Janet's Blog

If you have recently attended Calvary Memorial Church in Gering, you have probably noticed the musicians on the worship team as they sidle up the west side aisle, one or two at a time, a few minutes before each service is scheduled to start, only to disappear through the door at the front of the sanctuary. You have probably figured out that we go there, to the Green Room, to get ready for the service. I don't know how long it's been called the Green Room--certainly longer than the ten plus years I've been attending Calvary Memorial. I can only surmise that it got its name because the room, with its one khaki green wall and aging green carpet, left over from the seventies, has a function somewhat similar to those infamous Hollywood Green Rooms, where celebrities wait (and often eat and drink to excess) until it is time for them to perform on some variety show or late evening talk show. I hope I don't need to assure you that the atmosphere in Calvary's Green Room ...

Once again, I am noticing all of the hurting people around me. A local teen with a fast growing, terminal, brain tumor, and several adults with unexpected cancer or other serious medical diagnoses. Young women who have been used and abused, who can't escape their past trauma, and still more with mental health issues that drag them down. I know some people, mostly women, whose bodies have betrayed them, some long ago, and some who are fighting more recent autoimmune diseases. All around me, men and women are angry, addicted, conflicted, grieving the loss of someone they love, or just plain lonely. Why does life have to be so hard? And what can we do about it? I know the simplest answer to the first question. Since Adam and Eve first sinned in the Garden of Eden, death is an inevitable fact of life. From the moment we are born, our bodies begin to die. We deal with the consequences of sin, whether our own or someone else's, every day. We don't like it. We can't...

Today was definitely a purple sweater sort of day--frigid and blustery, with heavy, wet snow that stuck to the tree branches and parked cars, melting only when it touched the streets and sidewalks still warm from yesterday's sunshine. It was a good day to stay inside, curled up with a good book, with a fire roaring in the fireplace. It would have been a good day for all that, but I cleaned out a kitchen cabinet instead, grateful for my warm house. I am so thankful that God has given me everything I need to survive a spring snowstorm. Even though I would prefer more spring-like weather now, in the middle of April, I was glad to have a choice of sweaters to wear. And, as I dressed for the day, I thought back to my favorite sweater, one that I wore often when Erin and Meagan were small. It was purple, of course--but I'm getting ahead of myself. I remember the day, a cool, sunny Saturday in November so many years ago, when Bill agreed to look after the girls so I could ride...

My second daughter, Meagan, was always a good eater. As a rule, she ate whatever I prepared, without complaint. As she was growing up, I only remember one thing she didn't care for, and that was fish. She would eat it if she had to, but she just didn't like fish in any form, including the tuna that comes in a can. When Meagan was in college, she spent one summer studying at a university in Spain, where she boarded with a woman who lived close to the school. As part of the boarding agreement, Meagan's landlady provided her with supper early in the evening, long before most Spanish people eat their own late evening meals. Quite often, the landlady would prepare a boxed pizza, which she doctored by opening a can of tuna, spreading the room temperature tuna on top of the hot pizza. I like tuna, and I love pizza, but I can't imagine eating a tuna pizza! Meagan, who has always been courteous and eager to please, choked down the pizza, night after night, without ever telling...

My hands have been giving me fits lately. The insignificant little paper cut on my right index finger has reminded me of its existence all week, whenever I sit down to strum my guitar. The blood blister on my thumb is a silent and (finally) painless reminder of that incident earlier this week, when I tried to catch a wooden salad bowl as it fell out of an upper kitchen cupboard. I was unable to snag the errant bowl, but I managed to deflect it with my thumb, so it will be around to serve salad another day. I thought I was done with cracked fingers for this year, but fickle April's recent wintry weather has caused yet another gaping crack on my right thumb, tender and sometimes bleeding, right next to the fingernail, as usual. Now that it is officially spring here in the Nebraska panhandle, I haven't been as careful to always wear my gloves outside, especially when I step out for just a minute to carry some garbage to the dumpster. By now, I should have learned that it only ta...