Home - Air Around The Golf

The other morning I eagerly added 4 extra golf balls to my hatchback stash as I got ready to leave for work. After a painfully disappointing first lesson, I expected the second session to be just as discouraging and equally stinging to my right hand. But I was pleasantly surprised to connect with the ball enough to get a transient feel for a potentially better swing. And this time I was smart enough to tape up my thumb and pointer finger to save my right hand from the torture of hitting 200+ balls in an hour. Ready to try out the new swing, I was saddened to hear that a member of my foursome was denied the right to enjoy a much needed 4.5 hours out on the course with his golfing buds. 30 minutes complaining about how his wife doesn't allow him any freedom led us to cancel our tee time in lieu of venting over a couple pitchers.

Friends often ask me why I play golf. Interestingly, no one has ever asked me why I play tennis. But I digress. Originally I took up golf for a guy, which is generally a slippery slope on which to step, especially since things like golf and football serve as outlets for guys to get away from the women in their lives. But oops, I stepped and slid. I never could pin down why I continued to play, though. It is frustrating, not to mention expensive, and just plain difficult to get the hang of. But I am beginning to see past the first tee all the way to the 19th hole, where walking those 4 miles and then bonding over Fat Tire has laid a foundation of friendship that goes beyond a common tee time on Saturday afternoon. Heartfelt discussions concerning separation, divorce, teenagers doing drugs, mingled amidst politics in the world and in the office and childhood experiences that have meandered their way into our so called adulthood - those are worth the 3 putts to give me a bogey on the par 3 17th, the duff into the water after a long drive into the middle of the fairway, and the occasional greens in regulation moment of glory.

Now you know why I play golf. And now I know too.

Hungry Like the Wolf

NatureShark MountainMonday, June 23, 7:00pm
[D] (KQED Life-Encore)Underwater filmmakers Howard and Michele Hall have spent 25 years diving and documenting the most remote and beautiful underwater locations, always learning something new about the fantastic creatures that live there. Yet even these remote places and creatures are at risk in today's world, and being able to share their experiences with the rest of us is increasingly important to the Halls, and to us. They take us along on the dive of a lifetime, to a tiny outpost 300 miles off the coast of Central American — Shark Mountain.CC, Stereo TVPG Educational Taping Rights: 1 year

Normally, I am fascinated by nature, especially of the underwater world. Creatures below the vast oceans have intrigued me since my best bud introduced me to the angel fish living in a simple desktop tank. But tonight, as I watched the schools of sharks around Coco Island mingle amongst so called "fish" whose fins are used as feet and spongelike frog fish with lures protruding from their foreheads, I was scared. I suddenly felt frightened and disturbed watching a dozen male, white-tipped sharks attack a single female by biting down on her gills in order to mate. And then the film makers allowed me to invade the privacy of hundreds of silky sharks voraciously hunting the innocent, sleeping fish in reefs in the dark of night. I was absolutely terrified.

I'm so grateful there is still light at 8 at night this time of year.

Long Way Home

I've always been an overly emotional person. My sister claims it has something to do with our repressed childhood. But whatever the reason, I cry at the drop of a hat. When I left my first job of 2.5 years, I asked my manager to mislead my coworkers by announcing a later last day, so that I could slip out without having to tearfully face my office family for the last time. Shoot, I cried leaving a 2.5 month internship my sophomore year of college! But my sensitivity does have some practical implications. The bucket-o-tears meter is the gauge I use to determine whether or not a movie is worth my ten bucks. Who needs Ebert and Roeper when you have your own internal movie critic? I put a shout out to Kleenex for making tissues soft enough to spare my nose from unnecessary chafing; I think they should send me a lifetime achievement award for my overactive tear ducts.

I wish my next trial were as simple as draining a box of tissues. There are really no words that can adequately describe the experience of losing your best friend. I have felt the feelings of loss before and the flashes of memories that you swear happened just yesterday. There are even twinges of regret, for the times you could have spent talking about heartfelt dreams instead of watching another bad rental that we had to finish to get our $2 worth. But it has never been so severe that it would cause me to throw up while brushing my teeth. I suppose my body had to step up the physiological response, since the crying reflex went into overdrive. But all the adjectives and adverbs cannot begin to tell the story of trauma that is placed on your heart. If you know and can relate, then I sincerely apologize. This morning I heard the story of a father who fell asleep on his 10 week old baby, smothering him to death. No longer do I have to pretend to imagine what another person in mourning feels. Perhaps I should just be grateful for the short time on this earth that I shared with my friend. But you know what, I am just not ready to.

Control

When I go down the list of the jungle of emotions we're prone to feel, I often wonder which ones are not of God. I'm not debating whether they originate from God. Afterall, God has revealed His character to us as being a jealous god who can also choose to seethe in anger. I guess my beef is with where along the path do they become fully carnal, devoid of any holy inspired intentions.

I remember being graciously asked to forgive someone whom God had brought to a momentous point of revelation as to how he had wronged me. From this retrospective perch, I can applaud the process, citing the brave humility it must have taken for him to apologize and seek absolution. But my memory reminds me that I wasn't quite ready to let him off the hook at the time. Granted, I wasn't in a position to withhold anything tangible or even my friendship or attention from him, but I would not let go of the forgiveness he sought. At the time, my intentions felt practically noble, wrapped up in a warped sense of self-preservation, because my healing had nothing to do with him. But today, that so called guarding sounds selfish. Ultimately he requested something I could hold over his head, and I greedily held onto it.

"Watch yourselves! If your brother sins, rebuke him. If he repents, forgive him. Even if he sins against you seven times in a day, and seven times returns to you saying, ‘I repent,’ you must forgive him.” Luke 17:3-4

When I read Jesus' command to his disciples to freely give grace, it saddens me to think back at all the times my heart created undeserved situations of bondage over others. I missed the "must" in Jesus' reproof. Add in the countless number of times I myself have been forgiven, and I'm not even playing in the same ballpark. So now, as I go back full circle to my musing on when feelings become ungodly, my concern seems moot. I completely missed the mark.

I'm going to go now, hang my head, sigh, and then move forward to look for an opportunity to cut someone loose.

All Shook Up

For the few, the proud, the unrecognized who continue to search unrelentingly for a smidgeon of entertainment and could care less about who was booted off Dancing With the Stars this week, here is my attempt at a bit of online folly. I like to call it the Barium Enema Rumba. May I?

As many dances begin, I started off with a drink, a fizzy 10oz bottle of Magnesium Citrate, which is like homemade lemon soda. Not bad, considering I was expecting to have to down chaulky sludge in preparation for this adventure. Patients tend to have a reaction anywhere from 30 minutes to 6 hours later. Since I got called into work that night, I am happy to report that this did not kick in for 5.5 hours, by which time I was joyfully at home, in close proximity to my toilet, I might add. Just before dozing off into what I thought would be a pleasant slumber, I ingested four enteric coated Bisacodyl tablets like a good little patient. And thus began the frequent flyer miles from my bed to the commode, peeing through my butt. Too much information, you think to yourself. Well, my friend, read on. I finally did get a stretch of sleep only to be interrupted at 4:40am by an unsympathetic operator. So what the heck, while I was up, I might as well rack up that mileage I began accruing the night before. To finish the checklist off, I administered the Fleet Bisacodyl Enema 45 minutes before I had to leave for the hospital, having timed it by the 15-30 minute reaction time spelled out on the preparation sheet. No worries, since my colon was running on empty, right?

Turning the corner from Churchill onto El Camino, I was struck by a sudden feeling of "was the sushi I ate last night bad?", even though I had not eaten since Sunday. Oh, and then the feeling that can only be described as explosive diarrhea fell upon my seatbelted self. Debating whether to turn into Pali High and then Town and Country or just simply pull over to the side of the road, while scanning the entire front half of my vehicle for a plastic bag (I need not tell you what primitive idea I was toying with), I mustered enough mental capacity to beg God for the physical strength to keep my britches clean. I, of course, tagged behind the slowest senior citizen with no knowledge of the workings of the parking garage, but eventually found a spot near the elevator entrance. Let me tell you how slowly an elevator can travel one flight when there is impending tragedy at hand. Needless to say, relief did come not just in time, but in time.

I'd like to proclaim the actual procedure to be uncomfortable yet bearable, but then I'd be lying. Descriptive phrases that come to mind include disgustingly painful, terribly long, and embarrassingly unprivate (thanks Adam and Eve, for making us need fig leaves). It's an intriguing process to have someone inject barium solution into your colon, stand the table you're sprawled out on up to drain the fluid, pump air into you between x-rays, and roll you around to make sure every nook and cranny is covered. I now know what it feels like to be shaken and not stirred. The nurse and doctor tried to warn me about how my body would react to introducing foreign instruments where the sun don't shine, but let me just say that my mind was not prepared for the inflation of the balloon that was supposed to keep the tip from being pushed out. God designed the muscles down there to push in one direction, and one direction only. But I was in this for the duration, as if I had any choice. The first introduction of air made me feel like I instantaneously acquired a stomach virus; my whole body felt ill. That feeling decided to accompany me on my entire 45 minute journey. And every twist and turn caused my insides to struggle for relief. So much so that in the midst of my second 360 degree log roll, that balloon proved ineffective. Couple the doctor's cautionary warning to "just keep the barium in!" with the sudden realization that I might have to endure this torture again, and let's just say that barium stayed put. Who thought of this test anyhow??

How wonderful it was to see the radiologist leave. That meant 12 more pictures and then freedom. And that finally came. Finally.

I do not recommend having this procedure done. But I give thanks for all the prayers and the virtual hand holding - the Lord spared me today with clean results! Phew. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to visit the little girls' room...

Total Eclipse of the Heart

Last week, I was especially rocked by the profound truth that "if you don’t love God, you can’t do anybody any ultimate good." This hasn't always been my struggle, perhaps because I selectively dole out care, avoiding those who would cause me to question the Christian creed to turn the other cheek. So the connection of my loving God allowing me to love others isn't at the forefront of my mind. But to love God, how could that be so tough, seeing how He's loved me despite my constant failings. But recently I've come to the end of my rope in loving each and every soul around me, be they family, friends, coworkers, and especially the unaware driver I have the unfortunate misfortune of almost hitting in the parking lot of Ranch 99.

God continued to knock my noggin through Piper's preaching that "The main reason we don’t love God and find it burdensome to love people is that our cravings are for the things of the world. They may be good things. They may be bad things. They may be material things. They may be relational. Whatever their form, they are not God. And when we crave them above God, they are idols. They replace love for God and love for people." I am not adverse to the premise that the way or the amount or the quality of my love for God is not sufficient. In fact, I would not be at a loss to delineate many of those cravings. And perhaps this is why I have been so frustrated in my so-called service of late, to the ones I love. Sourced through my own strength, my "giving to" and "doing for" efforts have not been well received. Even if the gift is something they would accept, they complain about why they don't need it, why they don't like it, and how it is simply all wrong. My attempts to serve garner a similar, demoralizing response. But God would see fit to seize this opportunity to pour out this seemingly illogical inspiration into my head, rationalizing away my paralysis-rendering discouragement. Of course I cannot do good without His good. Of course my love on its own is not what they need. Of course.

Let's hope this divinely fortuitous revelation can redirect my misguided path, not towards them, but towards Him.

Here I Go Again

"With great power comes great responsibility." Spiderman got it half right. Add in adulthood, and the responsiblity factor increases at least twofold. I didn't ask to grow up or become competent enough to claim self-reliance, but here I am, in my 30s, supposedly an adult, and supposedly responsible. Yahoo.

Instead of feeling proud of traversing a long and arduous path, arguably accomplishing much, I feel defeated. It's as if life has beat me down only to wallop me in the head and then in the gutt just as I crawl to my feet, and there I am again, communing with the floor. Surprisingly I am not disheartened by this rather loathesome state. Instead, I have become resigned to this being the involuntary, systematic cycle I affectionately call my own private "sin-wave". No, not sine wave. SIN wave. Okay, so it's not always sin that directs my plane into a downward tailspin. But it sure is a plausible explanation of my dizzingly predictable existence.

Not to worry; I am not angry or depressed. This is my plight, and I'm gonna eat it, thank you very much.

Can't Get There From Here

How do you punish effort? Or rather, how can you punish effort? In two rather atypical cases, I find myself with a pair of beaver-like gentlemen who must have a clinical condition barring them from saying no (if there isn't a name for that, they should come up with one). Their everyday work ethic is to be applauded and used as the standard to which their coworkers should strive. But from an external perspective, if you decouple the process from the outcome, you can see an obvious lack of results, because the extra mile walked ended up at the wrong destination. So then comes review time, when ultimately the individual is looking for acknowledgement of who they are (sadly their identity is often wrapped up in their profession). And to everyone's dismay, they are chided for poor choices leading them to practically ignore higher priority tasks. But what choice do I have?

As children, we hear parents and teachers preaching that as long as we did our best, that would be enough. But what they failed to tell us is that there's a world out there that demands results and could care less about what we did and how much work it took to get there. That's not to say we should whip our children into proverbial shape, but it does seem a bit counterproductive to build up their self-esteem only to let the real world beat them down.

Okay, I admit that's a cynical way to look at it, but when I myself am measured by my results, how can I allow my direct reports to stray the course?

More often than not, the extra money ain't worth it.

The Remedy

Growth group these last few weeks has been interesting in a somewhat uncomfortable way. It seems that God is challenging a handful of people around me to wait on Him, but in the waiting, they grow increasingly impatient to the point of despair. A young man visiting us for the first time cried as he shared of his struggle to find a job that used his gifts, and June shared that one of her sons also shed tears while talking about his struggle to find his first job out of college. And then there are two dear friends whose hearts have been terribly broken over the loss of men who they thought were there with them for their lifetimes. How much my heart aches when I remember being in the throes of depression because of similar circumstances. I wish I could have taken a double heaping then to shelter them from theirs now.

People close to me seem to be experiencing health scares as well, and I am not yet convinced it has anything to do with age. My own recent blood screening shows some abnormality that is "nothing to worry about", until you read the fine print, where talk of early demise seems to be a common theme. In all this turmoil, I find myself helpless, though desperately wanting to strip away pain from my hurting friends. Praying seems to be the only remedy.

The one thing, though, that strikes me in all of this is how God's will is bigger than a single decision. God has given me peace about certain decisions so much so, that whichever way I stepped, God would still gain glory and bless me in the process. What I find is most important is my position in relation to God in that decision, so that when it's not a matter of right versus wrong, it's a matter of submission and desire to let God lead. No one can stymie His destiny for us. We can make some bad choices, though, making the path there more painful, but God will get us there. It's all a matter of trusting God. Molly shared with me something profound that C.H. Welch wrote: "The Lord may not definitely have planned that this should overtake me, but He has most certainly permitted it. Therefore though it were an attack of an enemy, by the time it reaches me, it has the Lord's permission and therefore all is well. He will make it work together with all life's experiences for good."

I am so relieved to know that God is good, and even more glad to know that He loves me with all His goodness.

Who Do You Think I Am?

I finally made the time to look up my categorical personality transformation, according to the pervasive Myers and Briggs. I most definitely earned my Inspector title back in my college days, and as a dear friend summed it up, "you have ice running through your veins". There has been much change since then, though, including a dramatic disappearance of an irrational anger. I also admit that the "F" in me has since completely emerged, often surprising even myself in the way I cannot control my tear ducts (maybe it's just a medical condition?). But I adhere to my sister's theory that we were emotionally repressed growing up, and so we are simply making up for lost time (my apologies to y'all who must endure the emotionally unstable Annie). I wonder, though, how much of this gradual change has to do with maturity that comes with becoming a responsible adult and how much has to do with the internal grinding and refining the Lord has seen fit to do. All I know is that He is not done with me yet.

Inspector (then) - ISTJs have a keen sense of right and wrong, especially in their area of interest and/or responsibility. They are noted for devotion to duty and their punctuality. ISTJs often give the initial impression of being aloof and perhaps somewhat cold. Effusive expression of emotional warmth is not something that ISTJs do without considerable energy loss. They seem to perform at highest efficiency when employing a step-by-step approach. Once a new procedure has proven itself, the ISTJ can be depended upon to carry it through, even at the expense of their own health. ISTJs are easily frustrated by the inconsistencies of others, especially when the second parties don't keep their commitments. But they usually keep their feelings to themselves unless they are asked. And when asked, they don't mince words. Truth wins out over tact.

Provider (now) - ESFJs are generous entertainers. They enjoy and joyfully observe traditions and are liberal in giving, especially where custom prescribes. All else being equal, ESFJs enjoy being in charge. They see problems clearly and delegate easily, work hard and play with zest. ESFJs are easily wounded. And when wounded, their emotions will not be contained. Not that the ESFJ is paranoid; "hyper-vigilant" would be more precise.

Always Something There to Remind Me

"Be joyful always; pray continually; give thanks in all circumstances, for this is God's will for you in Christ Jesus." 1 Thessalonians 5:16-17

But...but...but...oy.

Surrender

I'm ready. I am so ready to give it all up - the job, the family, and whatever requires effort. I feel spent, like I have no power left to push past the status quo. I don't want to resolve, but I know I should. I don't want to work, but I have to pay the bills. I don't want to run, but there's that pesky race looming. I have no desire to even smile, which if you know me, is a chore in itself (I am not predisposed to pleasant facial expressions). The stress on my face is so apparent that a coworker decided to write my resignation letter for me. With a few slight amendments, I think it will be good to go.

Mark,

As the quarter is rapidly coming to a close and review time not far behind, I am thinking about my next position in TTC. My 2-year tour of duty, and believe me it has been a war, will come to a close soon – just in time for Christmas. For most people time flies, but for me I feel 10 years older.

Let’s consider the Annie before and after I (under duress you will recall) took this insane production management job.

Before: Happy, young, well-liked, actually had time to golf.
After: Happy (now that you can take back your job and shove it), sprouted at least 2 gray hairs per week for the last 104 weeks, people try and hide when seeing me come, and I’m lucky to be able to still spell “golf.” Not to mention that I know Rita on a professional level way more than I ever wanted.

Remind me again why you thought this was a good idea? This is not my-bad; I think it is your-bad.

So you have had 2 years to think about this. What do you think?

Ms. Annie B. Chang,
ENGINEER, formally production mgr.

What a terrible feeling of listlessness. It's exactly what I preach against at the office, and yet here I am, sucked into the quagmire of mediocrity. I would look for the root cause of this newfound apathy, but then that would take energy.

"It will be like a hungry man dreaming that he is eating, only to awaken and find that his stomach is empty. It will be like a thirsty man dreaming that he is drinking, only to awaken and find that he is still weak and his thirst unquenched." Isa 29:8

You Make Everything Glorious

"You make everything glorious,
You make everything glorious,
You make everything glorious,
And I am yours,
What does that make me?"

As much as I think David Crowder is a little strange (have you seen this guy?), he does write lyrics that resonate in me from time to time. Usually I'm touched by a melody, rarely just by the words of a song. But this particular exerpt appeals to the engineer in me. The syllogism makes sense. But do I live like I really believe it? Perhaps it's the Asian humility that stirs up the inner turmoil, as it has always been a struggle figuring how to live out the tenet that God is proud of His creation, that being me. I suppose it's because many of the decisions in my life have not been glorifying, choosing to follow temptation's path just short of my own destruction, you know, not thinking about the consequences of going after all that temporal "good" stuff. Having not gone through the mental exercise of decoupling my poor choices with His creation has not helped either. Add in a pinch of culturally induced brainwashing, and you have for a not so glorifying perspective on this life. So how much less glory do I offer to my Creator in the way I look down on myself? There is a balance of humility and marvel to be struck in me that I pray He will help me achieve...sometime in this lifetime, perhaps.

Soon and very soon.

More Than Fine

Have you ever asked someone how they're doing, but tossed back at you is an insincere "fine"? This isn't delivered with any kind of malice; you just get the feeling that there is more going on underneath the claim of normalcy. Well I'm here to break the mold and profess that I ain't fine. Perhaps the offshift hours have finally taken their toll or I've finally reached the limits of my so-called relational agility, but staring at the ceiling seems to be a part of my nightly routine these days. Just wishing that they would leave me alone probably isn't the best of options, but secretly, I hope for that. It feels wrong to "wish them away", but helplessness can often lead me to desperate, not so realistic thoughts.

In this life, there will be trials. But is there never to be reprieve, if only for a moment? I think I got a tiny taste of fleeting happiness on Sunday afternoon, when I shot a 37 on the front nine at Deep Cliff. A birdie, along with setting myself up for a handful of pars definitely helped. I can't say my back nine was as good, but for a combined personal best of 79, it was a good day of golf for me. But then coming into the clubhouse, life came back into focus, and once again, its pressures bore down without mercy.

Fortunately for me, God reminded me that He has invited me to share in His joy. Truly, His mercies are new every morning, even after losing in a staring contest with my vaulted ceiling. It's an interesting cycle to experience - bringing stress to bed, only to cast them on my Savior so the morning is new and less burdensome. I hope the load gets lighter with every night of rest; I'll let you know if it's true when I can begin to lift it on my own. Or maybe I'll just let Him carry it until it's gone. My back will thank Him for it.

What's your sleep number?

Sunday

Huddled together under the sparse shade of the surprisingly less than adequate umbrella (certainly Starbucks could spring for larger patio furniture), we laughed and lamented the impending start of the new school year. Grateful to be immune to the fall's back to school anxiety, my happy go lucky attitude turned into a bit of amazement, both in a good and somewhat regretful way. I was a bit awe struck thinking about what would motivate adolescents to want to hang out with not-as-hip adults. Could it be the free algebra tutoring? Or how about the free pass to hide behind the sound board during service? Oh I know. It's the free rides around town when the parents can't play chauffeur. Well, whatever the reason, I guess the Lord makes us relational in ways we don't always deem "expected".

But what struck me more was an unexpected sadness that the grande Frappachinos and Chai teas (which Kamala's mom mistakenly orders as "tai chi") we were clutching were the primary drivers for my challenge to spend a daily five minutes with God for a week. The Type A-er in me wanted to see change - that those five minutes of fellowship would spur them onto a desire to give that time to God without any external motivation. I wanted to hear that their times were so good that five extended into ten, and the value of being in the Lord's company was well worth the investment. But I suppose I should leave the growth part to God. In the meantime, I'll keep watering, even if it is with hot white chocolate.

Nothing’s sacred, the days are cheap
Truth is thin on the ground
Still our prophets are crucified
Nobody believes we’re stumbling
It’s Friday, but Sunday is coming

Someone’s saying a prayer tonight
For hungry mouths to be filled
Someone kneels in the dark somewhere
And darkness is already crumbling
It’s Friday, but Sunday comes

(Chorus) Sunday – Hallelujah – it’s not so far, it’s not so far away
Sunday – Hallelujah – it’s not so far, it’s not so far away

Broken promises, weary hearts
But one promise remains: Crucified, he will come again
It’s Friday, but Sunday is coming
It’s Friday, but Sunday comes (Chorus)

Darkness is already crumbling
It’s Friday, but Sunday is coming

Just for the record, I don't think teenagers should be allowed to drink coffee. There, I said it.

Fear

Coming to a threeway intersection on the way to the next tee box, I was practically thrown out of the cart when my driver slammed on the brakes (whiplash hardly begins to describe what I experienced with all the rather abrupt stopping that afternoon). A right turn would turn us uphill into a wooded area. A left turn carried us down into an equally wooded unknown. And going straight invited us to bump on down a pothole riddled, narrow path just wide enough to squeeze us through. Of course, no tee box to be seen from where we sat. But how can I know what will happen if we choose to veer right, towards the shaded, less paved path? Is there enough room up there to make a U-turn? If only course knowledge came with a paid green fee.

Will I carry regret with me for years to come if I say no? How will he feel if I take steps this way instead of that way? How will she treat me if I do invest that time for that particular thing? There is always risk involved when a decision cannot be calculated or extrapolated, without that valuable course knowledge. And sometimes that risk brings fear...fear of the unknown. But if we never move, how do we ever get anywhere? How can I ever get to the next tee box?

When you do what you know is true, things get clearer. When you don't do what you know is true, what you don't know paralyzes you.

This statement struck me enough to cause me to risk my life, fumbling to find a pen to write down the nugget of truth on the remnant of a Post-It while I drove to my dental appointment. When I don't stand on the rock of truth, I cannot budge. Fear grips me to waver and even avoid the issue. But how I am fueled with confidence when my faith in God cements truth behind my actions. I have no need to doubt, no need to regret, no need to weigh the dissenting opinions of those who find it necessary to voice their thoughts.

And so I listen and look intently for God's leading, letting faith be the data I rest on to inch my lead feet forward with itty bitty nudges that grow bigger with that faith. Can't wait to dance with God!

My Way

Morgan Pressel pulled out driver on her approach to the green on the par 4, 14th hole in the final round of the US Open at Pine Needles. I suppose being 4 shots behind the lead with only four holes to go can make you whip out the big stick when you're not on the tee box. And to my utter amazement, I did not hear any protests from the announcers in regards to club selection. Instead, they remarked that it had come down to doing what you gotta do when you wanna save a stroke to win. On top of that, they sarcastically remarked, "How often do you get to practice this shot?" I had to laugh out loud, because I have heckled a fellow golfer for pulling out his driver on the fairway, even though that's his most reliable club. You just don't do that, y'know?

The other day, I picked up a copy of Golf magazine, of which I am four months behind reading. My scanning eyes happen to get stuck on the monthly "Cool Shots" article that coincidentally read, "Hitting Your Driver off the Deck". Now that had to be one of those times when God says to the nearest angel, "Watch this" punctuated by a big grin. Apparently this is not an original shot, so much so, we need to be taught the proper way to do it.

God continually has a sense of humor when it comes to these life lessons. In all this, I was keenly listening to what God wanted to teach me, since it definitely wasn't the golf shot (I can hardly hit the driver off the tee box; there'd be no way I could hit it off the fairway). For most of my life, I have been aware of a sense of doing things in a particular way. As an example, I very much prefer that cups and smaller bowls are placed in the upper carrier of my dishwasher, while pots and plates go in the bottom. My brother doesn't seem to share the same sentiment. In fact, I rather doubt he has sentiment at all when it comes to placement of dirty dishes. I have learned to suppress this frustration, though, since it is so not worth an argument. But I do not think suppression is what God wants me to go after. I feel He is telling me to let go of things that are not a matter of right and wrong. Let Rich put a cup in the lower carrier. Let my golfing friend use his Taylor Made on the short grass. Let them be who they are, and enjoy who God made them to be. Lighten up, Annie, and enjoy God's creation. I think I will find that they enjoy me more too.

In the meantime, do you think you can teach me how to hit my driver off the tee, God?

Baby Come Back

A few days ago, I noticed an eerie shadow protruding slightly behind the sponge that sits on the far side of my bathtub. The shadow didn't disappear with the time of day, so after awhile, I finally mustered up the courage to investigate. That little shadow was the short stem of a baby flower! I quickly recalled the cleanup from some gardening I had done just a week ago, and realized that this scrubber, which was just one step away from the dumpster, lay host to a new plant. Once used for the occasional tub scrubdown, that raggedy ol' sponge had transformed into the new home for a poppy sprout.

Just recently, I was once again struck by the awesomeness of God's redemptive nature - His extraordinary ability to redeem that which was lost, and even that which is outright antagonistic, where He is consciously forsaken. Our souls can be dead in the world, but then the Spirit reinflates our hearts the moment we turn back towards Him. How close to that trash bin we can be, and then suddenly, there is life renewed. What an opportune time for that sprout to bring life to that seemingly useless sponge. Rubbish becomes the bearer of new life. So once again, I was reminded that the Lord confirms the truth He communicates to us. I bet that's just God's form of punctuation. "Let's just make sure they know it's Me and that's My message...period...for now." But oh, just to hear His sweet voice. It's music to my ears.

If we would just stop feeding Him illustrations, maybe He could stop preaching. Until then, I'm going to first service to get a seat up front. Wanna join me?

Let Go Part II

All I have in my head for this entry is the urge to let go. God has been admonishing me to more than just be still, be patient, and wait. He has been admonishing me to let go. It's like that feeling of learning to ski. As a beginner, I was stiff and unyielding, overadjusting and flexing every muscle to compensate for the imbalanced slipping and sliding on the slopes. Once I relaxed a bit (mind you, this took a couple seasons), the turns came much more easily. I don't know about you, but it is amazing to me how much easier it is to capitulate than it is to labor, and yet I fight it every step of the way.

It is burdensome to hang onto what ails you or what you don't understand or what is not completely in your control. People can easily fall into one of those categories. We're all so different, and those who find their way into the intimate confines of your constitution can be, well (if I may call the glass half empty), liabilities. You risk their making a misguided move only to wound you. It is a gamble we willing take in order to enjoy the fruit of friendship, and better yet, fellowship. But when the inevitable contusions are inflicted, forgiveness is the only way those wounds and scars can heal.

In Matthew 5:3, Jesus wisely affirmed this in the truth that "blessed are the poor in Spirit". How ironic is it that once we reach the end of our proverbial rope, God will go beyond our earthly limitations if only we ask Him.

And so I humbly acquiesce, I willingly yield, I surrender all. "...Yet not my will, but yours be done." (Luke 22:42)

Looking forward to the freedom.

Sifting through my past blog entries, I was surprised to see that in my first edition of Let Go (http://anniebob.blogspot.com/2006/01/let-go.html); God was teaching me something somewhat different.

Long Way to Go

Friday, 24 May, Sunol Valley Palm Course, Hole #8 195 yards to the center of the green.

As we waited for the green to clear, my impatience surveyed the situation - an impending, unwelcomed gallery and the opportunity to tee off first in my foursome (as my fellow golfmates had decent chances to land the green). My driver was the perfect club for this hole, as it had never allowed me the luxury of more than 200 yards. My debate to hit or not lasted all of 10 seconds, at which time I stood up on the box, launched my slightly scuffed Lady's Precept straight at the pin, and fished up my brush tee before seeing the ball land. Chip and putt for par was the last thing I thought while my buddies prepped for their shots.

Driving up to the green, we counted 1 on the green, a 2nd near the right bunker, and a 3rd in the sand trap. Driving donuts in front and to the right of the green, we all could not believe my straight shot was nowhere to be found. So I settled for a drop and the unsatisfying feeling of having hit a decent shot that would get lost in a double bogey or worse. But as I scurried to my back of the green chip, I noticed a ball about 15 yards beyond the green. There it was, over 220 yards from where I had smacked it. In disbelief, I chipped on, and two putted for bogey. Good thing I let those guys in front of us clear before I hit!

Not a hole in one, and not even par, but passing the 200 yard mark was pretty sweet. When's our next tee time?