choking to death on my own spit wearing junky clothes that no one needs to know I own.
Here lies the body of Shelley Merrill who choked to death on her own spit in the most unfashionable ensemble imaginable. Nice. Send in the clowns. Someone needs to enjoy this.
When a tiny hole in the clog opened up and the coughing finally DID start in earnest, I was in deeper distress than I'd like to admit. You see, for women "of a certain age" and for some who have experienced lots of pelvic injury over time, the simple acts of coughing, sneezing and laughing present their own little deadly danger.
Hauling my carcass up from my desk chair, I sputtered and choked and coughed and spit and gagged my way along. Coughing while dragging my zombie like frame arms extended in front of me as I lurched down the hallway to get to the bathroom must certainly have presented a comical sight to anyone who might have been watching. Thankfully, Jared was asleep. I'm sure he would have pointed his finger and laughed because that's just how boys roll.
Staggering into my bathroom to continue the spit flinging festival of grossness while attempting to keep myself from puddling up in other non-exciting ways should be some sort of survival merit badge or something like a small monument with an eternal flame. In any case, I refused adamantly to go quietly into the arms of that soft night while realizing that spit and pee would be the death of me.
Not cool, body, not cool at all.
When the coughing finally stopped and the nose blowing and sneezing that replaced it were over, I realized just how thankful I was to be in the bathroom instead of the living room.
Just at that crucial juncture, Jared's afternoon helper had arrived. Carolyn is much too nice to be compelled to see me in that kind of condition. When I got myself put back together and rinsed my face and washed my hands, I realized my eyes were so bloodshot from the coughing violence that I looked like Ned the Wino and not in a good way.
Making my way back to the living room to the door, I was able to gasp out a feeble "sorry I didn't hear you knock, I was in the bathroom" and to her credit, Carolyn didn't act like I looked like an extra from the "Thriller" video.
Never underestimate the power of bodily fluids to render you completely incapable of managing your life. They are out to get us all.
Just in case that happens again, I'd better get in some practice. Don't want to leave anyone disappointed who might just happen to drop by...
what to do when spit comes for you
February 5, 2014
National Signing Day
LOI or Letter of Intent.
Fax machines and coaches are fired up to see who is going to sign up to be on their team. Most are a sure thing, but volatile recruiting means that some big players are going to change who they pick at the last moment for the sake of sheer publicity.
I often wonder how God the Father feels about this process.
This is a very earthly construct. The signing of a letter of intent to pledge one's self to the process of becoming more through the application of the things a particular coach or teacher shares.
It is not unlike the process of becoming more like Christ.
The scriptures speak of whom do we list to obey. Like a letter of intent, we show the world whom we choose by how we act.
We file, in effect, an eternally binding letter of intent with every action and every choice.
While repentance is in play thanks to our Agent/Advocate Jesus Christ, the consequences of each choice depends on how much playing time we get in this mortal clash of wills.
If we sign to play on God's team, we are by default refusing the offers from the adversary's team. They will tempt, taunt, torment and try us. It's much like being drawn offsides by a skillful opponent who is trying to see us be penalized while they laugh.
Just as the referee marks off yardage on the field for even the most talented players who make mistakes, we are penalized by being drawn away from the Light of Christ and attempt to change our affiliation to the other team.
Make no mistake, we ARE free to choose the team for whom we will play, but we are NOT free to choose the consequences of our dalliances on that other side. The opposition is NOT our friend. Though they smile and offer what appears to be friendship, the reality is that they are only seeking to make us miserable because THEY are all miserable. The only enjoyment they receive in this part of the journey is the misery that loves company as they see us struggle, suffer and fall.
Which jersey do I want to be wearing when that final second ticks off in the most important moment? What coach REALLY cares about my welfare? Who sees me as more than meat? More than a split-second of entertainment? More than just a pawn to be discarded when the game is no longer fun?
A loving and kind coach cares enough to see that when you are wounded, when you are down, when you are struggling that you need his help, not his condemnation. A coach that sees after your long-term welfare wants to see you become better in every facet of your ability to recognize and counter the tactics that the opposition will use to block you, stop your forward progress and even attempt to knock you down behind the lines and then mock you for your weakened condition.
He will show you as many times as you need to understand. He will be a reminder, he will send messages that sometimes come as a whisper and other times arrive as a clap of thunder. He will provide help in the form of other persons who are already on the team and who are there to make clear the directions from up top.
Today is another opportunity to sign a letter of intent. Yesterday does not matter. It is gone. You cannot bring it back. Instead of focusing on that, look up and look forward. You have before you a clean sheet. Choose which team you wish to join, which team for which you desire to labor, which team for which you would live and die in order to achieve the success that transcends numbers on a scoreboard.
Your letter of intent is within your heart, but it is also in the actions you show others. If you have bought into the process that God the Father has shown us through the gospel of Jesus Christ, then that means you can receive a newness every single time you repent and offer your all to Him.
God doesn't take faxes. He responds to knee mail.
Give Him your letter of intent. Then show him you mean it by how you listen to and apply his coaching.
Become the kind of person that receives the pat on the back when all is said and done who gets to hear the blessed words "Well done, thou good and faithful servant. Enter into MY rest!"
National Signing Day never looked brighter.
Fax machines and coaches are fired up to see who is going to sign up to be on their team. Most are a sure thing, but volatile recruiting means that some big players are going to change who they pick at the last moment for the sake of sheer publicity.
I often wonder how God the Father feels about this process.
This is a very earthly construct. The signing of a letter of intent to pledge one's self to the process of becoming more through the application of the things a particular coach or teacher shares.
It is not unlike the process of becoming more like Christ.
The scriptures speak of whom do we list to obey. Like a letter of intent, we show the world whom we choose by how we act.
We file, in effect, an eternally binding letter of intent with every action and every choice.
While repentance is in play thanks to our Agent/Advocate Jesus Christ, the consequences of each choice depends on how much playing time we get in this mortal clash of wills.
If we sign to play on God's team, we are by default refusing the offers from the adversary's team. They will tempt, taunt, torment and try us. It's much like being drawn offsides by a skillful opponent who is trying to see us be penalized while they laugh.
Just as the referee marks off yardage on the field for even the most talented players who make mistakes, we are penalized by being drawn away from the Light of Christ and attempt to change our affiliation to the other team.
Make no mistake, we ARE free to choose the team for whom we will play, but we are NOT free to choose the consequences of our dalliances on that other side. The opposition is NOT our friend. Though they smile and offer what appears to be friendship, the reality is that they are only seeking to make us miserable because THEY are all miserable. The only enjoyment they receive in this part of the journey is the misery that loves company as they see us struggle, suffer and fall.
Which jersey do I want to be wearing when that final second ticks off in the most important moment? What coach REALLY cares about my welfare? Who sees me as more than meat? More than a split-second of entertainment? More than just a pawn to be discarded when the game is no longer fun?
A loving and kind coach cares enough to see that when you are wounded, when you are down, when you are struggling that you need his help, not his condemnation. A coach that sees after your long-term welfare wants to see you become better in every facet of your ability to recognize and counter the tactics that the opposition will use to block you, stop your forward progress and even attempt to knock you down behind the lines and then mock you for your weakened condition.
He will show you as many times as you need to understand. He will be a reminder, he will send messages that sometimes come as a whisper and other times arrive as a clap of thunder. He will provide help in the form of other persons who are already on the team and who are there to make clear the directions from up top.
Today is another opportunity to sign a letter of intent. Yesterday does not matter. It is gone. You cannot bring it back. Instead of focusing on that, look up and look forward. You have before you a clean sheet. Choose which team you wish to join, which team for which you desire to labor, which team for which you would live and die in order to achieve the success that transcends numbers on a scoreboard.
Your letter of intent is within your heart, but it is also in the actions you show others. If you have bought into the process that God the Father has shown us through the gospel of Jesus Christ, then that means you can receive a newness every single time you repent and offer your all to Him.
God doesn't take faxes. He responds to knee mail.
Give Him your letter of intent. Then show him you mean it by how you listen to and apply his coaching.
Become the kind of person that receives the pat on the back when all is said and done who gets to hear the blessed words "Well done, thou good and faithful servant. Enter into MY rest!"
National Signing Day never looked brighter.
February 1, 2014
Ooh baby, baby!
As we come nearer the due date for our first grandson, Nathan, we have discussed the minutia of being there for his arrival and the host of goodies we are taking with us for that enjoyable family time of togetherness that spans the generations.
It is odd to think about sometimes but this is truly a genealogical moment. We are living witnesses that the tree of life continues to branch out with new and budding growth. There is a real sense of eternity in the moments.
Part and parcel to the upcoming joyous event is the contemplation of what to present the soon-to-be-born Master Merrill.
With Kari's help and guidance, I have made some blankets of warm fleecy goodness to keep our future heir safe and warm with a reminder of the love of his father's family. With Rick's approval, I have also purchased fabric paints and renewed my previous hobby of clothing decoration with painted designs.
Painstaking search for the images I wanted to use in the artwork I put onto the tiny baby "onesies" our family calls "wrestling singlets", I carefully chose things that would honor the musical theme they have chosen to welcome little Nathan and some little cartoon images of animals of various types.
I hope they like them and will use them.
Distance between us geographically is zero fun. Someone really needs to get to work on beaming technology so that we can pop in when convenient and spend time together as a family. Sadly, that isn't happening any time soon, so I must content myself that my current circumstances do not allow me to just slip into the truck and go to Virginia any time I want.
Jared can't take care of himself and Rick does have to work to maintain our family needs in this household.
That's why beaming technology would be great! We could arrange to beam into specific coordinates and never have to worry about extra beds, laundry or even luggage. We could just pop back and forth for what we needed as we needed it.
Sadly, no one seems to see the necessity of that invention.
Government grants are instead spent on cow flatulence when they should be concentrating their full efforts on finding ways for me to visit not only Thomas, Tianna and soon-to-be baby Nathan, but also our family out west.
Oh well.
I'd better finish the laundry. No one has beamed a single load out and it all needs to be done.
It is odd to think about sometimes but this is truly a genealogical moment. We are living witnesses that the tree of life continues to branch out with new and budding growth. There is a real sense of eternity in the moments.
Part and parcel to the upcoming joyous event is the contemplation of what to present the soon-to-be-born Master Merrill.
With Kari's help and guidance, I have made some blankets of warm fleecy goodness to keep our future heir safe and warm with a reminder of the love of his father's family. With Rick's approval, I have also purchased fabric paints and renewed my previous hobby of clothing decoration with painted designs.
Painstaking search for the images I wanted to use in the artwork I put onto the tiny baby "onesies" our family calls "wrestling singlets", I carefully chose things that would honor the musical theme they have chosen to welcome little Nathan and some little cartoon images of animals of various types.
I hope they like them and will use them.
Distance between us geographically is zero fun. Someone really needs to get to work on beaming technology so that we can pop in when convenient and spend time together as a family. Sadly, that isn't happening any time soon, so I must content myself that my current circumstances do not allow me to just slip into the truck and go to Virginia any time I want.
Jared can't take care of himself and Rick does have to work to maintain our family needs in this household.
That's why beaming technology would be great! We could arrange to beam into specific coordinates and never have to worry about extra beds, laundry or even luggage. We could just pop back and forth for what we needed as we needed it.
Sadly, no one seems to see the necessity of that invention.
Government grants are instead spent on cow flatulence when they should be concentrating their full efforts on finding ways for me to visit not only Thomas, Tianna and soon-to-be baby Nathan, but also our family out west.
Oh well.
I'd better finish the laundry. No one has beamed a single load out and it all needs to be done.
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