Not the End of the World

My wife’s boss informed her this week that as of July 29 her position as assistant web content editor in the AG National Women’s Department had been eliminated. Certainly I don’t begrudge the denomination for having to make the move in lean times. The AG has been a good employer for Patty for six years.

Yet upon hearing the news many Christians we know react as though we’ve suffered a death in the family. We appreciate the expressed sorrow, but Patty’s life isn’t defined by her job.

I still will be working for The Pentecostal Evangel, where I have been for twice as long. Financially, the layoff isn’t a crushing blow. Patty’s salary enabled us to enjoy things (such as a home remodeling) that we wouldn’t have otherwise. Certainly we’ll need to tighten our belts, but that’s a good thing. When a family is too comfortable fiscally it sometimes mean we rely more on an employer than the Lord for our future.

Patty has found a more fulfilling role: investing in our two granddaughters. She will be watching them four days a week once our son and his wife return to their schoolteacher jobs.

You’ve Come a Long Way, Baby?

Business Insider recently ran a photo essay of “shocking” advertisements that would never fly in today’s sensitive culture. Clearly, the ads http://www.businessinsider.com/vintage-sexist-and-racist-ads-2011-6 are demeaning, both toward black people and women.
Madison Avenue executives no longer subject African Americans to prejudicial mistreatment in this age of a black president. But women in some ways have regressed.

We rightfully shudder at sexist advertising copy of years gone past of men walking on women, blowing smoke in their face and spanking them. Certainly they still are used as sex objects to sell beer, cigarettes, automobiles and jewelry.

But these days the real mistreatment of females comes from pornography. In magazines and videos viewed by millions of men (and boys), naked women these days are beaten, humiliated and forced to perform sexual acts that few women in the real world find enjoyable. They follow scripts in which they express pleasure at being punched, called vulgar names, and having one orifice or another painfully stretched in pain. Not exactly progress.

Nursing Home Oddity

In doing research for a pending article in Christianity Today, I discovered that my mother is a rarity among nursing home residents: someone who pays her own way. Medicaid subsidizes around four out of five nursing home residents.

While it may sound like a good deal for the government to pay the cost of care for an aging parent, it really means that parent has lost control of virtually all assets. The resident must turn over Social Security and pensions to the nursing home (only being allowed to retain a small amount for supplemental health insurance and necessities such as toothpaste). In some states it also means that the government has the right to seize any real property, such as the family home.

In any regard, my mom is paying for both her medicines and nursing home care — which in itself costs $156 a day for a semiprivate room — out of her own pocket. That she can pay that herself is in large part due to the work ethic of my dad, who retired at age 75 after working multiple jobs at once. He had a generous pension from the Presbyterian Church, plus Social Security and a bit of retirement income from working for the Soil Conservation Service. My mom is able to prevent eating up her savings thanks to a special benefit available only to World War II veterans (my dad served as a Navy chaplain).

My mom does benefit from Medicare because she is in hospice care. Hospice has provided her with a special bed to try to help prevent bedsores, an oxygen tank to aid with her breathing, and regular visits from a nurse, two aides, a social worker and a chaplain.

I realize some angry younger people want to put Medicare and Social Security on the chopping block. I’m not sure that’s the best way to cut taxes.

Yesterday When I Was Young

As I visit my 93-year-old mom in a nursing home I wonder what she and my dad (who died nine years ago today) were like as a young couple. I’ve seen photos of course, but those don’t shed much light on personality. My sons know what I was like at their age because they have videos. No such technology existed earlier, of course. My parents were in their 40s when I was born.

By the time I figured out who my folks were they seemed sort of, you know, old. I have virtually no memories of before age 5. An article in The Wall Street Journal last week entitled “Blanks for the Memories” says this isn’t uncommon. The inability of adults to remember early childhood memories is called infantile amnesia and the article goes on to explain various theories behind it.

I wonder if my growing up with television had anything to do with it. My hypothesis is that these celluloid images (which I can’t recall either) somehow displaced real memories. My older brother, who had no television set in the home until much later, says he has vivid images of playing in the yard at age 2. My mother — more than nine decades later — can recite details from before age 2, such as when her father took her outside to see her first snow and when she got an opened safety pin stuck in her mouth while her mother hung out the laundry.

Maybe I would have remembered that one myself. Glad my parents had a dryer when I was a baby. At least I assume they did; I can’t remember.

Resilient Beast

Imagine my surprise this morning when I started out the door for a customary half-hour walk before work when Buddy my dog got up and trotted over to the door ready to go. Yesterday I thought Buddy would never go with me again.

On Sunday, as I read the newspaper on the back porch before work, I heard a commotion in the next yard. A 150-pound Great Dane from across the street made an unprovoked attack on 66-pound Buddy, a blue heeler-keeshond mix. A mauling followed as the massive dog ignored my yelling. Finally the owner came to pull him off.

But not before Buddy had been torn asunder from shoulder to hind legs while pinned on the ground as I stood by helplessly. We took Buddy to an emergency vet. Once he was shaved, his wounds proved even more extensive than we thought, and he required multiple sutures in two different places on his body.

My wife stayed home from work yesterday to keep an eye on Buddy’s stitches and his oozing wounds. Considering Buddy is 13 years old and he could barely move yesterday I didn’t figure he would recover, at least not so much so quickly. Several people said prayers on Buddy’s behalf yesterday and he seemed to turn the corner last night.

We hit the doggy jackpot with Buddy. He is good natured, sensitive and docile (unless he sees a UPS truck). I hope he’ll be my walking partner for a good time longer.