tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9974943914096052762023-11-15T09:55:49.055-08:00Glimmers"Through some moment of beauty or pain, some sudden turning of our lives, we catch glimmers of at least what the saints are blinded by…" (Frederick Buechner, Listening To Your Life, p. 169)Glimmer Manhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09714885288787162637noreply@blogger.comBlogger85125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-997494391409605276.post-86360930741851751802020-03-29T16:23:00.001-07:002020-03-29T16:25:05.139-07:00Little Things<br />
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Glimmers March 25, 2020<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">The Wuhan Covid-19 Corona virus is microscopic, invisible to the naked
eye, but what a huge impact it has had. Little things can create big problems.
Whole nations have come to a literal standstill because of this littlest of
little things.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">This is not new for little things. Little things have always been
capable of huge, catastrophic damage. In Poor Richard’s Almanac, Ben Franklin
wrote;<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">“For the want of a nail the shoe was lost,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">For the want of the shoe the horse was lost,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">For the want of the horse, the rider was lost,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">For the want of the rider the battle was lost,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">For the want of the battle the kingdom was lost,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">And all for the want of a horseshoe nail.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Little things. Huge damage.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">The epistle of James also warns us about little things. A small spark
can cause a huge,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">uncontrollable, blaze. And watch out for the tongue, he says, because
though it too is a little thing, it can set the whole world on fire. James 3.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Little things. Huge damage.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">But just as little things can create huge problems, little things can
also do great good. For example, offering to pick up things from the grocery
store for an older, at-risk person so they can stay at home is a little thing.
I’ve seen that posted multiple times on Facebook. A little thing can be a huge
blessing. I’m sure you’ve seen other examples. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">On Monday, I will confess to being weighed down with personal stuff
that would take more<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">space to share than Glimmers will allow. I arrived at work to be
greeted by a new procedure to<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">enter the hospital. I was screened by co-workers taking my
temperature, asking screening<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">questions like “have you traveled out of the country recently?,” “have
you been in contact with<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">anyone who has tested positive for Covid-19?,” “have you been eating
your vegetables like your<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">mother taught you?” The last one was not a real question. I made that
up. The whole process, in a hermetically sealed structure, performed by people
in gowns, gloves and masks inevitably<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">raised anxiety, realized or not. But on the upside, our frozen yogurt
machine in the cafeteria,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">broken and out of commission for weeks, was replaced with a new,
sleek, much improved<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">model and we were all given a little card to get a free one. A little
thing, but it had a big,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">smile-inducing “we understand this is hard and here is a small token
of our appreciation for your rolling with it” impact.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">And then, somewhere between the entrance and my office, I lost mine. A
little thing with a straw that broke the camel’s back feeling. Later in the
day, I voiced my dismay to one of my friends at work. He took his card out of
his pocket and said, “Here, take mine. I’m not going to use it anyway.” A
little thing. But it turned my whole day around.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">“If you take care of the small things, the big things take care of
themselves.” Emily Dickenson<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Let’s do the little things well. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Social Distancing Blessings,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Jerald<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">(The views shared here are solely my own and do not necessarily reflect those of Parrish Healthcare)</span></div>
<br />Glimmer Manhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09714885288787162637noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-997494391409605276.post-87753156010441052382020-03-29T16:19:00.003-07:002020-03-29T16:29:29.035-07:00Covid-19<br />
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">March 17, 2020</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><a href="https://th.bing.com/th/id/OIP.cjOeHL0xIoTR865w11Ns0gHaI7?w=181&h=208&c=7&o=5&dpr=1.25&pid=1.7" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Image result for rembrandt the storm on the sea of galilee" border="0" class="mimg" data-bm="75" data-thhnrepbd="1" height="208" src="https://th.bing.com/th/id/OIP.cjOeHL0xIoTR865w11Ns0gHaI7?w=181&h=208&c=7&o=5&dpr=1.25&pid=1.7" style="background-color: #8f9833; color: #8f9833;" width="181" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">It has been a long time since the last Glimmers was written. Thank you
to all who have said you have missed them and have encouraged me to get back to
writing them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">On the occasion of the Covid-19 Pandemic, some thoughts about this
current crisis. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">My daily Scripture readings on Monday, March 16, included passages from
Proverbs 3 and John 6. I later read an article by James Daly on, of all places,
the Fox Business website titled, “In coronavirus crisis, prayer is also a good
investment.” In the article he speaks of the fear that seems to be spreading
more rapidly than the virus and how prayer can be just the thing we need to
tamp it down. It sounded good to me! It underscored the message from the
Scripture passages I had just read. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Proverbs 3:5-6 are much loved verses that counsel us to “Trust in the
Lord with all your heart<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">and do not depend on your own understanding. Seek his will in all your
ways and he will show<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">you which path to take.” NLT<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">John 6 includes the account of Jesus feeding the multitude. You
probably have heard about it, but if you haven’t, here is a brief summary. A
crowd followed Jesus out of town to hear him speak. After a long day, he tells
his disciples to give them something to eat. Since no Publix was available, and
they were likely out of chicken and hamburger meat anyway, he told his disciples
to give them something to eat. Dumbfounded, they said they had only a little
bit of food. “How is that supposed to feed all of these people?” “What do
you have?” Jesus asked. “Just five loaves of bread and a couple of fish.” Jesus
instructed them to have the crowd, numbering in the thousands, to sit down. He
then blessed the bread and fish and began to divide it up and gave some to each
of them to distribute. When the twelve of them passed it out, it somehow was
enough to feed everybody.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Miracle enough that was, but Jesus was not done with the lesson. When
Jesus asked how much was left over, they said more than twelve baskets. So they
gave and gave and gave out of their baskets and still there was enough for them
when it was all said and done. The lesson?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">When we share out of our basket, the basket won’t run out.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Now back to that article on prayer. James Daly recalls that crisis
moment when Jesus and his twelve disciples were crossing the Sea of Galilee and
a sudden storm threatened to capsize the boat and sink them all. The sea was
raging, the disciples were afraid and they called out to<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Jesus. Jesus was worried, too. Just kidding! Jesus was asleep. Their
calls awakened him and<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">he calmed the sea and they were amazed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">When Rembrandt, the famous Dutch artist, painted his vision of the
event, strangely, he got the numbers wrong. Instead of thirteen- Jesus and the
twelve disciples- there are fourteen. But it was not a mistake. Rembrant had
painted himself into the story.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">So my closing thoughts on this first Glimmers in great while; Let’s
choose trust and not fear.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Let’s share out of our basket with those who have material needs or
are in need of moral support and encouragement. I believe we’ll find, as they
did, that our own baskets keep getting filled up. Remember, we are all in
this boat together. And we are not alone. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Blessings!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Jerald<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">P.S. I see that in Canada the phrase “Caremongering” is going viral.
Let’s help it spread here, too!</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">(The views shared here are solely my own and do not necessarily reflect those of Parrish Healthcare)</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
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<br />Glimmer Manhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09714885288787162637noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-997494391409605276.post-56343535501611899082014-10-02T02:57:00.000-07:002014-10-02T02:57:43.613-07:00The Importunate Ixora<br />
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<span class="text"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">One day Jesus told his disciples a story to
show that they should always pray and never give up. Luke 18:1 NLT<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="text"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It finally got to me. The little miniature ixora
had been tossed aside with no regard as to whether it would live or die. I didn’t
care if it died. Five years ago it had been planted with much care in the
center planter on the far side of the pool. It was the choice spot. It was the
spot that drew the eye as one looked out from the kitchen window to gaze into
the back yard, a semi-circular planter in the center on the far side of the
screened enclosure. There are two other planters, one in each corner of the far
side, but the center spot is the prime location. The ixora, along with three
others, accented the hibiscus that grew larger and taller in the middle, two of
them on each side of it. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="text"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Each year I looked forward to some growth
and to the tiny, yellow flowers they produced. Each year was a disappointment.
They did not grow and produced few flowers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I gave up on them. I replaced them with some deep blue phlox that, I
must say, looked absolutely stunning from the kitchen window in the light of
the morning sun.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span class="text"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">With nary a thought, the ixoras were shoved
into a used pot, thrown aside and left for dead by the fence. All of them died,
but one. It wouldn’t. Shaded by the oaks overhanging the fence from the
neighbor’s yard and clinging to the bit of soil that had not been shaken off
when all four of them were uprooted, it refused to die. Every now and then, as
I regularly mowed the grass, I would notice it, mildly surprised at its
tenacity. Months went by. It lived. Through the spring and the last gasp of
summer, it lived.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span class="text"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span><br />
<span class="text"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Finally, two weeks ago, I took pity on it
and replanted it in the front yard in the bed that is in front of my office
window. I have not watered it. With the constant rains of the last month, I
have not needed to. There it has thrived. Last Sunday afternoon, I took notice
of the new, green leaves that have begun to sprout and smiled. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span class="text"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Blessings to you all,<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span class="text"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Jerald</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span class="text"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><o:p>(All thoughts and opinions expressed herein are solely my own and do not necessarily reflect those of Parrish Medical Center.)</o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span class="text"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span class="text"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span class="text"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
Glimmer Manhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09714885288787162637noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-997494391409605276.post-35955272352011700812014-09-20T15:38:00.001-07:002014-09-20T15:38:10.227-07:00A Dark and Stormy Night<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span> </span>“It was a
dark and stormy night” is the introductory line from a novel written by
Victorian author Sir Edward George Earle Bulwer-Lytton. <span> </span>It is now widely regarded as the epitome
of the worst way to begin a novel or short story. But it really <i>was </i>a dark and stormy night before my first
day at Parrish Medical Center. </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">I had finished my five and a half year tenure at
Cape Canaveral Hospital on Thursday, September 2nd as the hospital
evacuated in advance of Frances, the second hurricane of the
season. At Parrish
Medical Center, the hospital was preparing as well
and the staff hunkered down to ride out the storm, locked in for the duration.
Frances would prove to be a slow
mover and the lockdown a long one. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">September 6, 2004<span class="039183713-19092014">,</span>
my wife and I were shopping for a few things at CVS on the corner Wickham Road
and Parkway in Melbourne, FL. Hurricane Frances, had just passed, leaving most
of the area without power and some of the area devastated by the damage. A
tornado, spawned by the storm, had swept through Wickham Park, destroying a quarter of a large
apartment complex next to our neighborhood. We were spared any significant
damage, but like most everyone else, we had no power. CVS had power and AC! We
were taking our time looking around, cooling off, getting a few things we
needed, and again my phone rang. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">“Hi, Jerald. This is Roberta Chaildin from Parrish.
Listen, we have been on lockdown because of the hurricane for 92 hours and the
strain is showing. I know you’re not supposed to start until tomorrow, but could
you come in today?”</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">I arrived early afternoon, dressed in khakis and a polo
shirt that had the Association of Professional Chaplains logo on it. I chose it
because the word “Chaplains”<span class="039183713-19092014">was</span> easily
readable on it, and since most everyone I would meet that day would have no idea
who I was. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">There wasn’t a whole lot I could do, other than “Presence
Ministry.” There was no way to fix the stress felt by 90+ hours of lockdown or
the stress of not knowing the condition of their homes or the stress of a second
blow on top of the one two-weeks prior that had already left the area covered in
blue tarps. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">Ten years have passed and I’m still convinced that
presence, “being consciously and compassionately in the present moment,”
(Miller, <u>The Art of Being a Healing Presence</u>, p 12) is one of the most
powerful things we can bring to our work with patients, their families and just
as importantly, to each other.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">Jerald</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<em>All opinions expressed herein are strictly my own and do not necessarily reflect those of Parrish Medical Center.</em> </div>
Glimmer Manhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09714885288787162637noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-997494391409605276.post-30014675099672068212014-09-18T04:23:00.003-07:002014-09-20T15:40:41.427-07:00Time Flies<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">Sept. 15, 2014</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">Ten years is a long time. And yet what happened ten years
ago can seem like it happened yesterday. Having just celebrated ten years here
at Parrish Medical Center, I have been remembering and
reflecting on how it began and what has happened since. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">It all started with a phone call. I was sitting in my
office in a portable building on the backside of Cape Canaveral Hospital one sunny afternoon in June of
2004. On the phone was the familiar voice of a friend, who was also my former
boss, Laurie Smirl. The conversation quickly shifted from pleasantries to
serious business. “Parrish Medical Center is looking for a chaplain and I
told them they needed to talk to you. Would you be interested?” I thought
briefly about a line from the book<span class="846273713-15092014"> I had just
read</span> “Rich Dad, Poor Dad” about how I was in business whether I knew
it or not and that my business was me. The point being that I needed to “mind my
business” in such a way that the investment <i>of</i> “me” was also good <i>for</i> me. Those of you who know me know
that I tend to play it kind of safe and since I had a very good position already
at Cape Canaveral
Hospital, that quote was
just the push I needed to consider another opportunity. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">Shortly thereafter, I had a day filled with interviews at
PMC that left me mentally exhausted, and hopeful. I had been quite impressed
with the people I had met, the beautiful facility, the vision of the
organization and how they thought my role could complement their mission of
“healing experiences for everyone, all the time.” Leaving a safe, good position
felt risky to me, and it was in many respects, but I have never regretted it.
What is the quote? “No risk, no reward.” Indeed. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">I will have some additional reflections on these ten
years in future Glimmers.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">Blessing to you all!</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">Jerald </span><br />
<br />
<em>All opinions expressed herein are strictly my own and do not necessarily reflect those of Parrish Medical Center</em>. </div>
Glimmer Manhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09714885288787162637noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-997494391409605276.post-23370533134959401022014-05-16T03:09:00.000-07:002014-05-17T03:55:30.609-07:00The Things We ForgetI remember the first time I saw a naso-gastric tube. A friend from the church I used to attend when I lived in Tallahassee, FL was hospitalized in Atlanta. I walked in and greeted him and was happy to see that he was smiling and in good spirits. We talked for a while and caught up on the events in our respective lives, but the whole time, I kept looking at the tube coming from his nose. To be honest, I had no idea what it was for, but looking at the tube and the greenish-brown liquid flowing through it made my stomach a bit queasy. <br />
<br />
I no longer get queasy about much of anything I see in hospitals. Years of working in healthcare will do that for you. But I was reminded of that long-forgotten feeling this week by a couple of events. One was personal. The other was the lived experience of a patient I met.<br />
<br />
My story, as previously shared on Facebook, went like this:<br />
<br />
I was doing my manly duty, mowing the yard and suddenly it was as if a BLOW TORCH was lighting up the inside of my right leg, about six inches above my ankle. I proceeded to hop and holler and flail at whatever beast had attached itself to my flesh. What was it? A one inch-long, yellow and black DEMON STRAIGHT FROM THE PIT OF HELL monster of a YELLOW JACKET, pumping its VILE POISON into my burning appendage.<br />
<br />
It has been 40 or more years since I have been stung by one and now, an hour and a half and a shower later, it still feels like a HOT POKER is being stuck to my leg! SO, to all my friends whose job it is to stick sharp objects into human flesh, when next my time comes and you say, "Ok, a little bee sting," I WILL NOT BE RESPONSIBLE FOR WHAT HAPPENS NEXT!<br />
<br />
Our patient's story went like this; He was brought into the hospital for one ailment and the physician's examination revealed something more serious yet that earned him a hospital stay and more diagnostic tests. Soon, he was surrounded by a group of strangers doing whatever it is that that do. Having never been in the hospital in his 60+ years from birth until that day, he was not at all sure what they did. As he told the story of being gifted with a urinary catheter, his eyes grew wide and his voice became more passionate. They tried to reassure him that he shouldn't be embarrassed; after all, they had done this hundreds of times before. To which he said, "Well, I have never had this done before and I have never had 9 people looking at me naked before because I HAD NEVER BEEN IN A HOSPITAL BEFORE!<br />
<br />
In every line of work, we become accustomed to the language and activities of our craft. That is normal. In the hospital, we get used to blood, needles, IV poles, dialysis machines, heart monitors and naso-gastric tubes. It is easy to forget what bee stings are really like and easy to forget that our patients may not share our level of comfort with our environment. It took a yellow jacket to remind me of that. It is not a memory aide that I would recommend!<br />
<br />
Happy Hospital Week!<br />
<br />
JeraldGlimmer Manhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09714885288787162637noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-997494391409605276.post-12215884161256142992014-04-11T04:15:00.000-07:002014-04-11T04:16:29.401-07:00A Lenten Apology<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Glimmers</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">April 11, 2014</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">“Through some moment of beauty or pain, some sudden turning
of our lives, we catch <b>glimmers</b> of at least what the saints are blinded
by…” (Frederick Buechner, Listening To Your Life, p. 169</span></i><span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">) </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In younger days, I often made fun of Lent. “Lent? You mean
that fuzz that gets trapped in your belly button?” All in good fun and all from
the vantage point of an outsider.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Lent- the season that spans the Christian calendar from Ash
Wednesday to Easter Sunday, is not observed in many evangelical churches,
including the one to which I belong. There are several reasons for this,
historical and theological, that I won’t go into here. All that is to say, that
Lent has always been strange to me- strange in the sense of eating mussels, raw
oysters or bungie jumping. I just didn’t get it. I had never tried them either
and was pretty sure I wouldn’t like them if I did. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> Ash Wednesday begins with the imposition of ashes-burned remains of
the prior year’s palm fronds from Palm Sunday. “Remember O man that dust thou
art and to dust thou shalt return,” is recited as the ashes are spread on the
forehead in a cross-shaped marking. Churches remove bright decorations for the
season and hymn selections reflect a somber, sober <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>tone. “What a downer!” I used to think. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Over the years, I have gained many friends and colleagues from these more liturgical groups and, gradually, my understanding of Lent has deepened. I have come to appreciate the emotional movement of
somber reflection of these forty-plus days that contemplates the suffering and
passion of Jesus and explodes with joy on Easter Sunday. And I have also come
to appreciate the practice of “giving something up for Lent.” I did it for the
first time this year. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Giving up something for Lent is a way of participating in
Christ’s suffering. I used to ridicule the practice, scoffing, “how can giving
up chocolate for a few weeks possibly imitate the brutality of that?” Well, it
can’t, and it isn’t meant to. It is meant to stir reflection.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So this year, I decided to give it a try. Now, I’m not going
to tell you what I offered up, but suffice it to say it was no big thing. It
was simply something I enjoy, nothing immoral or even fattening for that
matter,</span><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack"></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> just enjoyable to me. I can’t tell you how many
times I have been tempted to enjoy what I had given up and how badly I have
wanted it. I want it so badly because it is off-limits! Delayed, deferred until
Easter! But I want it NOW! This “no big thing” became a big thing by my telling
myself I couldn’t have it. And it has been much more difficult than I ever
expected. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So, to all my friends observing Lent in the true spirit of
the season, you have my new-found respect and humble apology. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Jerald</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
Glimmer Manhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09714885288787162637noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-997494391409605276.post-66806561164433783032014-04-04T17:36:00.000-07:002014-04-04T17:36:05.173-07:00A Failure to Communicate<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">April 4, 2014<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Each month I have the honor of presenting to new care partners at our hospital’s general orientation. My topic is teamwork, and in it I talk a great deal about communication. One of the primary messages is that teamwork and communication are more complicated than they may at first appear. In recent days, I have had three instances where it was assumed communication was clear, but clearly it wasn’t.<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">My wife and I have the same hair stylist. At my appointment a few weeks ago, Katie asked how my wife liked her new hair style. She had let her hair grow for months to be able to have it cut shoulder-length with it being a bit longer in the front than in the back.<span> </span>I responded that she didn’t like it and that she wanted it cut so that the length was the same in front and back. When my wife next went to the stylist, Katie asked, “Why do you want to get it all cut off after you went to all that effort to get it to grow out?” “Who told you that?” “That’s what Jerald said when he was here,” she said. “No, I don’t want to cut it short again, I just want the back the same length as the front.” “Oh!” she said. “I must have misunderstood.”<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Last year, I attended the Boy Scout’s Golden Eagle award dinner. It is an annual fundraiser to support Boy Scouts Central Florida Council. This year, I asked my wife if she’d like to go with me. She was unsure at first, but finally agreed. The fact that it was on her birthday only added to her reluctance. “On my birthday!???” On the day of the event, I went online to double check the proper attire for the evening. Business attire. I told my wife and she said she had that black pantsuit with the orange jacket. “Perfect,” I said. “But won’t I get cold?” she asked. “It isn’t very warm.” “Why would you be cold?” I replied. It turns out she thought that because it was a Boy Scout dinner and Boy Scouts are all about camping and outdoor activities, the dinner would be hot dogs and hamburgers at some outdoors location! I laughed and told her that it was a nice, sit down, indoors awards dinner.” “Oh,” she said. Again, I thought I had communicated. I had been there before and knew exactly what to expect, and I thought she did too. All the while, when we talked about it, we both had very different word pictures of what we were talking about. <u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">This past week, I came across a far more serious example of the problems associated with inadequate communication. A gentleman who was a patient I met in the course of my hospital work told his story. He said he had not been in the hospital since the days just after he was born. He has had very little exposure to the medical profession. “I never get sick and I never go to the doctor,” he said. Suffering from shortness of breath at home and feeling quite frightened by it, he called 911. By the time they arrived he was in severe respiratory distress. He said, “They asked me if I had CODZ or something.” “I said, ‘why are you asking me questions, I can’t breathe!<span>'</span>” “Then they put this mask on my face and I thought they were going to smother me.” <u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">At the hospital emergency department, the ER physician suspected congestive heart failure, CHF, and consulted a cardiologist. After the cardiologist saw him, he admitted him to the hospital. The next day, a different cardiologist from the same practice came in to see him and introduced himself as his cardiologist. “I told him he was not my cardiologist and I want to see the doctor who admitted me!” “This is my heart we are talking about. I don’t want no substitute! I want MY cardiologist!” “I didn’t understand,” he said. “Nobody told me why they were putting that mask on my face and nobody told me a different doctor would be following me in the hospital.” “I guess they thought I knew that’s how things worked.” “Well, I didn’t.” Now he says he understands and is sorry that he put the <u></u><u></u>EMS<u></u> folk and the cardiologist office through such a hard time. <u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’ll conclude with the quote I use at hospital orientation…<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="1452d349ceaeae35__GoBack"></a><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I know you think you understand what you thought I said, but I am not sure you are aware that what you heard is not what I meant.” <u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Communication. It ain’t as easy as it looks.<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Blessings to all of you,<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Jerald</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">All opinions expressed herein are solely my own and do not necessarily represent those of Parrish Medical Center. </span></span></div>
Glimmer Manhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09714885288787162637noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-997494391409605276.post-37053114620892910792014-02-13T15:03:00.000-08:002014-02-13T15:04:29.475-08:00Less words, more cheesecake<div class="first-line-none" style="margin: auto 0in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span class="text1john-4-7"><sup><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“</span></sup></span><span class="text1john-4-7"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Dear friends, let us
continue to love one another, for love comes from God. Anyone who loves is a
child of God and knows God.</span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> <span class="text1john-4-8"><sup><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></sup></span></span><span class="text1john-4-8"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">But anyone who does not
love does not know God, for God is love.” I John
4:7-8</span></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="first-line-none" style="margin: auto 0in;">
<span class="text1john-4-8"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: small;">John was
writing to a decidedly Christian audience and it is important to realize that so
that he is not misunderstood. He is not saying love is the same thing as God or
that doing something loving is the same as being Christian. God and faith are
much more complex than that. But he is saying that they go together. Just as
faith without works is dead, faith without love is dead too. To say you love God
and not act in loving ways toward others is to live a
lie.</span></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="first-line-none" style="margin: auto 0in;">
<span class="text1john-4-8"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: small;">A few years
ago, Gary Chapman wrote a book titled <u>Love is a Verb.</u> It is a
heartwarming collection of stories about how choosing to show love can have a
powerful impact on people. I think it is something we know, most of us anyway,
but in practice it is so easy to forget. </span></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="first-line-none" style="margin: auto 0in;">
<span class="text1john-4-8"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: small;">Grammatically speaking, love can be a noun, a verb, a gerund, a direct or
indirect object, but I think Chapman is on to something when he says love is a
verb. When someone does something loving, something powerful happens. Mere words
are powerless.</span></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="first-line-none" style="margin: auto 0in;">
<span class="text1john-4-8"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: small;">Annette
Fussell understood this. Annette was the mother of Deena Ellis, our Manager of
Security at Parrish Medical Center. She showed love in many ways to
her family and friends as they readily testify, but her love reached far beyond
her family. She was especially known for loving to cook Thanksgiving dinner for
the men and women of the local Fire Department. For years, every Thanksgiving Day, a
parade of units would swing by her house throughout the day to have love served
up by the plate full. </span></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="first-line-none" style="margin: auto 0in;">
<span class="text1john-4-8"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: small;">At her
memorial service last week, the Fire Department sent a four-person honor guard
to acknowledge the impact of her life on them. Many other firemen came to pay
their respects as well. I told them that when they saw her in the kitchen all
covered in flour dust, they were seeing God in a very clever disguise.
</span></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="first-line-none" style="margin: auto 0in;">
<span class="text1john-4-8"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: small;">When she
came across a new cheesecake recipe, and she was always looking for new recipes
so this happened with regularity, she’d bake it and send it with Deena to share
with the security department team. It was never really about getting their
opinion of the new recipe. She loved doing it and loved hearing about the smiles
on the<span class="878375518-13022014"> </span>faces of “her boys and girls” as
they gobbled it up. </span></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="first-line-none" style="margin: auto 0in;">
<span class="textphil-2-8"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: small;">There is a quote attributed to St.
Francis of Assisi that says, “Preach the gospel. Use words
if necessary.” He probably didn’t say it, but he gets the credit anyway. And
when it comes to preaching, it is necessary to use words, of course, but it is
much more effective if it isn’t only words. So even if he never said it, it
makes sense to me. Without loving deeds, loving words are "sounding brass and tinkling cymbals."
</span></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="first-line-none" style="margin: auto 0in;">
<span class="text1john-4-8"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: small;">So, yes we
need to say “I love you” and yes we need to use words to tell people about God’s
love, too. But we can learn a thing
or two from Annette Fussell. For love to really hit home, sometimes what we need
is less words and more cheesecake.</span></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="first-line-none" style="margin: auto 0in;">
<span class="text1john-4-8"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: small;">Happy
Valentines Day!</span></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="first-line-none" style="margin: auto 0in;">
<span class="text1john-4-8"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: small;">Jerald</span></span></span></div>
<div class="first-line-none" style="margin: auto 0in;">
<span class="text1john-4-8"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span> </div>
<div class="first-line-none" style="margin: auto 0in;">
<span class="text1john-4-8"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em>All opinions posted here are solely my own and do not necessarily reflect those of Parrish Medical Center.</em></span></span></div>
Glimmer Manhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09714885288787162637noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-997494391409605276.post-87447455593288459012013-11-26T15:11:00.002-08:002013-11-26T16:01:24.856-08:00Can You Count to Twelve?<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">“O <b>give</b> <b>thanks</b> unto the Lord; for he is good: for his mercy endureth for ever.” (Psalm 136:1)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">In the hard-scrabble life of the ancient Near East, this admonition seems shocking. Their every day existence was what Charles Swindoll once called “life on the ragged edge.” But there it is. “Give thanks.” Let’s just go ahead and admit that no matter how rough our lives here in <u></u><u></u><u></u>America<u></u><u></u> may be from time to time, it doesn’t compare to being a nomadic shepherd or gleaning from the fields the harvesters have already worked or disease with no antibiotics, scarce fresh water or famine. Even to them, the command was to “give thanks.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">Now, thankfulness seems to be making a comeback. A number of my Facebook friends have been posting something for which they are thankful every day. It’s a great idea that I noticed too late to join. I have much to be thankful for, it’s true, but I have struggled to find what I wanted to say; until now.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<u></u><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"> </span><u></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">One of my co-workers has been doing the Facebook “I’m thankful for” thing and I reference her here with her permission. Each day she posted something for which she was thankful. Yesterday, the worst thing happened. Yesterday, her husband of twenty years was in a tragic accident at work and did not survive. I thought yesterday would have ended the streak.</span></div>
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<u></u><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"> </span><u></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">But it didn’t. I am not sure where such faith comes from and I can only wonder if I had something as painful as that happen to me if I’d be able to muster up thanks for anything. But she did. Just before day 25 rolled into day 26, the new post appeared. Not once, but twelve times in her post she said “I’m thankful for…” I thought it was eleven times at first, but on the recount, it was twelve. Twelve . On the worst of a today one could imagine. Twelve!</span></div>
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<u></u><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"> </span><u></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">Let’s face it. Bad things happen to good people too. There is no immunity in life. It is downright delusional to imagine that you’ll skate through with no heartache or pain. You can become bitter. That isn’t hard or courageous. That’s easy. Thankfulness is not for the fainthearted or the weak. It isn’t only for the convenient seasons of life. It is for the hard times, too. It is especially powerful then. </span></div>
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<u></u><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"> </span><u></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">So this Thanksgiving, as you gather round the table with friends and family, you may have a bucket-load of problems - and please don’t mistake this for some pollyannish pretend “everything is wonderful” kind of advice. Far from it. Most people have enough problems that if we only knew we’d opt for our own instead if ever given the choice. No, I know you have challenges. Some of you have more than it seems you can bear. Pause for a moment. Think. Reflect a bit before you bite that turkey. How high can <em>you</em> count? </span></div>
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<u></u><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"> </span><u></u></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">Give Thanks!</span></div>
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<u></u><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"> </span><u></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">Jerald</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<u></u><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"> </span><u></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">(All thoughts and opinions herein are strictly my own and do not necessarily reflect those of <u></u><u></u>Parrish<u></u> <u></u>Medical<u></u> <u></u>Center<u></u><u></u>)<u></u><u></u></span></span></i></div>
Glimmer Manhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09714885288787162637noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-997494391409605276.post-69184186946954703852013-11-19T18:13:00.000-08:002013-11-19T18:25:50.057-08:00I Want To Be Like Ike<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">I Want To Be Like Ike. My Uncle Ike, that is.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"> </span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">At age 90, he doesn’t really walk anymore. He shuffles, sliding his feet
along, barely lifting them off the floor. He is attached most of the time to an
oxygen concentrator by means of a long tube. He still lives alone, though he
thinks about moving to an assisted living facility often. He knows the day is
soon coming. For now, his daughter and son-in-law live on the next block and
help him live as independently as possible.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">Franklin Isaac Smith was born in southern Alabama in 1923. He grew up during the
Depression as the son of tenant farmer in southwest Georgia. In a
family of six children, three boys and three girls, he was roughly in the middle
of the pack. My father was the youngest of the six and every time I visit, Uncle
Ike never fails to tell the story of how he named my father, Jack.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">Most of the things I know about my father’s early life, I have learned
from Uncle Ike. All three boys slept in the same bed, under heavy quilts in the
winter, in a home that was made of unpainted wood. The floorboards had gaps in
places, and on those rare occasions that snow visited that far south, it would
dust the top of the quilts as they huddled underneath.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">He can tell you all about picking cotton, putting new soles on old shoes
using a “shoe last” and being poor and not even knowing it because everyone else
was too. After a tour in the Army, he went on to be the first in the family to
go to college. He later received his Masters in Education from the University of Alabama. He married Alice Kaiser from
West Virginia, whom he met at Bible Training
School in Cleveland, Tennessee. They have one daughter,
Karen.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">Uncle Ike has a gift; many gifts, really, but one in particular that I
have tried to develop myself. He has a habit of blessing people. He did not tell
me this. Before she died, Aunt Alice told me how when they were out at the drug
store, or grocery store or doctor<span class="377114416-19112013">'s</span>
office, he would always find a way to bless people. One example will suffice.
Once, at the grocery store, a young man and his wife were shopping with three
small children. He notice the couple was exasperated after herding them through
the aisles, trying to keep small hands from the temptations within their reach
and it showed. Uncle Ike stopped and said in that soft as butter southern
dialect, “Sir, is this your fam-ly?”
“Yes, sir,” he replied. “I noticed you as I was comin’ down the aisle and
I just wanted to tell you what a beautiful fam-ly you have.” “You must be so
proud of these beautiful children and your lovely wife.” Aunt Alice said that in
a second, the furrowed brow and exasperation gave way to smiles as pride
replaced tension. “He does that all the time,” she said. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">Blessings to you all,</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">Jerald</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"> </span></div>
Glimmer Manhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09714885288787162637noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-997494391409605276.post-46193353535605693822013-06-26T15:41:00.000-07:002013-06-26T15:41:05.488-07:00Home Improvement<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">June 26, 2013</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">“Home Improvement”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">Home Improvement was a hit television comedy in the 90’s. It starred Tim Allen as “Tim the Toolman" Taylor and Patricia Richardson, who played his wife, Jill. The writing was quite good and the acting was as well. Earl Hindman’s portrayal of their neighbor, Wilson, whose face was never more than partially revealed, was pure genius. The stories revolved around his television show about home improvement and the rearing of their three sons. One of them, Jonathan Taylor Thomas, was a bit of a teen idol at the time so Home Improvement was one of the few shows that we could watch together as a family with three daughters and never hear a complaint. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">Now home improvement reality shows are all over the television. There are yard crashers, kitchen hater crashers, Holmes on Homes, Love it or List It. So many shows in fact that there is now a whole channel about home improvement called the DIY network. DIY stands for Do It Yourself. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">Two years ago, we wanted to replace the carpet in the den with wood flooring. We found a floor we liked and purchased it and we paid someone to install it. I watched with interest as the crew installed it. It didn’t look that difficult to do and the installation was kind of pricey. So I determined that if I ever wanted to install wood flooring again, I would do it myself. I can be a DIYer! Now I am in the process of installing wood flooring in our bedroom and upon reflection I have a few observations. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span><span style="font-size: small;">-</span><span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span><span style="font-size: small;">There is a reason installers are paid so much money.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span><span style="font-size: small;">-</span><span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span><span style="font-size: small;">The flaking on my hands is not leprosy. It is the floor adhesive finally releasing its stubborn grip on my skin.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span><span style="font-size: small;">-</span><span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span><span style="font-size: small;">Speaking of skin…it is amazing how much scrubbing with gasoline and mineral spirits hands can take and the skin still remain intact.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span><span style="font-size: small;">-</span><span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span><span style="font-size: small;">Measure twice and cut once is more than a cute phrase.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span><span style="font-size: small;">-</span><span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span><span style="font-size: small;">Floor adhesive has the amazing ability to transport itself to any other place in the house it chooses. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span><span style="font-size: small;">-</span><span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span><span style="font-size: small;">The people at the home improvement store are overly optimistic.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span><span style="font-size: small;">-</span><span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span><span style="font-size: small;">When all else fails, read the instructions. Coincidently, the white pamphlet inside each box of flooring contains instructions. Who knew? </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span><span style="font-size: small;">-</span><span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span><span style="font-size: small;">It will cost more than you think.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span><span style="font-size: small;">-</span><span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span><span style="font-size: small;">It will take longer than you expect.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span><span style="font-size: small;">-</span><span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span><span style="font-size: small;">Competency in one area of home improvement does not necessarily transfer to another.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span><span style="font-size: small;">-</span><span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span><span style="font-size: small;">I have a lot more in common with the “No! Me do it!” phase of child development than I realized.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span><span style="font-size: small;">-</span><span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span><span style="font-size: small;">The 1991 song “Losing My Religion” by R.E.M. is about a home improvement project.<span> </span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span><span style="font-size: small;">-</span><span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span><span style="font-size: small;">One “That looks great, honey” from my wife makes it all worth it. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">Blessings,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">Jerald</span></div>
Glimmer Manhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09714885288787162637noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-997494391409605276.post-39782168301446556362013-06-01T17:08:00.001-07:002013-06-01T17:09:45.945-07:00Somebody's Hero<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">Glimmers<u></u><u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">May 31, 2013</span></span></div>
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<u></u><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"> </span><u></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">I continue to reflect on the book “Flags of Our Fathers” by James Bradley. Reading the account of the Marine charge up <u></u><u></u><u></u>Mt.<u></u> <u></u>Suribachi<u></u><u></u> left me feeling amazed at what they accomplished and what they endured. More Medals of Honor and Navy Crosses were awarded at Iwo Jima than in any other battle in <u></u><u></u>United States<u></u><u></u> history. No other battle produced such a combination of courage and carnage. </span></div>
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<u></u><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"> </span><u></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">Surviving heroes were asked why they did what they did. None said they did it for a medal. “I did it for my buddies,” was the common reply. Other-centeredness is at the heart of a hero. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<u></u><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"> </span><u></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">I do not at all mean to equate anything to what those Marines did in February 1945 on <u></u>Iwo Jima<u></u>, but I have noticed that the ability to look beyond self to the needs of others is the common factor that produces great deeds in other theatres too. </span></div>
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<u></u><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"> </span><u></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">It was not what she expected when she started her day. As she sat in the patient’s room, her job was to assure his safety. He slept most of the time, but in his confused state, he could not be trusted to be alone. Her job as a sitter was to keep an eye on him and to call for assistance if needed.</span></div>
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<u></u><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"> </span><u></u></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">The man in the other bed was slowly winding down. Weary from her vigil, his family member had left in the early hours of the morning to get some rest. Now his body was losing its fight with disease and had reached the tipping point between life and death. His breathing had become erratic and shallow. And he was alone. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">The sitter slid her chair to the side of his bed and clasped his hand in hers. “I couldn’t stand the thought of him dying alone,” she said. She admitted that it “freaked her out” a little, but she held on to his hand as his breathing stopped and his heart ceased beating. It was not in her job description and certainly not in her comfort zone, but because her compassionate heart demanded it, she made certain he knew he was not alone in his final minutes. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">How did she do it? How did she overcome her fear and being “freaked out a little?” She chose to focus on him instead of herself. Other-centeredness. That is how heroes are born. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">Blessings to you all,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">Jerald</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">The thoughts and opinions here are solely my own and do not necessarily represent those of <u></u><u></u>Parrish<u></u> <u></u>Medical<u></u> <u></u>Center<u></u><u></u>. </span></div>
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Glimmer Manhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09714885288787162637noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-997494391409605276.post-89308415103882601732013-05-24T17:19:00.000-07:002013-05-24T17:19:06.801-07:00Ordinary Heroes<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: small;">May 24, 2013<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: small;"><img height="188" src="https://mail.google.com/mail/u/0/?ui=2&ik=78d8680383&view=att&th=13ed7b6c4612cfd4&attid=0.0.1&disp=emb&zw&atsh=1" width="255" /><u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: small;">It is the two weeks of craziness at <u></u><u></u><u></u>Parrish<u></u> <u></u>Medical<u></u> <u></u>Center<u></u><u></u> known as the annual Circle of Giving campaign. Each year, the Care Partners of the hospital split into five teams and compete to raise funds for worthwhile projects that benefit the hospital and our community. <u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="aBn" data-term="goog_1377530584" tabindex="0"><span class="aQJ">Wednesday</span></span>, I stopped by a used book sale being offered by the Purple team. I was looking for some summer reading material and the sign said all the paper back books were a dollar, so I looked through them. I picked up and put down and pick up again Flags of Our Fathers by James Bradley. I am having a hard time putting it down. <u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: small;">The book is about the “flag raisers” of <u></u>Iwo Jima<u></u>, captured in the photograph above. James Bradley is the son of one of them, John Bradley. He writes, “History turned all its focus, for 1/400<sup>th</sup> of a second, on them. It froze them in an elegant instant of battle: froze them in a camera lens as they hoisted an American flag on a makeshift pole. Their collective image, blurred and indistinct yet unforgettable, become the most recognized, the most reproduced, in the history of photography.” (Flags of Our Fathers, p. 4)<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: small;">The book tells the stories of these 6 young men from different parts of the <u></u><u></u>United States<u></u><u></u>, what their childhood days were like, how they entered the war and how they arrived at that historic moment. It is a story that has become well known to the millions who have read the book or seen the Academy Award-winning movie. I have done neither, so please don’t tell me how it goes because I will not appreciate it.<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: small;">What I do appreciate so far is how Mr. Bradley weaves the tale of these ordinary young men who became the epitome of heroism to generations of Americans. On this Memorial Day weekend, in whatever way you can in between the bites of your hotdogs or hamburgers or potato salad, find a way to honor those who have so honored us with their service. <u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: small;">Blessings,<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: small;">Jerald</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: Arial;">Disclaimer: Thoughts and ideas presented in this post are solely my own and do not necessarily reflect those of Parrish Medical Center.</span></div>
Glimmer Manhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09714885288787162637noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-997494391409605276.post-62199854099901741322013-02-22T15:38:00.002-08:002013-02-22T15:42:46.263-08:00Dust to Dust<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">February 22, 2013</span><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> <u></u><u></u></span></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">Dust to Dust</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">Wednesday, February, 13th was Ash Wednesday. Some of our Care Partners have a hard time getting to Ash Wednesday services because of their work schedules, so we made it available to them this year with an assist from the priest and deacon from St. Gabriel’s Episcopal Church. It is a sobering reminder of our mortality when the priest puts the ashes on our foreheads and says “Remember, man/woman, that you are dust and to dust you will return.” I had less trouble remembering that this Ash Wednesday than usual. The day before, it became quite clear to me that I am decidedly mortal. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">As I was walking in from the parking lot that morning, my chest tightened, my heart began to race and I felt lightheaded. I stopped and leaned on the trunk of a car, tried to reign in my rising anxiety and then continued to the door. As and aside, my father died at age 40 of a heart attack and I have sometimes experienced mild anxiety about the same thing happening to me, especially as I approached the same age. This time, the anxiety did not subside as usual and the pressure in my chest increased. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">As I entered the South doorway of the hospital, I stopped and sat on the corner of the desk there. The two auxiliary women greeted me and I told them how I was feeling. They offered to take me in a wheelchair to the Emergency department. I told them about my sometime anxiety and that it would pass soon. Again, it didn’t. After some encouragement from them, I agreed to go to the Emergency Department, but I insisted on walking. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">When I arrived there, I told Martin, the charge nurse, that I was having some chest discomfort. Always the kidder, Martin told me to go back outside and sign in at the desk. “Okay,” I said, and I started to do that. “You’re not kidding, are you?” he said and then he instructed me to go and sit in room 13. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">So began a day filled with reminders that I am indeed mortal. I had sticky tabs stuck to my chest that were then attached to wires for an EKG. I had an IV placed in my right arm and blood work drawn- twice. My cardiologist came in and I told him I felt a little silly being here and God bless him, he said what I always say to other people; “You don’t ignore pain in the chest-you did the right thing.” </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">So, after a stress test and a nuclear scan, I’m happy to say that all the results were negative. I have no idea what caused the chest discomfort or why I felt the way I did. But I will tell you some of the things I saw, felt and heard. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">I felt anxious and vulnerable. On most days, I am in the Emergency Department a couple of times a day even if nothing tragic is going on. I cruise through to chat with the nurses, EMTs and physicians and sometimes find things that need my attention. I feel comfortable there. I did not feel comfortable as a patient there. I wondered if my EKG would be normal, would I end up in the Cardiac Catheterization Lab, would I die. Really, I suspected the dying part was only a remote possibility, but I did think about it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">I was not allowed to go the bathroom. My nurse, Traci, handed me one of those bottles with the flip-top lids and said with a smile, “You’ll have to use one of these.” I felt out of control, vulnerable and embarrassed. My bladder helped me get over that. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="font-size: small;">A few other observations about my experience that I hope will continue to inform my interaction with patients and their families- and maybe yours as well.</span></span></div>
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<li class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">Voices carry into the room more than you think. I could hear conversations between people 20 feet away clearly even with the glass door closed and the curtain drawn. Be careful about your speech.</span></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">No matter how you say it, calling spouse or family to tell them you are in the Emergency Room frightens them. I was reluctant to call my wife, but I was sure happy to see her face. </span></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">I was anxious. That is why I was listening so closely to what was being said outside my room. I was listening for clues to what was going on, what would happen next, what the test results had shown, would I be admitted or would I go home. </span></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">I craved information. The more information was shared with me about what was happening to me, the less anxiety I felt.</span></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">I felt safe. I knew I was among friends. What about people who don’t know us as friends? What can we do to help them feel safe?</span></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">I asked for and received a numbing shot prior to the insertion of the IV. When <u></u><u></u><u></u>Traci had a bit of a time getting my vein to cooperate and fill up the tube, I felt no discomfort at all. Maybe that should be standard procedure.</span></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">Allowing me to choose something, anything, helped me feel a little less helpless. I asked if I had to go on the stretcher to the Diagnostic Imaging department for my stress test. I was allowed (do you hear the language…I was “allowed”) to go in a wheelchair. A small thing, perhaps, but I felt less like an invalid in the wheelchair. </span></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">I was treated with care and professionalism. I’m not at all surprised. Do we treat all our patients the way I was treated as a member of our Care Partner family? If we do, we’ll never have any problems with patient satisfaction scores. </span></li>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">Blessings to you all,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">Jerald</span></div>
Glimmer Manhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09714885288787162637noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-997494391409605276.post-8603677580165305812012-12-03T04:14:00.003-08:002012-12-03T04:18:37.692-08:00Light in the darkness<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
December3, 2012</div>
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“Behold, I have created the smith that bloweth the coals in the fire, and that bringeth forth an instrument for his work;” (Isaiah 54:16 KJV)</div>
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Smith, my last name, is perhaps the most common name in the English-speaking world. A smith would have been a metal-worker. I can imagine a conversation that went something like this; “Excuse me, sir.” “How can I help you?” “The axle on my cart has broken. Is there someone in town who could repair it?” “Yes, yes there is.” “Proceed to the town square and you’ll find the shop of Jerald the smith.” Eventually, Jerald the smith became Jerald Smith.</div>
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A smith takes some raw iron ore and heats in a furnace until it become red-hot and pliable. The metal is placed on an anvil and beaten with a hammer to shape it into a useful form. As the metal cools, it cannot be shaped easily, so it may be repeatedly put back into the furnace, heated and then beaten again before it is done. </div>
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Wordsmiths do with words what blacksmiths do with iron. I have great admiration for writers and speakers who can form and shape words with such craft and skill as to evoke emotions and images in the hearer or reader that penetrate to the heart or fire the imagination. <u></u><u></u><u></u>Lincoln<u></u><u></u> did that in the Gettysburg Address. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. did that on the steps of the Capitol. </div>
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Frederick Buechner, the author of the quote at the top of this page, was quite a wordsmith himself. Writing about the Advent season, he plays with the images of light and darkness, the coming of Jesus as the light of the world and the darkness that persists around us and in us. </div>
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“We watch and wait for a holiness to heal us and to hallow us, to liberate us from the dark. Advent is like the hush in a theater just before the curtain rises. It is like the hazy ring around the winter moon that means the coming of snow which will turn the night to silver. Soon. But for the time being, our time, darkness is where we are, (Buechner, Listening to Your Life, p. 315).”</div>
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I’ve been thinking on his “darkness is where we are” thought for several days now. It neatly, powerfully and concisely describes what I sometimes sense with patients here in the hospital. Being a patient can be a very dark place, sometimes filled with grief over a radical change in their sense of who they are or the narrowing of what had for so long seemed like an open-ended expanse.</div>
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It is a holy thing to be invited into that darkness. Tread lightly. </div>
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Blessings to you all,</div>
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Jerald</div>
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Glimmer Manhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09714885288787162637noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-997494391409605276.post-83937619931964383892012-09-21T18:20:00.000-07:002012-09-21T18:23:25.694-07:00I Want My Cat Back!<br />
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September 21, 2012<br />
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The Lord is like a father to his children,<br />
tender and compassionate to those who fear him.<br />
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For he knows how weak we are;<br />
he remembers we are only dust. Ps. 103: 13-14 (NLT)<br />
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“I Want My Cat Back!” she said.<br />
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My friend, Michelle, a frequent member of our noon-time prayer group at work, had endured some very stressful days of balancing working full-time, being a single mother, going to college at night and preparing to move to a new home. Early on Saturday of Labor Day weekend, she took her beloved cat, Dr. Doofenshmirtz-Shmirtz for short, with the first load of stuff so that he would have a chance to acclimate to the new home. Frightened by the strange surroundings, Shmirtz jumped out of her arms and disappeared. She looked everywhere for him, but couldn’t find him. She was heartsick. <br />
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Near midnight, after a long day of loading and unloading, packing and unpacking, the stress of it all finally got to her. As the tears started to flow, she prayed one of those heartfelt, honest-to-God prayers. She recalled God’s promises to be faithful, to put no more on us than we are able to bear, that nothing was too hard for Him and concluded with “and I want my cat back!” <br />
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I’ll confess to a certain amount of ambivalence about this Glimmers. Praying for my cat to come back is not a prayer that would ever cross my lips. I don’t quite understand this level of attachment to a cat, but to Michelle, Shmirtz is family. He sleeps on the bed near her feet every night. But this isn’t about me anyway. Prayer is about what is important to the pray-er and every now and then, it is really good to see a prayer answered.<br />
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The venting over, Michelle felt relieved and finally went to bed after a very long, hard day. As she lay in the bed trying to slow her thinking down and get some sleep, she thought she heard a familiar noise-the tinkling of the bell on her cat’s collar. There it was again. Could it be? She got up to check. Sure enough, there on the back porch was the long-lost cat. <br />
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Prayer is spiritual communication. It is about so much more than sending up a list of presents you’d like to receive, as if God was merely a celestial Santa Claus. Most of the time, we’re fine with the spiritual strength we gain from this vital communion with God. We understand that there are bigger things at work. We can be patient, content with the knowledge that God cares for us and is watching over us. But we all have our limits. We all reach the end of our rope on occasion. And sometimes you really need God to give you your cat back.<br />
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Blessings to you all,<br />
<br />
Jerald<br />
<br />Glimmer Manhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09714885288787162637noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-997494391409605276.post-76762437470839918432012-08-17T16:33:00.000-07:002012-08-17T16:35:05.529-07:00Looking, but not seeingAugust 17, 2012<br />
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I cannot tell you how many times I have walked past the painting that hangs on the wall across from our hospital gift shop. What I can tell you is that I never saw it until two weeks ago. If you had asked me before then if I’d ever seen it, I would have said “of course,” with the same smug confidence I would have used had you asked me if I knew the sun rises in the East. But I hadn’t seen it at all. <br />
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The woman who revealed the painting to me had been a patient in our hospital a few months back. She had come to talk with me about becoming a spiritual support volunteer. She is an artist I found out and after our conversation, I walked with her toward the front entrance of the hospital to see her off. The painting caught her eye. “It’s lovely,” she said as she walked toward it. Eventually, she got so close to it that her face was almost touching it. “It’s silk!” she said, “How beautiful!” <br />
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I walked closer to investigate and was amazed. The artist had used hundreds of brightly colored bits of silk cloth to “paint” a school of Japanese koi swimming in a pond. Up close, I could see the individual pieces that I had missed so many times before. Each piece had been meticulously placed to present the whole picture in such a way that you could not tell they were separate pieces if you were more that a few inches away. <br />
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Since then, I’ve been thinking about that painting and the detail I didn’t see for the last eight years. What else and who else have I missed seeing because I haven’t looked closely enough? I don’t know the answer to that. But I’m looking. <br />
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Blessing to you all,<br />
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Jerald Glimmer Manhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09714885288787162637noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-997494391409605276.post-9380026537496561422012-08-09T15:02:00.004-07:002012-08-09T15:02:57.243-07:00How I learned to eat a real breakfastGlimmers
August 9, 2012
“Through some moment of beauty or pain, some sudden turning of our lives, we catch glimmers of at least what the saints are blinded by…” (Frederick Buechner, Listening To Your Life, p. 169)
Old Florida-style homes were mostly wooden structures built about two feet off the ground. Rather than being set on a concrete pad, they were supported on concrete blocks or concrete pillars. The space between the floor of the house and the ground, combined with lots of windows, allowed the air to flow through the house so as to cool it as much as possible in the sticky Florida Summers. You can still find old homes built this way all over the Southeastern United States. My grandparents on my father’s side had just such a house in Belle Glade, FL. When I was 10 years old, I spent a week or so with them. Alone.
By that time, Ruben and Lina Smith were really old. He was 69 and she was 68. As I played with my toy brontosaurus and T rex, I was sure they had seen the real things. Every day but Sunday, he dressed the same, bib overalls and a short sleeve white button up shirt. She wore simple cotton dresses and her long hair was always in a neat, tiny bun. It was there during that summer that I learned how to eat a real breakfast. Sitting at the small table in their dining room, I looked at the fried eggs, grits and bacon on my plate and my stomach churned. Both my parents worked and breakfast at my house was typically a fix it yourself affair and was usually toast or cereal. All that yellow, gooey stuff seemed unappetizing. And it was, at first. I watched them spoon the grits on top of the eggs, cut it with a fork and knife and mix it all up. They added some salt and generous amounts of black pepper. I copied them, except using a little less black pepper and a little more salt. It was tolerable. Barely.
These survivors of the depression and years of tenant farming in Southwest Georgia took nothing for granted and they expected that I would eat what was placed in front of me. And I did. By the end of the week, I loved eggs, grits and bacon for breakfast. To this day, when I eat the Smokehouse breakfast at Cracker Barrel, I’m often transported back for a few seconds to the table in that tiny, Florida-style house in Belle Glade, Florida in 1966.
When I began thinking about my Granny and Granddaddy Smith and putting words on the page, this was not where I had thought it would go. Memories are like that. They creep into our consciousness and then take us on a journey to a land of long-forgotten sights, sounds, textures and scents that touch the deep places of our souls. Perhaps that is the reason we spend more time in our memories as we age and we enjoy taking walks down memory lane so much.
Blessings to you all,
JeraldGlimmer Manhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09714885288787162637noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-997494391409605276.post-65130906518600017222012-04-19T16:41:00.003-07:002012-04-19T16:46:31.034-07:00Garbage in, garbage outI read an article this morning on pop music. The author began with a quote from Plato about the power of music. “Music is the most decisive factor in one’s upbringing. It is above all rhythm and attunment that sink deep into the soul and take strongest hold upon it.” (Plato, Republic 380 BC) Some people will be shocked music existed before Justin Bieber, but indeed, music has been around about as long as people. In fact, if you believe the Bible, music actually predates people. The author reported on his study of music from the 50s to the present and described how lyrics have become much more explicit and exploitive. You can read the whole article here; http://www.washingtontimes.com/news/2012/apr/18/highway-to-hell-the-changing-face-of-pop-music/?page=1<br /> <br /> Anybody who has reared teenagers in the last twenty years needs no researcher to tell him or her anything about raunchy music. I remember with horror getting into my daughter’s vehicle, turning on the ignition and being blasted by Nelly singing? “It gittin hot in here, so take off all yo clothes.” I started singing it for my girls on the premise that anything that I sang was decidedly un-cool and therefore less appealing to them. I don’t know if that is true, but it made me feel better.<br /><br /> The author doesn’t do so, but I’ll bet a correlation exists between this debasement of music and the debasement of culture. How much music has shaped our attitudes about relationships, sexuality, society, work, race and religion is anybody’s guess, but I’d guess a lot! <br /><br /> I had a college friend who was studying computer programming way back when computers programs ran on punch cards. After writing a program to punch the cards, he’d run the cards to see if the program worked. If it didn’t, he’d have to re-write it and try again. He’d say, “Garbage in, garbage out.”<br /> <br /> That old adage about computer programming can be applied to our minds and our spirits. Our “computers” will respond to what we put in them. Garbage in. Garbage out. <br /><br /> Now that, in a stream of consciousness kind of way, reminded me of this story that, via the internet, has circled the globe about a bazillion times by now. The speaker has been Cherokee, Sioux, non-specific Native American and half a dozen other tribes in these tellings, but the point is valid nonetheless.<br /><br /> The Two Wolves<br />A Cherokee elder was teaching his grandchildren about life.He said to them, “A fight is going on inside me… it is a terrible fight between two wolves.One wolf represents fear, anger, envy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, hatefulness, and lies.The other stands for joy, peace, love, hope, humbleness, kindness, friendship, generosity, faith, and truth.This same fight is going on inside of you, and inside every other person, too.”The children thought about it for a minute. Then one child asked his grandfather,“Which wolf will win?”The Cherokee elder replied…“The one you feed.”It is ever so. Which wolf are you feeding?<br /><br />Blessings to you all,<br /><br />JeraldGlimmer Manhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09714885288787162637noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-997494391409605276.post-85775014140968843952012-04-13T14:15:00.002-07:002012-04-14T05:08:24.960-07:00Fear LessHappy Friday the 13th! I’ve said that a few times today and it has generated some laughs and some discussion about superstitions. There are people who are genuinely afraid of the number 13. Triskaidekaphobia is the name for this irrational fear. How the number 13 became so fearful, I’m not entirely sure. But I have noticed that most tall buildings have a 12th floor and a 14th floor, but not a 13th. Hoteliers are afraid guests would refuse to stay on that floor, so rather than waste the space, they call it 14. <br /><br />It is amazing how easily fear can take over our thoughts. Fear is a powerful emotion and, as newspapers, movies, themeparks, and TV have discovered, it sells! <br />Max Lucado in his book Fearless, cites a study by reporter Bob Garfield on the increasing focus on fear in broadcast and print media reporting. His findings were enlightening. Major publications over the brief period of his inquiry reporting on health issues said;<br />· 59 million Americans have heart disease,<br />· 53 million Americans have migraines,<br />· 25 million Americans have osteoporosis,<br />· 3 million have cancer,<br />· 2 million have severe brain disorders,<br />“Reportedly, in total, 543 million Americans consider themselves to be seriously sick, a troubling figure since there are 266 million people in the country. As Garfield noted, ‘Either as a society we are doomed, or someone is seriously double-dipping.” Fearless, p. 159.<br />In healthcare today, the environment has become so anxious that a reorganization of one health system can cause ripple effects of fear throughout an entire region. The anxiety bubbles up and our stomachs start to churn. We are not alone. The feeling is pervasive, it seems. Fear. It is a highly contagious bug. To defeat it, we need a strong immune system. What follows is and extra shot of B12 and a high dose bolus of vitamin C. <br /><br />“There’s a stampede of fear out there. Let’s not get caught in it. Let’s be among those who stay calm. Let’s recognize danger but not be overwhelmed. Acknowledge threats but refuse to be defined by them. Let others breathe the polluted air of anxiety, not us. Let’s be numbered among those who hear a different voice, God’s. Enough of these shouts of despair, wails of doom. Why pay heed to the doomsdayer on Wall Street or the purveyor of gloom in the newspaper? We will incline our ears elsewhere; upward. We will turn to our Maker, and because we do, we will fear less.” Fearless, p. 159.<br /><br />I’m taking my dose now. Want to join me?<br />Blessings to you all!<br />JeraldGlimmer Manhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09714885288787162637noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-997494391409605276.post-2427245174408845422012-04-06T03:39:00.002-07:002012-04-06T03:41:43.655-07:00Nothing is WastedThere was no time to think or to plan. It was all reaction. A non-thinking, muscle memory, instinctive reaction and it probably saved our lives. We were traveling I-295 West on the South side of Jacksonville, headed for I-10. We were, or I should say I was, driving a bit faster than the speed limit as I kept pace with the traffic. We were in the left lane of the three-lane interstate. There was a black car in front of us three to four car-lengths ahead. I noticed the white car about a ¼ mile ahead parked on the shoulder between the concrete retaining wall and our traffic lane and as we got closer, I realized it was a sheriff’s car. Shortly after that, another sheriff’s cruiser sped by in the center lane, cut to the left lane in front of the car ahead of me and hit the brakes hard.<br /> <br /> In that instant, the car in front of me slammed on the brakes. I slammed on my brakes. I glanced at the rear-view mirror to see the green Camry behind me had slammed on his brakes and swerved violently to the middle lane. Relieved that I would not have to fear being sandwiched in the collision, I turned my attention again to the car ahead. The sheriff’s officer, still riding the brakes, slid into the median in front of the parked cruiser. The black car let off the brakes and the few feet of distance between us began to widen.<br /> After it was over, I was talking in excited tones to my wife…ok, I was really yelling about how stupid the officer was to pull such a stunt. He came very close to causing at least a three-car pile up at 70 miles per hour on the interstate and I was angry. Angry that someone sworn to protect public safety had so foolishly put our safety at risk. But that was after. <br /><br /> During the event, I could only react. Forty-plus years since driver’s ed. Forty-plus years of driving experience. Forty-plus years of long days on the interstate. Forty-plus years of dirt, gravel, concrete and asphalt. Forty-plus years of sunshine, rain, snow and black ice. Forty-plus years of watching several cars ahead as I drive. Forty plus years of moving the foot from the accelerator to the brake and back again. Forty-plus years of checking the rear-view mirror frequently as I drove. In an instant, all those mundane activities and experiences became vitally important. In that moment, all those years of repetitive motion and routine actions paid off as I instantly reacted to avoid slamming into the car in front of me.<br /><br /> Life is a lot like that. A lot of mundane, routine things happen. A lot of difficult and painful experiences happen. And not only do they sometimes make no sense, oft times they seem so meaningless that we don’t even make an effort to make sense of them. And then, in an instant you become aware that all those things have prepared you for this moment.<br /> <br /> Blessings to you all,<br /><br /> JeraldGlimmer Manhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09714885288787162637noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-997494391409605276.post-2592750353807736112011-12-20T06:00:00.000-08:002011-12-20T06:05:17.517-08:00The Highest ComplimentIn the first chapter of Matthew, there is an accounting of the birth of Jesus. It is not as long or as elaborate as the one found in Luke, but I happen to like it better. I have my reasons and would be happy to explain them to you, but I will save that for another time.<br /><br /> In Matthew’s telling of it, there is little fanfare, no harking of the herald angels or adoring shepherds. We are told briefly about Mary and Joseph being betrothed, which in those days was the first step of a binding marital covenant. Usually the bride and husband were called just that after this first step and it could not be ended without some legal process and without good reason. And we are told that Mary was “with child” i.e. PREGNANT! Under the category of “good reason,” that would have certainly qualified.<br /> <br /> I have always assumed Joseph was a normal man; that he had the hopes of a normal man and the feelings of a normal man and was probably hurt and ashamed like a normal man would be and probably angry like a normal man. But Matthew tells us “Joseph was a righteous man,” (Mt. 1:19). It is given as a simple, forthright statement of fact. And every time I read it, it hits me right between the eyes. I can’t tell you how many times I have read that and wished he’d written something else! <br /> Being righteous or upright is not about right thinking or even right feeling. It is about right doing. Here was a good man. Here was a right-doing man and he was confronted with something that sure seemed incredibly wrong. Now remember, he did not have the luxury of the explanation that Matthew supplies to us like a secret whispered in our ear. Would Joseph do the right thing? Would he shame her publicly? Would he allow his hurt feelings, his sense of betrayal, his sense of justice and perceived “wrong-ness” of another’s actions to drive his response? Joseph, the righteous man, had determined to do the right thing in the right way and because of that something even more right happened.<br /> <br /> If we have chosen to care for people and care about people, we will soon be confronted with things that feel wrong, that are wrong and we will sometimes be wrongly treated even by the people we are trying to help. And it will surely hurt. And we will be tempted to respond in kind. Do right anyway. The angels are watching.<br /> <br /> May you be blessed this Christmas season!<br /><br /> JeraldGlimmer Manhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09714885288787162637noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-997494391409605276.post-9794214336836667972011-11-21T18:13:00.000-08:002011-11-21T18:31:31.340-08:00Remembering My Blessings“Choose twelve men from among the people, one from each tribe, and tell them to take up twelve stones from the middle of the Jordan, from right where the priests are standing, and carry them over with you and put them down at the place where you stay tonight.” (Joshua 4:2,3) <br /><br /> Recording important events, historic occasions or legal transactions required significantly more effort in Joshua’s day than it does now. Agreements were chiseled in stone and monuments were erected at historic sites. Now documents and photos can be digitized and sent across the world almost instantly. For the occasion of crossing the Jordan, Joshua wanted to make sure the people remembered. Still ringing in his ears was the warning of Moses who had led the people out of Egypt and for forty plus years in the desert wilderness. Moses had warned them to not forget the events that had brought them there. He knew their nature and ours as well. Forgetting comes so easily to us. So Joshua told them to pick one person from each of the twelve tribes. Each one was to pick up a rock from the middle of the Jordan and carry it with them to the encampment they would settle in for the night. There they stacked the stones to fashion a historic marker of the day’s events. “In the future, when your children ask you, ‘What do these stones mean?’ tell them that the flow of the Jordan was cut off before the ark of the covenant of the LORD. When it crossed the Jordan, the waters of the Jordan were cut off. These stones are to be a memorial to the people of Israel forever.” (Joshua 4:6b, 7 NIV)<br /><br /> Thanksgiving is about remembering. It is about visiting the places in your heart where you have piled up stones to mark the important events, the places in your life’s journey were you were up against it and God showed up. It is about those places where you knew you were blessed and you were sure you could never forget the feelings, the moment, the people, the place. But we can. We do. We forget our blessings and the One who provided them just as easily as they did in Moses’ day. His warning to them is a pertinent to us now as it was to them then. “Be careful!” “Don’t forget!” But they did. And I do. And so have you. So before this Thanksgiving passes, I’m taking some time to re-visit some stones that I have piled up through the years and remember their meaning.<br /> <br /> There is the beautiful young woman on her father’s arm at the end of the aisle at that church in Tampa, Florida. Here are three little girls wrapped in pink and white baby blankets. And there is the hospital waiting room where we heard “it isn’t cancer, she’ll be ok” when she was twelve. Those stones over there are for three weddings, two grandchildren and two more on the way. And these are for the house on Fox Ct in Titusville, FL and the tiny apartment on Sutherland in Knoxville, TN so that I won't forget how far I have come. Places. Stones. Blessings. There are these and so many more.<br /> <br />This Thanksgiving, remember those places, those stone piles in your own life. Pay them another visit. And give thanks!<br /><br />Happy Thanksgiving!<br /><br />JeraldGlimmer Manhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09714885288787162637noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-997494391409605276.post-38330874415414956602011-10-19T14:15:00.000-07:002011-10-19T14:17:34.195-07:00Dad plus 16“So teach us to number our days, that we may apply our hearts unto wisdom” (Psalm 90:12)<br /><br />As of today, I’m 56 years or 20454 days old. I’m sixteen years older than my father was at the time of his death. Sixteen years seems like a long time, and it is, I suppose. But in those moments when I stop to reflect, it also seems remarkably brief. And that is what I have been doing the last few days. Mostly I’ve been reflecting on all the things I have been able to see, do and experience that my father didn’t.<br /> <br />He didn’t see us getting ready for our first day on our first job. My father didn’t see his children graduate from high school. He didn’t get to spend his twentieth anniversary with my mom. He missed witnessing the nervous excitement of his daughters as he walked them down the aisle to give them away to equally nervous young men. And what he wouldn’t have given to be able to see his children’s children, to hold them in his arms and to experience that moment when the lights go on as the weight of parenthood settles on their shoulders.<br /><br />I have had those moments. I have had these sixteen years. I don’t care about the gray hair or the crow's feet. I have lived the past sixteen years…and in each of those moments when I have experienced such remarkable joy, I have thought about him and what he has missed. And I have wished that my wife, children and grandchildren could have known the sweet, funny, gentle man that he was.<br /><br />I miss him today. I always will. I know that. But mostly what I am feeling today is a profound sense of gratitude. In the past sixteen years, I have experienced more blessings than I could have imagined.<br /> <br />What about you? Looking back over your last sixteen years, you probably can remember blessings of your own, as well as heartbreaks, hard times and even failures. But for a moment, think about the blessings. Take the time today to re-live those moments, to savor them and to give thanks for them.<br /> <br />What will the next sixteen years bring? I have no idea. But if they could be half as special as the last sixteen, bring it on!<br />JeraldGlimmer Manhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09714885288787162637noreply@blogger.com0