Author: Bev

 

At three years old, or is it five, most children incessantly ask why.  “Why do I have to brush my teeth?”  “Why is it raining?”  “Why does the Easter Bunny bring eggs?”  Why, why, why?

Then comes high school in the blink of an eye.  There you learn the all-important W-words.  We learned in English class back in the day, the five W’s and one H word of journalism.  These are the questions we were expected to ask and answer to gain information to supply the substance of any journalistic piece.

Who, what, when, where, why and how?  So, into adulthood, we carry on the question-asking habit, only if the most prevalent questions remaining in our arsenal are why and what for?

“What for,” must have been another traditional kid-interrogative sentence because adults created a punishment for asking it too much.  It went like this “I’m gonna give you what for if you keep that up!”

If you were punished for no reason, you might reasonably ask, “for what am I being punished?”  What for?  In response, the punisher might say, “I’ll give you ‘what for’” as the nebulous reason.  Your inquiry is thusly stopped.

If you are a person with a naturally “wondering” personality, you might get “what for” for asking “why” too much. This reminds me of a quote I recently came across and jotted down because of my wondering ways.  “For your peace of mind do not try to understand everything.”

Fill in the blank and make a note of how many times this week, you’ve said either to yourself or someone else, “I don’t understand why…”.  Maybe the answer to why is the customary tired parent’s answer to the why-question, “just because.”

That answer has evolved into the highly philosophical version of “just because,” “it is what it is.”  Back in the day we said, “everything is everything,” as a bit of a jab at the answers posited by the Mother Earth folks among us.

Don’t get me wrong, questions are a vital form of effective communication.  Curiosity doesn’t always kill the cat, in fact frequently curiosity gleans dinner for the cat if not a smidgen of fun.

The way we analyze situations, make informed decisions, understand and process incoming data, and discover answers behind doors number one through a zillion, is by asking questions if only in our minds.

My husband is a question-asking conversationalist, the best in the business.  When I’m happy to move right along, my husband is back in aisle seven asking someone another open-ended question, and he sincerely cares to know the answer.

Interrogative is another word for question.  Just like wonder is a form of ethereal questioning and the root word of wonderful, interrogations are questioning sessions, received often with resistance.

To our daughter, dad’s questions often feel like interrogation.  And she resists.

Interrogation by detectives is a way of getting vital answers to solve crimes.  This kind of questioning, being drilled for information, sometimes being asked the same question in different forms, repeatedly, is potentially off-putting.

But questions are the information-gathering substance of life.  Don’t you want to know more than what is spoon-fed to you by your daily walkabout?

Speaking of substance, or the lack thereof, from the looks of social media or general media, the questions people want answered are ludicrous and have nothing to do with life improvement.  In fact, this information used to be considered just nosiness and was inquired only by busy bodies.

I’m talking about dumb stuff like, what celebrity is getting divorced, who’s sleeping with their nanny, did she/he have facial surgery, are those breasts real or glued-on, who just bought another multi-million-dollar house, etc.  The slogan, “inquiring minds want to know,” was once only associated with worthless, rag journalism.

Today, however, there are substantive questions like, is there a new drug in the works to affect higher quality of life for Alzheimer’s patients and has the cancer gene been isolated.  But they get buried below what is this or that celebrity’s favorite color.  Oh, my goodness.

We are free to ask dumb questions.  I guess if I’m fair, I should agree with the teachers who say, “there is no dumb question,” but really, “like…what color nail polish does Kylie Jenner wear?”

My question would be, “why?”

 

I won’t go so far as to say that this year has been a terrible, awful, horrible year, because it has had its wonderful moments.  But turning the page on this chapter won’t be difficult.  I’m happy to move on.

Before too long, I’ll be saying goodbye to my sixties.  I can truthfully say that I’ve never felt old, until this year.

I’m not a fan of bugs.  They didn’t used to offend me so much.  I never gave a bug a funeral, but I didn’t kill them willy-nilly either.

I throw stinkbugs outside.  I’ve been known to let a bug or two live, indoors and I never kill them in their own territory, outdoors.

I happen to enjoy the outdoors, the natural habitat of bugs.  I don’t love gnats and other pesky bugs buzzing around my face when I’m trying to hike in the summer.  Nor do I treasure walking into a sticky spider web along the trail.

But this year, my bug tolerance was piqued, and I’ve about had it.  In late spring or early summer, I noticed a growing red spot on the back of my knee.  Upon further examination, it wasn’t just a bug bite of which I’ve had zillions.  In this case the whole back of my knee was a massive, bright red patch.

Several of my acquaintances warned me that spider bites can be serious, so I thought perhaps I should call the doctor.  However, as often happens to me when I need my doctor, it’s late evening, a weekend, holiday, or the doctor has gone on vacation.

In consultation with my health insurance company, I was hooked up with a doctor in my system via telemedicine.  I guess my telephone camera was sharp enough, that after seeing the back of my knee, the doctor said she could see the fang marks of a spider bite.  In addition, this one had turned into cellulitis, a potentially deleterious and serious reaction to the bite.

Okay, great.  The upside was that she called into my pharmacy a prescription for an antibiotic that I was able to pick up immediately and start pumping into my compromised bloodstream.

It worked.  So off to the races I went toward the thick of summertime, with a bit more caution in my step when outdoors, walking my walk.

However, just as I began to exhale, another bug must have attacked me, covertly.  Just like that nasty spider, a stealthy tick must have bitten me unnoticed.

After some routine lab tests to monitor the arthritis which kicks up its heels from time to time, particularly in my hands, knees, hips, and lower back – some of the major parts which are intended to keep me moving about this planet – Lyme Disease was detected.  What?

That was surprising since I’ve checked for ticks after every walk in or near the woods, or even jaunts through our sort of vast yard.  And I didn’t find any attached to any part of my body.

Well, it must have been there because Lyme Disease is no joke and it had been present apparently long enough to make itself known in the form of Lyme Arthritis, an extension of the Osteoarthritis which reminds me that I’m growing older.  Thanks for that, tick.

I’ve already said that I’m not a fan of bugs, but it bears repeating.  It’s been a heck of a year, and that bugs me.

Then I got Covid.  Everybody’s experience of Rona is different, but it’s always a bugger.

For me, along with the gift of Covid came brain fog, substantial fatigue, and previously unknown to me, a little thing called Post Covid Hypertension.  That was unexpected.

The mind-numbing and body deflating fatigue which can accompany Covid, did accompany it and lingered.  Having celebrated the minor symptoms of the actual bug, it was in hindsight probably premature.  Long COVID or the lingering effects of the bug are no picnic.

One of my favorite Christmas hymns that Bing Crosby made into a hit in 1963, is “Do you hear what I hear… do you see what I see…” do you smell what I smell.  That last part is my own Covid era addition to the song.

Post Covid, some people experience a partial or complete loss of smell.  Not me.  I get to smell something that isn’t there.  It’s called phantosmia, as the word implies, it’s phantom smells, a disorder in your nose.  I smell cooked meat, mostly at night.  The Covid bug seems to love gaslighting people, making us feel like we’re crazy.

It’s been a real riot around here, coping with Covid, that bug of all bugs, a second time this fall, early winter.  I’m literally sick and tired of bugs.  But as I usually do, I still walk my walk.

You’ve heard the word, “hangry” which is a new word which combines two other words, in this case, hungry plus angry.  Hangry is nothing compared to “tiremotional,” which is my made-up word combining the two words, tired and emotional.  And there’s “tireanky,” which is tired plus cranky.

I have plans to keep dragging my tiremotional, tireanky self into 2025, expecting to conquer whatever bugs turn up.  Perhaps 2025 can be the year of the bug-buster.

 

 

There is so much movement in our culture and in this time.  I’m afraid we often just don’t sit down until we’re sat down.

There’s so much to do, so little time.  Everybody is busy.

I first thought of titling this missive “movement.”  Then on second thought, it occurred to me that movement felt tied to bowel movement and that’s just not a writerly phrase that I wish to be associated with.

However, movement is just what kinesiology is the study of.  And this, I’m quite happy to be known for discussing.

There are moments when I’m out speed walking or walk-jogging and I consciously think, “my body feels so good, moving.”  It’s a visceral feel-good reaction to movement.

Dancing is another movement that my body, mind, and spirit rejoice in.  I admit I don’t dance often, but there are moments when I do and my mind and spirit both soar when I give in to the inclination.

Watching my grand-baby dance brings back memories of my daughter doing the same at that fresh age.  I think dancing and movement in general frees oneself to express joy, sadness, longing, excitement, fun, if not something deeper within that requires movement.

It occurs to me that the rhythm of life is ramped up these days.  I am growing older, and it also biases me toward mentally wanting things to slow down.

This past year has peaked my awareness that my body naturally moves slower.  I don’t like it.  It’s an adjustment.

I changed my pattern from sitting to standing and standing to walking.  Those bodily transitions have slowed and it’s a more deliberate move than it ever was.  I literally think about standing and notice for a few seconds that I’m about to commence walking.

This is crazy weird for me.  I’ve been active my whole life.  I rarely slow down and couch-potato, I am not.

Are you slower as you grow older?  Was it a sudden change?  Was it hard to accept?

Society is rushing along as fast as it can, it seems.  I don’t think I’m afraid it will pass me by.

I don’t want to forget people, in the rush to keep up.  I love my family, both nuclear and extended.  But we rarely see one another these days.

These loved ones are static in my heart.  They are no less important kept in my heart than they are in my living room.  That’s one of the zillion cool things about love.

I like that my friends, neighbors, acquaintances, and others who pass through our lives don’t need constant tending.  We can run into one another and pick up right where we left off the last time we intersected.

This is the reality of the twenty-first century.  There’s no recrimination for being off the grid momentarily.  We can jump right back on the bandwagon when we’re ready.

Missing in action isn’t as scary as it once was.  Today, though missing for a time, most folks come back, perhaps changed but retaining their essence.

Just because someone isn’t in the thick of things doesn’t mean they’re out of sight, out of mind.  Quite the opposite really.

The whole definition of faith is believing that the unseen is just as valid as the visible.  So, when people need space for whatever reason, we should expect to see them whenever they’re ready to reappear.

Of course I need people.  I love people.  However, I’m also quite content alone, for a time.

Back in the day we used to visit extended family every Sunday.  And it was expected that you visited the elderly in your family.  I went along.

I don’t expect the same as I daily grow closer to that dastardly pseudonym, the elderly.  My child and her family are not expected to come and visit me and my hubby.  They come when they can and that’s enough.

I watch cop/detective shows on television.  One annoying plot that frequently shows up is the unhappy spouse of the exceptionally busy cop who is out there solving murders and the like.  Can’t you just leave them to it, be supportive, and do your own thing?

Honestly, I want to slap that spouse and tell them to get a life.  “You knew what you were getting into marrying a detective,” find something to do.

It’s that constant tending that I as a very independent person find aggravating.  I love you but I don’t need you to entertain me, no matter how old I get.

So, keep doing your thing, moving at your own pace.  I’ll keep doing my thing and moving at my own gait. And I really hope we intersect and lift one another up as we pass in this busy space we share.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“It Ain’t Necessarily So,”* that the beholder of a smile is happy.  Nor is happiness always reflected in a smile.  *(from the opera Porgy and Bess 1935, George and Ira Gershwin)

What is happiness anyway, contentment, joy, giddiness, bliss?  At any rate, happiness and smiles are probably correlated, or related, but one does not really cause the other.

However, I do think it’s proven scientifically that if you force a smile, certain happy hormones, or endorphins kick in as if you meant it.  It apparently doesn’t matter if you’re faking a smile or if you’re genuinely pleased about something, thus cracking a smile; fluffy chemicals supercharge your being.

The thinking is that when your facial muscles form a smile, neurotransmitters such as dopamine, serotonin and endorphins, associated with positive emotion, are released.  This is called a facial feedback hypothesis, and over time, this feedback trend can lead to genuine feelings.

“When you’re smiling, the whole world smiles with you” (1928).  I think smiles are truly contagious.  I’m sure it has been proven in various experiments over time.  It’s hard to be a sourpuss when someone smiles at you.  But then there are always exceptions.

Have you ever wondered why people didn’t smile for photographs in the 19^th and twentieth centuries?  The usual answer is that with long exposure times unlike today’s instant photography, people just couldn’t hold a smile for a whole minute.  Try it.

I know, while we’re waiting for the whole family to pose, my smile grows more and more fake the longer I hold it.  So, people didn’t smile for those photos.  It all began with painted portraits for which people sat for hours, posing.

However, cultural history also tells us that perceptions of smiling have changed over time.  Smiling for photographs was considered poor etiquette and undignified by the upper classes.  Only the poor, drunk, lewd and folks of the low class smiled in photographs.

This was until the 1920s when actors in motion pictures expressed a whole range of emotions.  After this time, photographers and painters alike began to expect at least a little bit of a smile from their subjects.  “Say cheese.”

The yellow smiley face symbol, created by graphic designer Harvey Ball in 1963 has become a universal symbol for happiness.  I guess the smiley face was the parent of today’s plethora of emoji’s including the smiley face, which demonstrate how we’re feeling.

For most of us, our faces are the blank slates upon which we display what we’re feeling on the inside.  I saw the perfect saying on social media recently, “I don’t need a Mood Ring, I have a Face!”

When we grow up, we learn how to behave and how to think, including how to show our emotions.  People read emotions differently to some degree, depending on how, when, or where we were brought up.

However, the ability to read emotions from faces is pretty much a universal skill.  Even people from different cultural backgrounds interpret facial expressions about the same.

There can be a dozen things going wrong with you and when someone asks, “how are you,” you usually smile and at least say, “okay.”  I saw this on social media recently and it pretty much explains this phenomenon, “I smile and act like nothing is wrong.  It’s called dealing with life and staying strong.”

In today’s world, you can hit delete quickly if you’re not happy with your smile.  That makes me a tad happy.

I’ve been sorting thousands of family pictures of old and oh dear, some of them really should not have been kept for posterity, really.  Some amateur photographers, usually “mom,” took pictures without considering that their subject wasn’t framed in their best self.

Thus, the selfie was born.  I personally think this was because of all those horrid pictures mom took and kept in an album or twenty.  The selfie is redemptive.

A crooked smile, delete.  A triple chin angle, delete.  I now hate that shirt, delete.  Finally, my best smile, best angle, good hair day, tummy is tucked as much as it can be.  It’s a selfie at its best and I’m posting it on social media.

You’ve got something to smile about, I know it.  Just ponder a moment, and I’ll bet you’ll smile just in time for Thanksgiving.

 

 

The history of passwords is really kind of fascinating.  Essentially, one has always needed a password or two to enter a secret, private, or mysterious place.  At least, since the early 1700s.

Apparently, many people want to get into the same place that you want to get into.  So, for your own protection, you must create a password to enter that place safely.  The only way to be granted entry by the guardians of privacy, to your own personal information is to correctly pass the memory test of the password.

Passwords supposedly distinguish friends from foes.  If you know the password, you’re determined to be friendly, and you may enter.  But today, we may have been hacked and therefore enemies may enter the camp at any time, and we really don’t know who our friends are.

Pass codes have for hundreds of years been written down on cards or wooden tablets and circulated among friendly forces.  I’ll bet you have a “secret” place where your passwords are kept.  I have bunches of them.  Some of them are unique and impossible to remember if not recorded somewhere for reference.

The password police don’t want us to write down our passwords.  We’re supposed to just remember them.

At least, however, I don’t use 1234…., like half the universe who just want to access the places they frequent without a big silly rigamarole.  Speaking of being hacked.

The word hacked has come to mean “gaining unauthorized access to data in a computer system.”  It used to mean cutting something up roughly and with heavy blows.  For example, “grandma hacked the neck off of a chicken and brought it into the kitchen to finish it off for this evening’s supper!”

Only the correct information gets you into these places where you want to go.  And by golly you just aren’t getting in if you’ve forgotten the all-important password.  In fact, you might just get locked out, maybe for thirty days or longer.  You might even be denied access forever, unless you change your password.

And to change your password, it must not resemble the original password which you have forgotten, remember?

This is tricky business.  And don’t shoot yourself in the foot by making your password too long, involved or elaborate.  This is because you may be forced to type that thing using a TV remote control device which is a difficult device to master.

Have you taken a memory test, otherwise known as a cognitive test, lately?  I have.  It’s a cinch compared to trying to get into your Fort-Knox protected cable TV account.  “All I wanted to do was pay my bill,” she exclaimed.

You also should not make your password too easy, simple, or hackable for your average second-grader.  For example, the 1234… stuff mentioned above.  Oh, and don’t use the password which you have used for any other entrance test.

They try to tell you that all these hoops we must jump through to get anything done these days is for our protection.  Let me be clear, they are not protecting my mental health.  There is no protection from the password police, for my potentially exploding brain.  I’m at serious risk, here.

Today, there is such a thing as “identity credentials.”  You simply are not who you are without proving it to some yahoo.  In the Bible, the word shibboleth was used as a password to establish your identity.  That word literally means “ear of corn,” or “flood.”

Do you know that the rainbow was once considered a promise from God that He would never again, as in Noah’s flood, destroy the earth.  I wonder if there’s a way that God would kindly just give each of us just one shibboleth to last a lifetime, you know, kind of like a social security number, unique to each identity.

And keep the hackers at bay, minding just their own business.  There is this cartoon reel rolling around in my head, where a crazed lunatic type character is hacking the heck out of a row of block letters, sort of like passwords.  In fact, this creature is happily hacking all the puzzles resembling passwords, to unlock my accounts – you know the ones where you must match all the pictures with bikes in them, or match the parts of a bridge, or crosswalks, or traffic lights.

This is not fun, people.  Seriously.  If I want to play a matching game, I’ll find some internet mahjong or something.

I like good jigsaw puzzles.  I’m not bad at matching patterns, color, and shapes.  It’s an easy challenge, if there is such a thing.  There is a sense of accomplishment when you finish a puzzle; like when you manage to enter a website or convince a customer service representative that you are who you are and that you belong there.

But by then, you probably forgot why you wanted to be there in the first place.  Oh well, you finally remembered your password.  However, your sense of accomplish vanishes because you changed that bloody shibboleth the last time you tried to prove who you are.   And the pattern continues.

I think we all have words we don’t like.  Many people don’t like swear words or crass words.  It’s understandable that people don’t like these messy words.

But other words bug us for specific reasons.  My friend and I were impressionable teenagers working in the big city.  Our bosses were older, more sophisticated and worldly and they taught us stuff.

My friend’s boss didn’t like the word, hot.  He said to never use the word, instead say something like, “it’s exceptionally warm today.”  I still avoid the word hot to describe very warm weather.

My father-in-law didn’t like the word, nice.  “What’s nice?” he used to say.

A friend used to hate the word crap; she thought it was ugly.  Some people don’t like the general use of the word hate, thinking it’s too harsh a word to be bantered about so freely.

The children’s book, “Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day,” written in 1972 by Judith Viorst must have affected my husband.  He doesn’t love the words terrible, horrible and awful, thinking they’re exaggerations of a milder reality.  This is a man always willing to offer the benefit of the doubt, even to the context of a day.

By now, you’re probably rattling around in your head, the word(s) that you don’t like.  You’re welcome.

Okay, I’m sure you’re hankering to hear the word I don’t like, right?  Well, that word is deserve.  Honestly, I’m not alone.

According to the United States Declaration of Independence, every human being has a right to, or deserves “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.”  That’s it, nothing more detailed or nuanced than that.

I’m not sure that one can deserve any of the specifics as to how those rights are achieved: especially over and above anybody else in line.  We all deserve the same access to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.

It’s no mistake that the Declaration of Independence is an historical document from a democracy – not really, more so a republic, and a capitalist society, probably more specifically a meritocracy.  It’s all about the pursuit.

To deserve is to claim reward, punishment, recompense because of one’s actions, situation, qualities.  It’s a determination of worth.

I wonder if I’m embarking upon a slippery slope from capitalism and democracy toward socialism with the concept of human worth, value, and recognition.  Can we all have the same worth in a meritocracy?

Is the Declaration of Independence a pipe dream?  Is it possible in a democracy to all have the same access to the pursuit of happiness, if that pursuit is based on attainment of wealth and recognition.  What’s fair about equality?

Deserved, today seems to be more random entitlement based on qualities given to you such as race and gender.  In the old days you deserved what you got through mainly hard work, achievement, studied accomplishment, diligence and persistence and a lot of waiting,

Surely, I’m worth more because I work harder.  I deserve more money, stuff, recognition because of my value to society.  I deserve to be seen, heard, known because I’ve earned it.

We don’t deserve everything we get, good or bad.  Not everything is cause and effect or even correlated/related.

Some stuff just happens randomly, and people clamor to find a cause, a reason or explanation for it.  Stop.  It didn’t happen for a reason, it just happened.  There is no because, about it.  It is what it is.  Full stop.

How does one deserve?  If it’s an exclusive right, only I deserve, only I’m worthy, then it isn’t what those rights from the Declaration of Independence speak to.

Am I owed something over and above another – why me and not them?  Deserve implies worth and value.

For me, worth and worthy are just as repugnant as equal versus equitable.  You just can’t put a price on a human life – as in “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.”  Trying to bring likeness to difference is an exercise in futility.

“I deserve to be rewarded for…”  Why?  “I deserve to get…”  What for?  “They deserve everything they got…”  Because?  “If anybody deserves it, they do…”

Does the janitor or housekeeper in the stadium deserve a million-dollar salary and the ball player or entertainer deserve minimum wage?  It seems an oxymoron that worth can’t be monetized.

A sports figure, actor or musician works no harder for their millions than a highway engineer or cafeteria cook, making an average wage.  You just can’t establish an equality of worth.  Nor is it equitable to try to bring equality to these vast disparities of financial or social value given to human beings.

Did you know that the Latin roots of the word deserve are to devote oneself to the service of, to serve.  The President of the United States is elected to serve the people of this country.  Their salary is well below even the annual bonus of most CEOs of major corporations.  Why?  Because they are servants.

On our ballots, we should ask ourselves, does this person deserve to be President of the United States?  Does he or she have the spirit and qualification to serve?  It’s a most subjective decision based upon a most subjective word, deserve.

Media influence in twenty-first century America is ubiquitous.  Everywhere you turn somebody’s opinion is blaring in your face.

People’s opinions are expressed through music and books, art and movies.  Opinions are certainly expressed in an internet news feed or any form of “talk” show on television, radio, print, or even from a lowly columnist.

Most of us don’t dig deeper than the sound bite that we’re spoon-fed.  We see a headline and run with it.  We form our opinions from someone else’s great sounding opinion.

The Apostle Paul said to his protégé, Timothy, “For the time will come when people will not put up with sound doctrine.  Instead, to suit their own desires, they will gather around them a great number of teachers to say what they’re itching ears want to hear.”  Oh wowzah, has that time come?

Mark Twain said, “it’s easier to fool people than it is to convince them that they have been fooled.”  It seems that we should be careful believing what “they” say.  Because “they” can be wrong, lied to, misled, misinformed, manipulated, or all manner of cajoled, and pass that junk along to anyone who will listen.

I’ve been reading a book about extremism in religion and politics.  It’s sort of an exercise in torture for this political and social moderate.  When I grew up, there were about four topics which we were counseled never to bring up in polite conversation: religion, politics, money, and sex.

Why were  these topics taboo?  Because they’re divisive.  People tend to take up extreme views on these topics and attitudes become heightened.  Middle ground disappears into the abyss and people dig in their heels.

Our culture is effectively evenly divided in our social, religious, political, sexual, and fiscal opinions.  And the two groups who are so evenly divided, are influenced by a few, loud for their numbers, extremists on their side of the table.

It’s quite possible, I think, that many people rely on leaders and influencers to do the heavy lifting of discernment on their behalf.  The Word of God is said to “discern the thoughts and intentions of the heart” (Hebrews 4:12).

I don’t know if there has ever been a time when we’ve needed wisdom and discernment, more than now.  Personal “Enlightenment” is needed, please.  But how do you cultivate, or develop, or otherwise get discernment?

Discernment is the skill to make clear distinctions between such fine lines as truth, knowledge, understanding, facts, and similar information.  To sense what lies behind someone’s words and actions, as well as to see beyond the obvious, is a big part of the ability to discern.

There is truth and error; right and wrong, but discernment helps one to sift out all the stuff in between those polarities.  For example, many people lie from time to time, some people more often than others.  But a person of discernment, tries to discover where the lies are coming from; what’s hidden in the depths?

Like trying to acquire something valuable, it takes time and patience to cultivate discernment.  It’s no quick fix.

However, in a culture where immediacy is normative, waiting for a virtue to develop is anathema to the acquisition of it.  I’m reminded of a scene in a movie where a sassy female character is elicited to say “please” like you do with a young child in training, as in “what do you say,” but she didn’t say “please,” she said “now.”

You can’t get discernment without waiting for it.  Discernment is like stew; to get it right, you can’t hurry it.  It has to simmer.

Discernment comes, maybe not so much with age, but experience.  You have to go through some stuff to gain experience.

Discernment might be a gift, as it is mentioned in Scripture, but it doesn’t seem to be given without some prerequisites.  And the prerequisites aren’t fluff.  We’re talking Introduction to Aeronautical Engineering, versus The Relevance of John Wayne Movies.

Can one even learn to discern?  I don’t know, but I think it’s quite possible that discernment is a gift, much like a singing voice, a sports talent, or cooking gene.  These talents and gifts can be cultivated, but I just don’t know if they can be learned, from scratch, so to speak.

If these hunches are remotely true, we should all be praying for people with the gift of discernment, the gift of wisdom and impeccable judgment, to rise up into positions of leadership in America.  We need unity to complement our diversity.  We need intellectually sober, reason-based thinking instead of “follow-the-leader” banality.

We need peace instead of the incitement of civil war.  Saint Paul said to the Romans, “if it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone.”  As far as it depends on you reminds me of “I am only one, but I am one.  I cannot do everything but I can do something,” spoken wisely by Edward Hale.

We may not all have the gift of discernment or wisdom.  However, especially in these tumultuous times, who of us cannot pray?