tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31942622416861266522024-03-14T02:25:15.770-05:00OT ProphetessMusings of an OT professor on the Bible, Celtic spirituality, animal rights and theology, and whatever else comes to mind.Susan Pigotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09562487595337173857noreply@blogger.comBlogger24125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3194262241686126652.post-31145931609063603132010-03-23T15:43:00.001-06:002010-03-23T15:44:21.069-06:00A poem in honor of IPad Announcement Eve:<div><br /></div><div><!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"><a name="OLE_LINK1"></a><a name="OLE_LINK7"></a><a name="OLE_LINK8"></a><a name="OLE_LINK9"></a><a name="OLE_LINK10"></a><a name="OLE_LINK11"></a><a name="OLE_LINK12"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK11"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK10"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK9"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK8"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK7"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK1">'Twas the night before Apple</span></span></span></span></span></span></a></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK12"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK11"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK10"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK9"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK8"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK7"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK1">held the Great Event.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK12"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK11"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK10"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK9"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK8"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK7"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK1">All the bloggers were blogging</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK12"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK11"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK10"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK9"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK8"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK7"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK1">predictions rampant.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p> <span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK1"></span> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK12"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK11"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK10"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK9"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK8"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK7"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></span></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK12"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK11"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK10"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK9"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK8"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK7"><a name="OLE_LINK2">The fanboys and fangirls</a></span></span></span></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK12"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK11"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK10"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK9"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK8"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK7"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK2">sat up in their beds,</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK12"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK11"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK10"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK9"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK8"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK7"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK2">Whilst visions of Mac tablets</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK12"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK11"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK10"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK9"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK8"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK7"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK2">danced in their heads.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p> <span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK2"></span> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK12"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK11"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK10"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK9"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK8"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK7"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></span></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK12"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK11"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK10"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK9"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK8"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK7"><a name="OLE_LINK3">And Steve, in his turtleneck</a></span></span></span></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK12"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK11"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK10"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK9"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK8"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK7"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK3">pressed his remote,</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK12"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK11"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK10"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK9"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK8"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK7"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK3">And practiced the timing</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK12"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK11"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK10"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK9"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK8"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK7"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK3">for his new Keynote.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p> <span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK3"></span> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK12"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK11"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK10"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK9"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK8"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK7"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></span></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK12"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK11"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK10"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK9"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK8"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK7"><a name="OLE_LINK4">The press oohed and aahed</a></span></span></span></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK12"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK11"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK10"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK9"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK8"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK7"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK4">at the Tablet displayed</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK12"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK11"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK10"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK9"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK8"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK7"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK4">The Internet twittered</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK12"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK11"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK10"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK9"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK8"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK7"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK4">"We want it!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>We'll pay!"</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p> <span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK4"></span> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK12"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK11"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK10"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK9"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK8"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK7"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></span></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK12"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK11"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK10"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK9"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK8"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK7"><a name="OLE_LINK5">Sir Steve merely smiled</a></span></span></span></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK12"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK11"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK10"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK9"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK8"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK7"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK5">and then he did state,</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK12"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK11"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK10"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK9"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK8"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK7"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK5">"I give you my tablet</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK12"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK11"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK10"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK9"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK8"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK7"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK5">My best work to date."</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p> <span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK5"></span> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK12"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK11"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK10"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK9"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK8"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK7"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></span></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK12"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK11"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK10"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK9"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK8"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK7"><a name="OLE_LINK6">"Go now, one and all!</a></span></span></span></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK12"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK11"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK10"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK9"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK8"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK7"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK6">To the Apple Store--fly!</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK12"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK11"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK10"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK9"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK8"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK7"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK6">The iPad is here!</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK12"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK11"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK10"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK9"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK8"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK7"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK6">New world order is nigh!</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK12"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK11"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK10"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK9"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK8"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK7"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK6"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p> <span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK6"></span> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK12"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK11"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK10"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK9"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK8"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK7"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></span></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK12"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK11"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK10"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK9"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK8"><span style="mso-bookmark:OLE_LINK7">By Susan Pigott</span></span></span></span></span></span></p> <!--EndFragment--> </div>Susan Pigotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09562487595337173857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3194262241686126652.post-21699795516727780332009-03-28T07:54:00.001-06:002009-03-28T07:54:27.848-06:00OCTD: Obsessive Compulsive Twittering Disorder<div style="text-align:center;"><img src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_yvPHGtYsloc/Sc4r-swOv6I/AAAAAAAAAmA/LmqOnVtjc8M/Untitled.png?imgmax=800" alt="Untitled.png" border="0" width="163" height="37" /></div><br /><br />I have a new problem.<br /><br />I discovered Twitter. This is a bad thing. Because, even though I really don't understand Twitter or why anyone uses it, I've come down with OCTD: Obsessive Compulsive Twittering Disorder.<br /><br />It started innocently enough. I signed up for Twitter (for the second time; I gave up in puzzlement the first time), and I offered my first update. No big deal.<br /><br />Then I updated again, and I noted I felt a little rush, sort of like the first draw on a cigarette (not that I smoke--except for once, with my cousin Janelle, who taught me how to do it outside a Pizza Hut in Raytown, MO, but that's another story). I felt a rush upon hitting the update button; a little spike of happiness that caused a mini-endorphine party in my brain. Nice!<br /><br />Twitter asks you, "What are you doing?" It's an open-ended question that calls to me like a Siren. "What are you doing?" Well, right now I am . . .<br /><br />And so I update again. And again. And again. <br /><br />The reality is that, hardly anyone is following me, and I sincerely doubt that those six people are interested in the fact that I am waiting with anticipation for my new DSi or that I watched a movie. <br /><br />But, strangely, it doesn't matter! That's because each time I update, I am rewarded with undeniable satisfaction that I am actually <em>doing</em> something! Ah! Affirmation! Productivity! I'm alive!!!<br /><br />Now twittering is like a food craving that I must satisfy. I can't stop thinking about updating until I offer another tweet. Then, ten minutes later, the urge comes again and I can barely restrain myself. Indeed, the only thing that keeps me from giving in completely to my obsession is the fear of annoying my six loyal followers with relentless, inane tweets. <br /><br />Even as I am typing this, though, my mind is happily dancing toward the moment when I can update Twitter with "I just posted a new entry in my blog!" Blog schmog. I just wanna tweet.<br /><br />Susan Pigotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09562487595337173857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3194262241686126652.post-91981478894502936102009-03-26T06:22:00.001-06:002009-03-26T06:22:57.974-06:00Dog PoetryWell, I'm giving my blog a go again and trying out a new blog program called Marsedit. I decided that for this post I'd just publish some silly poems I wrote for the Nathaniel News, my son's newspaper he publishes occasionally for our family. These poems are by Calvin and Hobbes, our Labradors.<br /><br />Squirrel Popsicle<img src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_yvPHGtYsloc/SctzEHn5dwI/AAAAAAAAAl0/o7Vo1c3NYhU/DSC_0784.JPG.jpg?imgmax=800" alt="DSC_0784.JPG.jpg" border="0" width="320" height="213" align="right" <br /><br />Morning time.<br /><br />The daddy lets me out--where’s Mama? I pout!<br /><br />Run, run, smash into the door.<br /><br />I pushes me out--I go out before.<br /><br />(Hobbes is not the Alpha Male!)<br /><br />Sniff, smell. Whoa! Dead--something dead!<br /><br />Crunch!<br /><br />I crunches it in my mouth!<br /><br />A squirrel popsicle! Oh most YUM! My mouth drips goo!<br /><br />Rip!<br /><br />Aroof!<br /><br />The daddy grabbed my prize.<br /><br />He throws it over the fence. How dense!<br /><br />My crunchy squirrel’s demise . . . .<br /><br />Goodbye, my popsicle.<br /><br />Good bye.<br /><br />--by Calvin<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Mousey: A Poem<img src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_yvPHGtYsloc/SctzT0xwxKI/AAAAAAAAAl8/kXcZDI_oZb4/DSC_0750.JPG.jpg?imgmax=800" alt="DSC_0750.JPG.jpg" border="0" width="320" height="213" align="right" /><br /><br />Sticky. Dead. A Mouse.<br /><br />I take. I hold in my mouth.<br /><br />The Mama grabs--she holds a biscuit out.<br /><br />I bite. I swallow.<br /><br />Mouse and biscuit whole.<br /><br /><br />Burp.<br /><br />--by HobbesSusan Pigotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09562487595337173857noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3194262241686126652.post-24838363425490071312008-11-04T08:34:00.004-06:002008-11-04T08:54:57.499-06:00The Dobson 2012 Letter and the Reality of the Bush Administration's AbusesI've been absent from blogging for awhile due to my day job (which I sort of have to do) and a writing project (which is now complete).<div><br /></div><div>I don't have much time to do my own writing today, but I thought it intriguing to post two items which, in juxtaposition to one another, are quite striking. The first is James Dobson's<a href="http://focusfamaction.edgeboss.net/download/focusfamaction/pdfs/10-22-08_2012letter.pdf"> "Letter from 2012"</a> in which he posits an apocalyptic vision of America under an Obama presidency. The second is a <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2008/11/04/opinion/04tue1.html">NYT article</a> detailing some of the actual abuses of the Bush administration. The irony is that Dobson foresees a vision of an America where civil liberties are abused by a "Liberal Leftist" government, and, yet, the NYT article displays the reality of an America where civil liberties have been jettisoned by the current administration.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Susan Pigotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09562487595337173857noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3194262241686126652.post-54273722515685660442008-09-21T19:50:00.000-05:002008-09-21T20:53:47.453-05:00Stupid Bible Tricks # 1I’ve been a professor of Old Testament for sixteen years now, and in my profession you run into some very strange and, often, ridiculous interpretations of the Bible. I decided I would do a series called “Stupid Bible Tricks” to highlight several of these low moments in hermeneutics. Some are simply silly. Others are downright outrageous. Still others are becoming increasingly dangerous as their popularity spreads, and common sense is replaced by a mechanistic and almost magical view of scripture.<br /><br />The first Stupid Bible Trick I want to consider is what I’ll call “The Alef-Tav Sermon.” It falls into the downright outrageous category as it is based on huge jumps of (ill) logic and disregard for how language works. I first heard this sermon in a church where Kelly was on staff but was not the pastor. I was in seminary at the time, working on my Ph.D. The pastor was aware that I was specializing in Old Testament and that I knew Hebrew. <br /><br />It was Sunday morning, and I was seated behind the pulpit along with the other choir members. We had done all the typical Baptist preliminaries of worship in preparation for the highlight of the service: the sermon. As we sat down, the pastor arose, walked to the pulpit, and announced that he was going to preach a series of sermons called “Jesus in Genesis.” I groaned inwardly, because I knew that meant he would be christologizing the OT (i.e. inserting Christian ideas into the OT text in order to make the it seem more relevant). But I had no idea what he was going to do when he said, “And today, I will preach on Jesus Christ in Genesis chapter 1, verse 1.”<br /><br />I’m sure there were a few introductory illustrations and other content that allowed the sermon to extend to the mandatory 25 minutes, but what I remember of the sermon was this. The preacher read the text, “In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth.” Then he said, “Now, in between the word ‘created’ and the words ‘the heavens’ there’s a little Hebrew word called ‘<em>et</em>.’ He turned toward me, seated unsuspecting in the choir, and asked, ”Isn’t there, Susan?“ Shocked that I was being addressed at all during the sermon, and knowing that there was, indeed, that little word, I nodded. Smiling smugly, he turned back to the congregation and launched into what has to be the most appalling misuse of Hebrew I’ve ever heard.<br /><br />”Now,“ he said in his best Texas-preacher voice, ”that little word, ‘<em>et</em>,’ isn’t translated, so you can’t see it in your English Bible. But, it’s there, and here’s the amazing thing: it’s spelled <em>alef tav</em>. Now, the first letter of the Hebrew alphabet is <em>alef</em>. The last letter of the Hebrew alphabet is <em>tav</em>.“ His face began to turn red with excitement. The jugular veins were bulging as his voice grew louder. And, wiping the sweat beads from his forehead, he said profoundly: ”<em>Alef</em> and <em>tav</em>, the first and the last, the <em>Alpha</em>, the <em>Omega</em>! Jesus Christ in Genesis 1:1!!!!“ <br /><br />My jaw dropped, and I’m certain I turned scarlet red. He had just pulled off an incredibly stupid Bible trick, and he had used <em>me</em> to substantiate it. Of course I couldn’t just stand up in the choir loft and rebut him. No, there was nothing I could do but follow the other choir members out of the loft,. Bubbling with fury, I waited for my husband to return to the little trailer we called home. I busted forth with righteous indignation the moment he entered, declaring my intent to confront the preacher Monday morning and teach him a thing or two about Hebrew. <br /><br />But, Kelly’s calmer mind prevailed, and, in spite of the injustice, he counseled me to remain silent. Maintaining a good relationship with the pastor was pretty important if Kelly was going to keep his job, after all. <br /><br />So, I never got my moment in the pastor’s office, but each fall, with every new group of Hebrew students, I tell this story as an example of how <em>not</em> to use Hebrew. That little word, ”<em>et,</em>“ which functions as the sign of the direct object in Hebrew appears thousands of times in the Old Testament. If one claims that ”<em>et</em>“ in Genesis 1 refers to Jesus Christ, then wouldn’t one have to claim the same for every verse in which this little word appears? So what, then, does one do when the OT reads, ”And Adam knew “<em>et</em>” his wife, Eve“? Is Jesus right there in the middle? Oooo, a bit awkward, isn’t it?<br /><br />The sad thing is that I’m not the only one who has heard this sermon (though I doubt the other preachers had an unsuspecting Hebrew dupe in their churches). Indeed, apparently this is a ”stock“ sermon that came out of an institution of ”higher“ learning located in Dallas. Said institution has spawned many preachers who have regurgitated the <em>Alef Tav</em> sermon to their unwitting congregations. And so, this stupid Bible trick is propagated, while stalwart Hebrew teachers, wielding their grammars and lexicons, doggedly call their students to higher standards of interpretation. <br /><br />And so, the <em>Alef Tav</em> sermon earns the special distinction of being the first Stupid Bible Trick to make my list.<br /><br /><br />Susan Pigotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09562487595337173857noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3194262241686126652.post-20857462165747689322008-08-31T19:09:00.001-05:002008-08-31T20:15:18.572-05:00My Sister the SisterMy sister is a Sister, that is, a nun. And not just any kind of nun. She’s a full-blown habit-bedecked cloister-enclosed sort of nun. <br /><br />It’s kind of odd that Sister Mary Giovanna of the Sacred Stigmata P.C.C. (formerly Karen Lynn Day) came out of my family. We weren’t Catholic, you see. My parents, former Methodists, stopped attending church after a few disheartening episodes of church bullying (more on that later). Thus, Sundays were for sleeping late, reading the comics, and watching Dad mow the lawn in his Bermuda shorts and allergy mask.<br /><br />But something mysterious took root in my sister’s heart when she was a high school student. Her social studies class took a field trip to different churches in Albuquerque as part of a unit on religion. My sister said that when the group visited the Catholic church, she sensed God there.<br /><br />She decided to visit a Catholic church for real, so she called her friend Cindy, who was a Catholic, and asked if she could go with her to Mass the next Sunday. “Why?” Cindy asked, baffled. “Because I want to,” my sister replied.” “But, <em>why</em>?” Cindy repeated, incredulous that anyone should want to go to Mass voluntarily. <br /><br />But my sister did go voluntarily, and soon she was attending--religiously. <br /><br />None of us in the family really understood the extent to which Karen loved Catholicism. I suspect my parents thought it was a faze that she would eventually outgrow. Oh, but it wasn’t a faze.<br /><br />I remember the night she revealed to me her ultimate dreams, swearing me to secrecy. “Susan,” she said, her voice quivering with excitement. “I’m going to become a nun.” “Why?” I asked. “Because I want to do something that will allow me to pray and to sing and to play music all day long for God.” “Oh,” I said simply. I didn’t understand it completely, but I could sense her happiness. Besides, being a nun suited her.<br /><br />My parents, however, were crushed. In their view, she was throwing her life away, her potential locked up with a bunch of old maids who thought they were married to Jesus. As far as they were concerned, she might as well have joined a cult.<br /><br />But, they let her go even though it broke their hearts. She joined the Poor Clare Nuns, a Franciscan order. Happily, there was a monastery only four hours from Albuquerque, in Roswell, home of UFOs and about forty nuns.<br /><br />Over time, my folks learned to accept Karen’s choice, and, as she blossomed in the fertile soil of contemplative living, they even grew to celebrate it. <br /><br />Many people are quite curious when they find out my sister’s a nun. “What on earth does she do all day?” they wonder. “Doesn’t she want to get married?” others ask, mystified. “You mean she stays in that monastery <em>all</em> the time and doesn’t come out?” still others demand. And, there’s always the Evangelical who wants to know, “But, is she saved?”<br /><br />In response: (1) she prays for the world all day and in the middle of the night, too. (2) She considers herself married to Jesus, and I’ve heard he’s quite the bridegroom. (3) Yes, except for doctor’s appointments and medical emergencies. (4) She loves Jesus with her soul and has devoted her life entirely to God. What do you think?<br /><br />My sister’s Catholic; I’m Protestant. And, while we don’t always approach spirituality the same way, we’re both on the same journey. <br /><br />Personally, I think it’s pretty cool having a sister who’s a Sister.Susan Pigotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09562487595337173857noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3194262241686126652.post-63998092176612324902008-08-17T10:30:00.003-05:002008-08-17T21:58:17.095-05:00My Favorite Mac Software (So Far)I’ve owned my Macbook for almost two months now, and I’ve added a bunch of software that has been just terrific. I thought I would compile a list of software I have found to be the most helpful along with a “wish list” of things I hope to add in the future. As an academic, most of these programs relate to my job as an educator, but some are simply helpful things to have on a Mac. I’ve noted when the programs offer an educational discount to students and/or professors.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:18pt;">Applications I Own</span><br /><br /><span style="text-decoration: underline;">Adium</span> Instant messaging application. Adium has a highly customizable interface which makes it more fun to use than iChat. Unfortunately you can’t do video chat with it, but since I don’t know many people who do video chat anyway, that isn’t a problem. Free. <a href="http://www.adiumx.com/">http://www.adiumx.com/</a><br /><br /><span style="text-decoration: underline;">AppZapper</span> An application that completely removes other applications you no longer want on your Mac. Since I’ve been experimenting with lots of new programs, it’s nice to have something that gets rid of all the extraneous, hidden files when you delete an application off your computer. $12.95. <a href="http://www.appzapper.com/">http://www.appzapper.com/</a><br /><br /><span style="text-decoration: underline;">Bookpedia </span> A terrific program that allows you to catalog your library. The best part is that you can use your iSight camera to read the barcodes on books--then all the information on the book is automatically loaded into the application. If you can’t find the cover art for a book, you can use the iSight camera to photograph the book itself (the program automatically provides a grid so you can place the book cover properly). A free iPhone version is available so that you can carry your library with you everywhere. Note: Bookpedia is substantially cheaper than the better-known Delicious Library (which is $40.00), and while Delicious might have more “bells and whistles,” if it does, I couldn’t figure out what made it so much more expensive. $18.00. <a href="http://www.bruji.com/bookpedia/">http://www.bruji.com/bookpedia/</a><br /><br /><span style="text-decoration: underline;">Circus Ponies Notebook</span> Note taking software that utilizes a notebook metaphor. I initially purchased this as a replacement for the Windows-only One Note, and while I may continue using it for note taking, I’m seriously considering Scrivener (see below) which seems more suited to the kind of research and writing I do. Nevertheless, I have found a wonderful application for this program. I have converted a textbook I wrote into Notebook format. For the past ten years, or so, I’ve printed this textbook through our university printshop and asked students to purchase it through our bookstore. With Circus Ponies Notebook, however, I’ve turned the text into an Internet-based document (you can export the notebook in HTML). Now, students can click on weblinks and go directly to those pages. I’ve been able to add numerous illustrations, links within the document itself, and images. It’s completely transformed my book into something dynamic and interactive. Plus, it will be much easier to update and revise than the printed version I used to produce. $49.95; academic license $29.95. <a href="http://www.circusponies.com/">http://www.circusponies.com/</a><br /><br /><span style="text-decoration: underline;">Eaglefiler</span> A database filing system. Eaglefiler provides a place to file all your digital detritus (or, as the case may be, all your important digital stuff). You can put almost anything in Eaglefiler, including PDFs, web archives, pictures, sound files, etc. One of the best features of Eaglefiler is its hot key function, which allows you to set up a key combination to save web pages as web archives. You needn’t leave Safari or whatever web browser you’re in to use the hot key. Eaglefiler also has a drop box function that you can set up, but thus far I haven’t figured out how to use it efficiently. It’s really nice to have a place to put old email (you can archive your Mac inbox in Eaglefiler), store web pages and PDFs, and accumulate research materials. I wavered between Eaglefiler and <a href="http://www.devon-technologies.com/">Devonthink Pro</a> for a long time, but the simplicity of Eaglefiler is what won me over. That, and the price. Devonthink Pro was considerably more expensive and its interface wasn’t user friendly. $40; educational discount 33% = $26.80. <a href="http://c-command.com/eaglefiler/">http://c-command.com/eaglefiler/</a><br /><br /><span style="text-decoration: underline;">EazyDraw</span> An illustration program. I’m using this to create illustrations for my Old Testament Overview textbook (see Notebook above). In spite of the name, I’ve found this program anything but easy to use. The interface is somewhat clunky (but that may be because I’m still figuring out how to use it). Nevertheless, I’ve been able to create some pretty cool illustrations with it. $95 (but you can have full use of the program for 9 months for $20). <a href="http://www.eazydraw.net/">http://www.eazydraw.net/</a><br /><br /><span style="text-decoration: underline;">Growl</span> A notification program that integrates with Adium, Gmail, NetNewsWire, Shovebox, Macjournal and many other programs. Offers an unobtrusive pop-up window which is configurable. Free. <a href="http://growl.info/">http://growl.info/</a><br /><br /><span style="text-decoration: underline;">LaunchBar</span> Easily launch applications and other things using the keyboard rather than mouse. $20. <a href="http://www.obdev.at/products/launchbar/index.html">http://www.obdev.at/products/launchbar/index.html</a><br /><br /><span style="text-decoration: underline;">MacJournal</span> Journal writing software with easy export to blog. I chose this one because I preferred its UI over other journaling programs. One feature I especially like is full screen mode, which gives you a dark screen, green type (which is surprisingly easy on the eyes), and hides all other distractions. I use this feature quite often when I want to focus only on writing. $34.95 with a 25% off discount for educators making it $26.21. <a href="http://www.marinersoftware.com/sitepage.php?page=85">http://www.marinersoftware.com/sitepage.php?page=85</a><br /><br /><span style="text-decoration: underline;">NetNewsWire</span> RSS reader. I tried Google Reader, but it was just overkill--too much on one page all at once. I love the interface of NetNewsWire. It’s simple; it sits in my dock and lets me know if it’s downloaded anything, and there’s an iPhone version. Free. <a href="http://www.newsgator.com/INDIVIDUALS/NETNEWSWIRE/">http://www.newsgator.com/INDIVIDUALS/NETNEWSWIRE/</a><br /><br /><span style="text-decoration: underline;">Novamind Pro</span> Mindmapping software. I downloaded the trial version of this and was instantly hooked. I’ve discovered that I am not a linear thinker, and mind mapping allows me to think in all directions at once. Novamind’s program is easy to use (though I’ve only scratched the surface of all that it’s capable of doing, so there is a learning curve), colorful, professional looking, and great for brainstorming, creating visuals of concepts, and even for diagrams. I’ve been using it for almost everything I do, from planning a garage sale to planning classes. Even though it’s by far the most expensive program I’ve purchased, it’s worth every penny, and I highly recommend it. $149; with the educational discount, $104. <a href="http://www.novamind.com/">http://www.novamind.com/</a><div><br /><span style="text-decoration: underline;">Shovebox</span> Quick note program with filing capabilities. I tried Sidenote, but it drove me crazy--it would pop out when I really didn’t want it to. Shovebox sits quietly in your menubar. You can drag things straight to the menubar, highlight text in another application and set a hotkey that will past it into Shovebox, and you can set up a hotkey for “Quickjot” whenever you need to write a note or reminder but don’t want to leave the application you’re in. You can easily drag URLs, pictures, web archives--anything to Shovebox for later filing. Very handy. $24.95; with 40% student discount, $14.97. <a href="http://www.wonderwarp.com/shovebox/">http://www.wonderwarp.com/shovebox/</a><br /><br /><span style="text-decoration: underline;">SplashID</span> Secure storage of data. I started using SplashID when I had a Treo 600. It’s an excellent program for filing any secure information. I have the iPhone desktop version, so I can sync the data on my Mac with my iPhone so I always have it with me. This program has saved me multiple times, because I can’t remember user names and passwords. Plus, for online shopping it’s very handy because you can store credit card information on it. The best feature, in my view, is the quick copy button. On the right side of any fill-in information is a little clipboard. You click that once to copy your credit card number, password, etc. That way, none of your keystrokes can be copied by identity thieves. What I don’t like about this software is that it still looks just like Treo software. It’s inelegant and kind of clunky. I have eWallet on my iPhone as well, and it has a beautiful interface. When they come out with a desktop version, I’ll probably switch to <a href="http://www.iliumsoft.com/site/iphone/products_ewallet.php">eWallet</a>. Desktop version: $19.95; iPhone only version $9.99. <a href="http://www.splashdata.com/splashid/iphone/index.htm">http://www.splashdata.com/splashid/iphone/index.htm</a><br /><br /><span style="text-decoration: underline;">TextExpander</span> Create snippets to make typing faster. This is a great little program that I’m only beginning to use effectively. You can create rules for snippets that you have to type often. For example, I’ve created a snippet for my work signature, so when I type w-k-s-i-g I get my name, title, address, phone number, and email address in a flash. You can use it to quick insert dates and other information. You can even create rules for words you frequently misspell. You can download snippet databases, such as one for words with diacritical marks and one for frequently misspelled words. I need to sit down and come up with more snippets. The more snippets you create, the more helpful the program is. A timesaver, for sure. $29.95, with educational discount it is $20.96. <a href="http://www.smileonmymac.com/TextExpander/">http://www.smileonmymac.com/TextExpander/</a><br /><br /><span style="text-decoration: underline;">Things</span> To do program with a simple, fresh interface. I’ve tried and tried to do “Getting Things Done,” but it gets so complicated that I wind up giving up. Things can be used for the GTD approach, but it offers a simplified interface that makes keeping a To Do list much easier and less cluttered. Things divides tasks into three sections: collect, focus, and organize. Collect is your inbox where you put everything first. Next, you can place your todos into “Today,” “Next,” “Someday,” and “Scheduled,” as a means of ordering tasks’ priorities. Then, you can organize your todos into categories, give them tags, set dates, etc. Hardcore GTD-ers might not like Things because it doesn’t follow the GTD principles verbatim. For that you can get Omnifocus (see below). But for me, Things is perfect. There’s an iPhone version as well, and the developer is hard at work to make the desktop and iPhone versions syncable. Free (for now, but will cost $49.00 in the future; if you sign up for their newsletter you’ll be able to buy it for $39.00). <a href="http://www.culturedcode.com/things/">http://www.culturedcode.com/things/</a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:18pt;">Applications I’m Considering</span><br /><br /><span style="text-decoration: underline;">Bookends</span> Bookends is a reference database. It’s made for academic types who want a place to deposit all their resources from research. It can generate bibliographies and footnotes in a whole host of styles, including Turabian. You can export to Word, but from what I’ve read, there are still some bugs to work out there. The program works best in conjunction with Mellel (see below). The developer of this program is very active and helpful. $99.00. There is a student discount which brings the price down to $69.00 but faculty aren’t eligible for that. You can buy Bookends together with Mellel for $109.00 (students $89), which seems to be the best deal. <a href="http://www.sonnysoftware.com/">http://www.sonnysoftware.com/</a><br /><br /><span style="text-decoration: underline;">Mellel</span> A sophisticated word processor designed for academics with support for multiple languages and right-to-left typing (great for Hebrew). I haven’t played around with this program much yet, and there seems to be a pretty high learning curve. Nevertheless, I can see its potential, especially in conjunction with Bookends (above). You can export Mellel docs as Word docs, so you can communicate with the rest of this Microsoft-based world, but I’m hesitant as of yet to commit to a non-Word word processor after finally converting to Word from WordPerfect. $49.00; educational discount $35.00. <a href="http://www.redlers.com/bigdiscount.html">http://www.redlers.com/bigdiscount.html</a><br /><br /><span style="text-decoration: underline;">Scrivener</span> A writing program with a cork-board/index card interface. This is a unique, very intriguing program. It is designed for writers of all types--academic, fiction, screenwriters, etc. It’s sort of like a data repository, organizer, writing center all in one. But it’s not a word processor. Once you’ve gotten your draft like you want it, you are supposed to export from Scrivener into your word processor of choice for final editing and formatting. One of the coolest features is the split screen where you can work on two different documents at once--useful if you’re using a PDF article as a source and you want to do a direct quote, or if you want to compare different sections of your own document. Like MacJournal, Scrivener also offers a full-screen, focus on writing only mode. The cork board is really interesting--it’s basically like having your old index cards from the olden days in digital form. You can edit and rearrange them at will. Since I’m a visual learner/writer, this aspect alone is very satisfying. $39.95; educational discount $34.99. <a href="http://www.literatureandlatte.com/scrivener.html">http://www.literatureandlatte.com/scrivener.html</a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div>Susan Pigotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09562487595337173857noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3194262241686126652.post-78611657790517901762008-07-26T16:37:00.007-05:002009-03-26T12:10:35.072-06:00PuppeteersThere’s something wonderfully inspiring about people who pursue their dreams. <br /><br />Randy Pausch, the professor made famous through his ‘Last Lecture,’ was a dreamer who made his dreams come true and facilitated the dreams of others.<br /><br />My parents were dreamers too.<br /><br />I have only vague memories of life when things were ‘normal’--my dad coming home at 6:00 p.m. dressed in suit and tie, hair slicked back in 50s fashion. I remember he didn’t smile much.<br /><br />And then, one Christmas, everything changed.<br /><br />My dad and a friend built a small marionette stage for my older brother and sister. We have one picture of Karen and Stan with the stage, but then my dad’s dreams took over.<br /><br />I’ve always wondered how my dad brought his idea up to my mom. Perhaps the conversation went something like this:<br /><br />‘Mary Kay?’<br /><br />‘Yes, Ron?’<br /><br />‘I want to quit my lucrative job as an engineer at Sandia Laboratories and become a puppeteer.’<br /><br />[silence]<br /><br />[more silence]<br /><br />‘You want to <em>what</em>?’<br /><br /><br />My parents saved enough money to cover expenses for a year. My dad quit his job. And ‘Ron and Mary Kay Puppets’ was born.<br /><br />They started by performing at local elementary schools with my brother and sister’s stage and marionettes. But my dad was interested in ‘muppet’ style puppets. So my brother, who was ten or eleven at the time, said, ‘I can make those.’ And so he did. <br /><br />They outgrew the small marionette stage and built a larger stage for the hand puppets. (Eventually, they abandoned marionettes altogether). <br /><br />Word of Ron and Mary Kay Puppets spread, and soon they were performing at all the elementary schools in Albuquerque, and even in Santa Fe. They were hired by the local PBS station to perform on some local shows which taught children the basics of music. They did television commercials, appeared on the Jerry Lewis Telethon, and, one summer, traveled the entire state of New Mexico performing a show promoting the Santa Fe Opera.<br /><br />And they became local celebrities.<br /><br />I loved it when they came to my school, Montgomery Elementary. My classmates would be in awe, ‘Those are <em>your</em> parents? You get to <em>touch</em> the puppets? Really??? Wow!’<br /><br />There were downsides of being the child of puppeteers. When I wasn’t in school, I had to accompany them to <em>all</em> their shows, and, to my dismay, I had to share them with other kids. Our house was always in a state of chaos--with puppet fir, foam rubber, and ping-pong-ball eyes strewn across what should’ve been the dining room table. My parents wrote all their own music and recorded their shows in the local studio: our den. That meant silence in the house for weeks while they put the shows together. Our family car, a 1965 white Chevy station wagon, was stuffed to the gills during puppet season with the stage, sound equipment, and puppets, leaving only small pockets of room for the family. My parents argued over scripts, over scheduling, over who was funnier, and, most of all, over finances.<br /><br />But my dad was smiling. <br /><br />Ron and Mary Kay Puppets eventually came to an end (for various reasons that require another blog entry), and my parents went on to ‘normal’ jobs. But those were the golden years in our household--years filled with fun and creativity and laughter--and dreams fulfilled.<br /><br />One of my favorite pictures from the puppeteering days omits my parents entirely. It is a black and white photo of children watching one of their shows. Their faces are lit up by the lights from the stage, and you can see that they are entranced--what better testimony to the kind of joy and adventure my parents brought to others?<br /><br />My brother created an amazing website about my parents that you can find here:<a href="http://home.comcast.net/~sday77/puppets/index.htm">the Ron and Mary Kay Puppets®™ Pages</a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> Susan Pigotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09562487595337173857noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3194262241686126652.post-15229354988387273442008-07-19T17:29:00.000-05:002008-07-20T14:45:10.054-05:00That Mysterious Stinky SmellI was terrified when I went to Albuquerque to care for my mom who was dying of cancer. She had always taken care of me, but now I was expected to carry her through these last days. I felt horribly incompetent.<br /><br />I had been with her for a few weeks when a mysterious smell began permeating her house. Ordinarily her house was filled with the distinctive aroma of home--a pleasurable mixture of mountain air spiced with New Mexico piñon. <br /><br />Each day the odor multiplied, and Mom rightfully began to complain from her rented hospital bed in the den. “Susan, what is that horrible smell?”<br /><br />My brother, Stan, and his wife, Carol, had recently emptied out Mom’s freezer so they could move it to their house. We propped the freezer door open so that it wouldn’t start mildewing inside, but I began to wonder if it was the source of the noxious bouquet.<br /><br />I went in to the utility room several times a day, sniffing like a dog after a treat. And although the smell was strong near the freezer, I couldn’t find any mildew or other obvious sources of stench.<br /><br />More days passed, and the odor permeated everything. I lost my appetite, and Mom understandably lost her patience. “Susan, you have <em>got</em> to get rid of that smell--it’s making me sick.” I didn’t appreciate the irony of that statement until later.<br /><br />And so I headed determinedly into the utility room. It was so bad in there I thought maybe an animal had crawled under the freezer and died. So I began dismantling the grill at the bottom. I pressed my face to the floor, peering through thickened dust bunnies but seeing no evidence of decaying rodent. <br /><br />I felt helpless. Here my Mom was dying, and I couldn’t get rid of that mysterious stinky smell. What kind of a caregiver was I? My fear of being incompetent was becoming a reality.<br /><br />As I stood to take one more look at the freezer, my left foot bumped into garbage bag on the floor. I thought it was empty, a leftover from Stan and Carol’s freezer raid. But, I decided to look in it anyway.<br /><br />The smell hit me like a hot West Texas wind. I felt my stomach churn, and I gagged. There inside the green garbage bag was the culprit: a package of no-longer-frozen shrimp emulsifying in the summer heat. Stan had apparently thrown some things away when he and Carol cleaned out the freezer, but he forgot to take out the trash.<br /><br />“Mom,” I called, triumphant. “I found it. And it’s <em>Stan’s</em> fault.” <br /><br />You’ll have to forgive my moment of churlishness. You see, childhood rivalry never really goes away, and it felt good to know that Stan was to blame, not me. <br /><br />Gingerly, I carried the trash bag with its offensive contents out the front door to the garbage can. The mystery solved, I relished in the fact that my mom was comfortable again and that I had managed a crisis, albeit a small one. And somehow, I felt a little more confident about facing the many serious challenges ahead, thanks to that mysterious stinky smell.<br />Susan Pigotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09562487595337173857noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3194262241686126652.post-50329794802823888082008-07-18T14:04:00.001-05:002008-07-18T15:32:08.451-05:00Vampires<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjAA6SHZ8m26mM90VqaRCOfP_qc1y2Ik40IKBDLuXzixQz5HivH1tRqSjx9Mc8rSQy71rpdFHUTfY66DdiBvGgoLdga4Yy2IaLKbAS89Xc0TwXpybbkN0nnD1H0HZCSJ4lYkH1-c0Y9lU/s1600-h/twilight.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjAA6SHZ8m26mM90VqaRCOfP_qc1y2Ik40IKBDLuXzixQz5HivH1tRqSjx9Mc8rSQy71rpdFHUTfY66DdiBvGgoLdga4Yy2IaLKbAS89Xc0TwXpybbkN0nnD1H0HZCSJ4lYkH1-c0Y9lU/s320/twilight.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5224454391684706914" /></a><br />I never really intended to read books about vampires. I mean, yuk. Vampires: blood, gore, Bela Lugosi, Anne Rice, creepy sagas of cold-blooded killers. Nope. Definitely not for me.<br /><br />But then I downloaded <em>Twilight</em> by Stephenie Meyer to my Kindle and reluctantly started reading it. I really shouldn’t have--the books are written for a teenage audience, after all, and I haven’t been a teenager in a long time. But other middle-aged women had commented on Amazon about how much they enjoyed the books, so . . . well . . . if <em>they</em> read them, so could I.<br /><br />I found myself hooked.<br /><br />The premise of the <em>Twilight Series</em> is intriguing. The vampires at the heart of the story are “vegetarians!” What that means is that they deny themselves human blood because they refuse to engage in the violence necessary to gain it. Instead they drink animal blood (obviously they aren’t vegetarians in the <em>usual </em>sense of the term), and live among humans as “normally” as possible.<br /><br />But what is most compelling about these books is the love story between Edward (a “veggie” vampire) and Bella (a human). The two are drawn irrevocably to one another, and their strangely dangerous relationship is electric. Because, while Edward no longer drinks human blood, he still longs for it, and Bella’s blood is especially alluring to him. Whenever she is near, he is torn between his love for her and his insatiable desire for her blood.<br /><br />The result is a love story with an added element: danger. In spite of his love for Bella, at times Edward fears his desire for her blood might overwhelm him so much that he would kill her for it. And so, they dance between elemental desires--love and thirst, salvation and destruction, desire and denial. Each touch, each kiss, each moment in one another’s company carries with it these underlying tensions.<br /><br />The result is a strangely wonderful and pure love--a love that is expressed in restraint and self denial rather than uncontrolled, selfish impulses. In a day when “lust” and “love” are so easily confused, it’s refreshing to experience a story where virtue prevails in the midst of passion.<br /><br />Vampires, as it turns out, can be deliciously irresistible.Susan Pigotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09562487595337173857noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3194262241686126652.post-54395689600946542202008-07-12T11:39:00.001-05:002008-07-12T12:08:19.878-05:00Forgetting<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX6xj6qUKzdrbJPgNHjQ1pGZUuzsyGtqWhfu29i69IA1AXSicltHRc2mx9s6XEwMmo60cTpF3B-NhtB3X0zjb8CXdcyabpzeMWvSh_52efoEfzGvnVlIiCvdiS_zcneJha0Pu08ZbQrjY/s1600-h/mail.jpeg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX6xj6qUKzdrbJPgNHjQ1pGZUuzsyGtqWhfu29i69IA1AXSicltHRc2mx9s6XEwMmo60cTpF3B-NhtB3X0zjb8CXdcyabpzeMWvSh_52efoEfzGvnVlIiCvdiS_zcneJha0Pu08ZbQrjY/s320/mail.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5222175522477317698" /></a><br />I didn’t realize what day it was until Betty called. I had spent the day, just like any other summer day, doing virtually nothing. Then the phone rang, Kelly answered and gave it to me.<br /><br />I hadn’t talked with Betty in quite awhile. She is a neighbor who lives across the street from my childhood home. I just thought she was calling to catch up on things, so even the fact that she had called didn’t clue me in until she said, “Well, I just wanted to see how you were doing today. It’s been three years since your sweet mama died.”<br /><br />It hit me then. It was my mom’s deathday, July 2. I had forgotten.<br /><br />After I hung up the phone, I sat bewildered for awhile. My mom had died three years ago to the day. That event marked the conclusion to the most traumatic three months of my life--watching my mom succumb to cancer. And I had forgotten.<br /><br />Then I began to beat up on myself. “How could I forget what today was?” I asked. “How could I be so callous, so insensitive? How could I forget?”<br /><br />Kelly told me it was a good thing that I forgot--that it meant I was healing. But for me, forgetting my mom’s deathday meant that I was forgetting my mom, plain and simple--even though I have dreams about her almost weekly; even though the furniture I inherited from her reminds me of her every time I look at it; even though I hear her voice advising me dozens of times daily. I forgot that she had died on this day.<br /><br />Why is it so important to remember the dead? Because that is how they live on. If we forget them, they truly do die--regardless of one’s views on the afterlife. If we forget them, they die <em>to us</em>.<br /><br />I haven’t forgotten my mom, but I don’t want to forget the events that imprinted upon me the fragility of life and the cruelty of untimely death. So, I marked my mom’s deathday on my calendar. I won’t forget ever again.Susan Pigotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09562487595337173857noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3194262241686126652.post-91617742348038857442008-07-11T14:43:00.000-05:002008-07-11T15:46:21.293-05:00MortifiedEmbarrassment is never much fun, especially when you’re a teenager. In fact, during pubescence you expend enormous amounts of energy trying to avoid being embarrassed. Unfortunately, if you’re a teenager with a father like mine, avoiding embarrassment is impossible.<br /><br />One day, my father accompanied me to the mall. I don’t remember why we were there, but what I do remember is that I was absolutely mortified that I had to be at the mall with, of all people, my dad. It was an unforgivable faux pas to be seen with a parent at a hotspot where teenagers could (normally) mingle without adult interference. <br /><br />And so, I decided to pretend that he wasn’t my father, stealthily lengthening my stride so that I could walk several yards ahead of him. Proud that I could maintain my adolescent dignity, I strode to the escalator that carried me to the next level, my dad far behind. <br /><br />I reached the top and continued walking, focused on reaching our destination without fatherly interference. But then, I heard a ruckus behind me--a huge sound like the thumping of an uncoordinated elephant. And a voice--a horrible, plaintive voice . . .<br /><br />“Suuuuusssssaaaaannnn! Ohhhhh, Suuuuuuuusan! Your poor old father fell off the escalator. Susan, Suuuuuussssan Day!!!!!”<br /><br />I stopped in my tracks, blushing furiously. As I turned, I could see the triumph in his eyes. My father had trumped my insolence by tripping purposefully (and loudly) off the moving staircase. I waited in brooding silence as he ambled toward me, grinning. No words were spoken, but the lesson was very clear: “Spurn me and I will single-handedly humiliate you.”<br /><br />Never again did I try to “lose” my dad. No, I always stuck close by because, as shameful as it was (in my mind) to be with him, it was far, far worse to leave him behind. <br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Susan Pigotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09562487595337173857noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3194262241686126652.post-80831425503249092242008-07-11T08:18:00.001-05:002008-07-11T08:22:32.772-05:00Underwear and Bubblegum<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoUN8MmWdcjk3rfqkh9mMj5Rc-WjweGxO_P5-XM6HD04VoRFLrbZoWnv7tsff-yb_PzLMCBB8mv0RsNcDF7y5X53c1YPxCRgnmEMED_VLB5soIjeAVaLy4Qq-LMOe2WT3a9pv2t9D4SJs/s1600-h/classic_bgm.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoUN8MmWdcjk3rfqkh9mMj5Rc-WjweGxO_P5-XM6HD04VoRFLrbZoWnv7tsff-yb_PzLMCBB8mv0RsNcDF7y5X53c1YPxCRgnmEMED_VLB5soIjeAVaLy4Qq-LMOe2WT3a9pv2t9D4SJs/s320/classic_bgm.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5221746264441302450" /></a><br />Running away was Jenny’s idea, not mine. I mean, I loved my home. My Mom baked yummy things for dessert all the time, my parents were famous puppeteers (at least in Albuquerque), and I always had great birthdays and Christmases each year.<br /><br />But Jenny didn’t feel so happy. She had convinced herself she had a wicked step-mother who treated her like Cinderella. So, one day she said, “Let’s run away.” She was the Alpha-female in our relationship, so I said, “Okay.”<br /><br />We went back to respective homes to pack. In my five-year-old mind, the most important garment was underwear. I knew you had to have underwear to live the good life, so I dumped out my Little Kiddles bag (a tan plastic round job that zipped up and had a handle), and packed it full of underwear (and nothing else).<br /><br />Jenny met me outside my house, and we walked down to Bob White’s Grocery Store a few blocks away. We needed sustenance, of course, so we combined our pennies and bought a healthy supply of bubblegum from the machine. Amply stocked, we stepped forth on our grand journey to freedom.<br /><br />We made our way to the busy corner of San Pedro and Candelaria. Somehow we crossed San Pedro with no problem, but Candelaria was not so simple. We made it to the center median and stepped out into the street right in front of a huge RV. Fortunately, the RV stopped and we scrambled across and made our way South towards the mall. We were further from our houses than we had ever been by ourselves.<br /><br />As we neared the mall, Jenny had a brilliant idea (well, it <em>would</em> have been brilliant had she thought of it earlier). She said, “Let’s go to Mrs. Camel’s, she’ll take us in!” Mrs. Camel lived about two blocks from where we lived, so implementing Jenny’s plan meant we had to turn around and go back the way we came.<br /><br />We were walking up Colorado St., a block from our own houses when Jenny’s mother streaked by in her Kelly-green VW bug. She screeched to a halt, turned around, and stopped right next to us. My mom was with her, and both of them told us to get in the car immediately. The looks on their faces told us we were in big trouble (but, admittedly, I was relieved—being caught meant I could go back home).<br /><br />As I remember it, I was sent to bed without supper. As my mom remembered it, she was so glad to have me back safe I wasn’t punished at all. I know Jenny didn’t get off so easily.<br /><br />I unpacked my underwear and saved the bubblegum. I never tried to run away again, but whenever I pack for a trip, I still bring every pair of underwear I own.Susan Pigotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09562487595337173857noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3194262241686126652.post-57595597105557269302008-07-10T09:47:00.001-05:002008-07-10T10:00:38.999-05:00Journey to Mac-dom<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_qenPpxAqua3KsE5twz84jwpwg7vODzhi0ViKaWgUfWBjUevCCuDZwf3NjEeeYqZ6c3r2yx-oL3JY50CdhFbhN0qkHWSJXBxMI1ryGnYtvnIVHSnjyGRiUxfXMpiZIIE1KXv4_Qr_mrw/s1600-h/images.jpeg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_qenPpxAqua3KsE5twz84jwpwg7vODzhi0ViKaWgUfWBjUevCCuDZwf3NjEeeYqZ6c3r2yx-oL3JY50CdhFbhN0qkHWSJXBxMI1ryGnYtvnIVHSnjyGRiUxfXMpiZIIE1KXv4_Qr_mrw/s320/images.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5221400457361594834" /></a><br />July 10, 2008 9:47 AM<br /><br />On June 23, 2008 I took the last step to a complete Apple conversion. I bought a Macbook (thanks to Best Buy’s 24-month, no interest offer). Yes, I am a complete Apple fanatic, but moving to a Mac is the best thing I’ve done in a long time.<br /><br />Not only do Macs work better IMHO, but their interface, presentation, and software possibilities put them well beyond PCs. Most importantly, some of the software I’ve discovered has given new life to my creative thinking and motivation to prepare for classes. For example, I am using Nova-mind Pro to work on classes, a Sunday School Lesson writing project for Smyth & Helwys, a garage sale, a summer party, and a whole host of other things. Novamind is mind-mapping software. It’s different from outlining because it’s more visual--I’m a visual person, and this whole process makes brainstorming and planning easier for me. It’s also provided me a way to boost my creativity--to think outside the box. As burnt out and bored as I have been with my teaching, this program is a godsend. It’s available for PCs too, so it’s not a Mac-only app--but I never would’ve discovered it had I not moved to Mac.<br /><br />Other programs I’m currently evaluating are Macjournal (I’m using it right now to post this to my poor, neglected blog), Devonthink Pro, Things, Scrivener, as well as others.<br /><br />In any case, there’s nothing profound in this posting. I’m just trying to get myself back into blogging, because I really enjoyed it when I did it before.Susan Pigotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09562487595337173857noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3194262241686126652.post-64516352212005736042007-09-01T15:14:00.000-05:002007-09-01T15:16:55.122-05:00Nearsighted<o:p></o:p><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">I was born with beautiful blue eyes. They are an intense indigo with gray and hazel flecks—a gift from my father’s side of the family. Unfortunately, they aren’t very functional—another “gift” of genetics.</span> <p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal">I have worn glasses since I was 5, and my myopia has grown steadily worse, requiring a new prescription almost yearly.<span style=""> </span>I’ve worn glasses so long, my nose permanently bears the indentations of nose pieces.</p> <p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>Nearsightedness was the bane of my existence when I was in junior high and high school.<span style=""> </span>Back then wearing glasses was a stigma consigned only to the ugly.<span style=""> </span>I hated my glasses, and as the lenses grew increasingly thick, I grew to detest them.<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal">Since my parents couldn’t afford to buy me contact lenses, I was forced to endure my glasses.<span style=""> </span>But, rebel that I am, in high school I set myself free.<span style=""> </span>“I may have to wear glasses to see,” thought I, “but I can live without seeing!” And so, for the sake of vanity, I stopped wearing my glasses, condescending to put them on only during class when I absolutely had to see, but stuffing them back in my purse as soon as the bell rang.<span style=""> </span>I learned to memorize the clothes my friends were wearing each day, thus, when I saw a green blob walking toward me in the hallway, I could be reasonably sure it was Jenny; a purple blob, must be Amanda, and so on.<span style=""> </span>Unseeing but feeling much prettier, I blindly continued my glasses-less ruse for most of high school.<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal">But life has an amazing propensity for crushing vanity—and it doesn’t do it kindly.<span style=""> </span>My dad and I liked to go bike riding together.<span style=""> </span>One beautiful <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Albuquerque</st1:place></st1:City> afternoon, he suggested we ride to the Los Altos Golf Course, quite some distance from our house.<span style=""> </span>I agreed, but, since we were going out in public where someone important might see me (like a boy), I left my glasses behind.<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal">Glamor intact, I followed along after my dad, keeping close, lest he get too far ahead and I lose my way.<span style=""> </span>Things went well until we reached the pedestrian bridge over I-40.<span style=""> </span>I’ve never had a good sense of balance, so, as my dad negotiated the twists and steep inclines of the bridge on his bike, I dismounted and gingerly walked my bike across.<span style=""> </span><o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal">Unfortunately this meant that my dad got way ahead of me.<span style=""> </span>Squinting frantically, I could make out the miniscule dot that was him heading off towards the golf course.<span style=""> </span>I mounted my bike and pursued.<span style=""> </span>In my desperation to catch up, however, I failed to notice that I was crossing a parking lot—a parking lot with medians.<span style=""> </span>Too late (because—go figure—I couldn’t see without my glasses) I realized I was heading straight toward one of those medians.<span style=""><br /></span></p> <p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>Then—BANG—my front tire hit the median and I was launched into flight.<span style=""> </span>I remember it in slow motion, the flight upwards, the feeling of being out of control, the harrowing fall to the ground.<span style=""> </span>Fortunately I didn’t fly head over tail, nor did I fall off the bike.<span style=""> </span>Instead I fell, still seated, hitting the ground with a sickening thud.<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal">I was too stunned to do anything at first.<span style=""> </span>Then, I heard some nearby golfers asking me if I was okay.<span style=""> </span>I was too embarrassed to respond.<span style=""> </span>Rolling my bike back onto the paved surface, I remounted and attempted to act as though crashing into the median was normal practice.<span style=""> </span>But the bike chain had fallen off, and there was no graceful exit.<span style=""> </span>By then, my dad had noticed I wasn’t behind him.<span style=""> </span>He found me sullenly walking my broken bike across the parking lot, ego (and other parts) terribly bruised.<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal">I’d like to say this incident cured me of my vanity, but, aside from never again riding a bike without my glasses, I continue to forsake intelligence in the name of beauty. While I no longer mind wearing glasses (after all, they’re fashionable now), I have deferred going to the optometrist for over three years.<span style=""> </span>Why?<span style=""> </span>Because I’m due for bi-focals—the dreaded symbol of late middle age.<span style=""> </span>And so, for the sake of vanity, I sit before my computer myopically writing my blog, the screen magnified so the words are visible, headache forming behind my eyes . . . .</p> <p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>Susan Pigotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09562487595337173857noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3194262241686126652.post-17174308375010828042007-08-28T13:55:00.000-05:002007-08-28T14:07:05.976-05:00Birthday<o:p></o:p><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Today would’ve been my mother’s 76</span><sup style="font-family: lucida grande;">th</sup><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"> birthday. If she were alive, I would call her and apologize for not sending a gift in time. I was always chronically late sending her gifts, because I suffered from “gift anxiety” brought on by my inability to compete with Mom’s incomparable talent for gift giving. She had a gift (for gift giving)—the ability to pick out just the right thing, the sensitivity to know what would make the recipient most happy, the uncanny knack for surprise. But I didn’t inherit that gene, so I usually succumbed to defeat, sending belated flowers or picking out some item that she probably didn’t need and never used.</span><o:p style="font-family: lucida grande;"> </o:p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;">Yet, I realize now that, in spite of my gift-giving inadequacies, I managed to give my mom one present that endlessly delighted her: grandchildren.<span style=""> </span>I am the only fertile one amongst her progeny, my sister being a Poor Clare nun and my brother being a happily married father of multiple cats.<span style=""> </span>Thus, Nathaniel and Eliana received her undivided grandparental love.<span style=""> </span><o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;">My mom took every opportunity she could to be with her grandchildren, flying to <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Abilene</st1:place></st1:city> even though she was terrified of airplanes.<span style=""> </span>When we went to <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Albuquerque</st1:place></st1:city> to visit, she cooked for weeks ahead of time filling her freezer full of all sorts of goodies for the kids—cookies, orange rolls, baked spaghetti, apple pie.<span style=""> </span>When we arrived in the driveway, she came bursting out the front door, covering the kids with kisses and hugs. She kept a treasure trove of surprises for them, so that each day of our visit they were presented with a new game, or bubbles, or books, or crayons.<span style=""> </span>Saying goodbye was always so difficult—I could see the joy ebb in her eyes as visibly as a cloud covering the light of the sun.<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p face="lucida grande" class="MsoNormal">Tragically, cancer robbed my mom of her favorite gift.<span style=""> </span>It cruelly cut short the time she had with her only grandchildren.<span style=""> </span>She didn’t live to see Nathaniel finally get his two front teeth (lost prematurely in a driveway toy car accident).<span style=""> </span>She never heard him play in a piano recital or see him become one of the top ten readers at his school.<span style=""> </span>She missed hearing about Eliana’s first day in Kindergarten, and she’ll never know that her granddaughter can ride a horse, play soccer, and sing beautifully.<span style=""> </span>I grieve more over this than anything else: that my mom will not see her grandchildren grow up.<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p style="font-family: lucida grande;" class="MsoNormal">Happy birthday, sweet Grammy Mary Kay.<span style=""> </span>We miss you.</p>Susan Pigotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09562487595337173857noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3194262241686126652.post-68591141764883236082007-08-24T21:44:00.000-05:002007-08-28T14:05:08.880-05:00Marfa Lights: A Mystery<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNRFQ3RYJbX6_NcHavGYo9AUQXb4Kge2EqPWowsen04LH6R_eJNL8Z17tLUXxXakvyRhA0xuDOjoP8C5HOu9rFxJmxc-u43I5viuST8iAxJF81JzArvO0eKLdhLVE0TsLRhwESPeMKBM0/s1600-h/Marfa+Lights+Small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNRFQ3RYJbX6_NcHavGYo9AUQXb4Kge2EqPWowsen04LH6R_eJNL8Z17tLUXxXakvyRhA0xuDOjoP8C5HOu9rFxJmxc-u43I5viuST8iAxJF81JzArvO0eKLdhLVE0TsLRhwESPeMKBM0/s320/Marfa+Lights+Small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5103829340697652978" border="0" /></a><br /><o:p></o:p><span style="font-family:georgia;">Seeking out the Marfa Lights was my husband’s idea, inspired by an animated short in the DVD </span><i style="font-family: georgia;">Cars</i><span style="font-family:georgia;"> where Mater is tormented by “Ghost Lights.”</span><o:p style="font-family: georgia;"> </o:p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;">So, off we went, leaving our RV parked in the <st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">Davis</st1:placename> <st1:placetype st="on">Mountains</st1:placetype></st1:place>, traversing mostly flat terrain—perfect for mystery hunting.<span style=""> </span>After dinner in the Ghost Light Mecca known as Marfa, we made our way to the Marfa Lights Observatory.<span style=""> </span>Yes, they have an actual observatory on the highway between Marfa and Alpine, complete with an official Marfa Lights plaque, an architecturally intriguing restroom (orb-shaped, just like the lights), and a viewing deck with complementary binoculars.<span style=""> </span><o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;">We pulled in about an hour before sunset, and we were all alone.<span style=""> </span><o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;">I was, of course, a skeptic.<span style=""> </span>I figured that Marfa Lights were about as real as the Roswell Alien Autopsy, but I was having fun anyway.<span style=""> </span>Pretty soon another family showed up, and the kids played tag until twilight.<span style=""> </span>As the sun made its way downward, more and more people arrived, and they all looked pretty normal.<span style=""> </span>There were some nervous giggles, and people shared stories about the Marfa Lights.<span style=""> </span>One lady had seen the Marfa Lights when she was nine years old; she had made the pilgrimage back.<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;">As we peered across the horizon in the growing darkness, a hush fell among the onlookers.<span style=""> </span>Someone said, “I see lights over there!”<span style=""> </span>We all squinted and tried to decide if this was it—the Marfa Lights experience!<span style=""> </span>But, alas, they were stationary—just lights from a nearby ranch.<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;">Time passed, and the kids grew restless.<span style=""> </span>I was beginning to think that the whole trip had been a dud, when Kelly said, “Look over there!”<span style=""> </span>Sure enough, just above the red blink of a radio tower was a glowing whitish orb.<span style=""> </span>It hovered for awhile and then disappeared, reappearing in a different place in the sky, much to everyone’s delight.<span style=""> </span>More lights appeared and so did goose bumps all over my skin.<span style=""> </span>With each appearance the crowd grew louder and more jubilant—“I see one!”<span style=""> </span>“So do I!”<span style=""> </span>“Look, over there!<span style=""> </span>Another, and--oh look! Another!”<span style=""> </span>We were mesmerized, all of us--a community of disparate pilgrims brought together by the inexplicable.<span style=""> </span><o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" face="georgia">The kids grew tired, so we piled in the truck and headed back, weary believers who <span style=""></span>had seen the Marfa Lights with our own eyes.<span style=""> </span>We discussed possible reasons for the phenomenon.<span style=""> </span>Surely there was a plausible explanation—car lights from the nearby Presidio Freeway, mirages caused by temperature changes, St. Elmo’s Fire.<span style=""> </span>But people have studied these things for years, and as the observatory plaque indicates, the mystery of the lights remains unsolved.<span style=""> </span>My husband said, “I hope they never figure it out.”<span style=""> </span>“Why?” I asked.<span style=""> </span>“Because that would ruin it—what makes it special is the fact that no one can explain it.”<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: georgia;">I think that’s true for more than Marfa Lights.<span style=""> </span>We live in a world increasingly devoid of mystery.<span style=""> </span>We have an insatiable need to explain, to resolve, to drain life of mystery.<span style=""> </span>I think it’s due, in part, to our scientific world view.<span style=""> </span>What the ancients ascribed to God or the gods, we, in our sophisticated and altogether modern way, attribute to natural and very un-mysterious phenomena.<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;">Now, I’m not saying that we should live in ignorance.<span style=""> </span>I don’t believe that God sends hurricanes to punish people in <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">New Orleans</st1:place></st1:city>, nor do I endorse the very biblical concept of a flat earth.<span style=""> </span>What I am saying, though, is that, in our well-intentioned attempts to explain everything, we divest ourselves of a sense of mystery.<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;">And what of mystery in our church experiences and theology?<span style=""> </span>We have a tendency to try to make spirituality systematic and God tidily unambiguous.<span style=""> </span>We do our religious devotions each Sunday, not expecting the unexpected, but instead happily content with the familiar. We theologize about God, categorizing the deity into simplistic syllogisms or haughtily proclaiming decisive truths. We paint God in broad strokes of black and white instead of varying shades of gray.<span style=""> </span>God and church are neatly packaged so as not to offend or frighten or invite questioning, and mystery is stifled by our throttle-hold need for control.<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p style="font-family: georgia;" class="MsoNormal">Perhaps, we all could do with some goose bumps now and then—a tingling reminder of our limitedness, a humbling chill on our human omniscience, a hair-raising glimpse of that all too uncommon <i style="">mysterium tremendum</i>.</p>Susan Pigotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09562487595337173857noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3194262241686126652.post-71677354151279812412007-08-03T14:44:00.000-05:002007-08-05T17:38:33.972-05:00My Dad's Best Advice<o:p></o:p><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">The best advice my dad gave me was very simple: "Follow your bliss." Though these three words were popularized by Joseph Campbell, my dad lived them and I have lived by them.</span><o:p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"> </o:p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">My dad was a successful engineer at Sandia Laboratories in <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Albuquerque</st1:city>, <st1:state st="on">New Mexico</st1:state></st1:place>.<span style=""> </span>He was successful, but he wasn't happy.<span style=""> </span>The 8:00 to 5:00 stiff-shirt-and-tie lifestyle didn't suit him, and though it brought in a great income, he was miserable.<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">My father's bliss took shape one Christmas when my brother and sister received a puppet stage as a gift.<span style=""> </span>I'm not exactly sure how the events transpired, but my dad decided that he wanted to be a puppeteer, and my siblings lost their Christmas present.<span style=""> </span>I wish I could've been there to hear my parents' conversation when he dropped the idea on my mom.<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p face="trebuchet ms" class="MsoNormal">But this was my dad's bliss, and pursue it he did.<span style=""> </span>My mom and dad saved up enough money so they could live for a year without his income, and Ron and Mary Kay Puppets was born.<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p face="trebuchet ms" class="MsoNormal">My childhood was spent in the shadow of my famous (at least in <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Albuquerque</st1:place></st1:city>) parents, who evolved from doing marionettes to large hand puppets.<span style=""> </span>My brother created the puppets (he's the artist in the family), and my parents did a Christmas show and a spring show every year at all the local schools.<span style=""> </span>The income wasn't good, but my dad was happy.<span style=""> </span>By doing puppets, he got to do all the things he loved:<span style=""> </span>write and play music, create drama, work with kids, and be an all-around total ham.<span style=""> </span>My mom didn't go into this kicking and screaming either, she was just as talented as my dad (and just as much a ham).<span style=""> </span>They made a great puppeteering team.<span style=""> </span>(If you would like to know more about my parents' endeavors, see my brother's wonderful website devoted to them at <a href="http://home.comcast.net/%7Esday77/puppets/index.htm">http://home.comcast.net/~sday77/puppets/index.htm</a>)<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal">So, when dad told me to follow my bliss wherever it led, I listened.<span style=""> </span>That advice took me to Hardin-Simmons for college and caused me to change my major to Bible even though there were only two other female students in the entire <st1:place st="on"><st1:placetype st="on">School</st1:placetype> of <st1:placename st="on">Theology</st1:placename></st1:place>.<span style=""> </span>My bliss led me to Southwestern Seminary to major in Church History, and convinced me to change to Old Testament though job possibilities for Baptist women in Bible were virtually nil.<span style=""> </span>My bliss has inspired me to be creative and unconventional in my teaching.<span style=""> </span>It has drawn me into vegetarianism and animal theology. Following my bliss has meant never doing things the way they've always been done, never doing what's logical simply because it's logical, and always, always following my heart wherever it takes me.<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal">Thanks, Dad, for some great advice.<span style=""> </span>It has served me well.</p> <p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>Susan Pigotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09562487595337173857noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3194262241686126652.post-16635097941918152142007-08-03T09:09:00.000-05:002007-08-05T17:40:10.307-05:00The Ligatures of Legalism<o:p></o:p><span style="font-family:georgia;">I took a class in college called "Discipleship." It might just as well have been titled "Legalism" since, at least for me, it was an exercise in rigidity. In this class we were required to keep a Spiritual Journal and turn it in for a grade. We had to memorize a certain number of scripture verses, and, as I recall, most of the lecture notes involved steps to achieve some spiritual goal: "Ten Steps to a Better Prayer Life," "</span><st1:street style="font-family: georgia;" st="on"><st1:address st="on">Fifteen Ways</st1:address></st1:street><span style="font-family:georgia;"> to Convert the Lost," etc.</span> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;">What I learned from this class (and from much of the church-based education I have received through the years) is that discipleship is about "achieving" something, and if you fail to reach goals, you are a poor Christian (if, indeed, a Christian at all).<br /><o:p></o:p><br />For me the Spiritual Journal (along with the requisite "Quiet Time") became a source of extreme frustration.<span style=""> </span>The journal we were required to use listed the five steps in prayer, and you were expected to pray them in a certain order.<span style=""> </span>You were supposed to begin with praise, then thanksgiving, then confession, then intercession, and finally, if you had been very, very good, you could ask some things for yourself.<span style=""> </span>Prayer was all about the business of telling God how divinely good God is and selflessly telling God how to take care of others.<span style=""> </span>And when it was all done, the implication was that you would "feel" refreshed and fulfilled.<span style=""> </span>But I always felt defeated because I was so busy talking to God I never thought to listen.<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;">The Spiritual Journal also specified a certain way to read the Bible.<span style=""> </span>In fact, from every reading you were expected to hear God speaking a personal word to you.<span style=""> </span>If you didn't glean some super amazing insight, it must be because there was some unconfessed sin in your life.<span style=""> </span>Personally, I find it really hard to find warm fuzzies in the scriptures, especially when reading about lobes of livers in Leviticus (as much as I love Leviticus, I think there is something wrong with trying to force some personal spiritual revelation out of every passage of scripture).<span style=""> </span>But try I did, and I'm certain that I did damage not only to the interpretation of scripture in my efforts but also demeaned my own soul in the process.<span style=""> </span>Deep down, I knew that I was being false to the intent of scripture and I was denying my own intellect.<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;">There's something to be said in favor of legalism:<span style=""> </span>it puts you in control.<span style=""> </span>Spirituality becomes a list of "dos" and "don'ts" by which you measure your own progress.<span style=""> </span>Relationship with God is irrelevant, really, because with legalism you never really have to worry about the unexpected.<span style=""> </span>Trembling in the presence of a holy God who is unpredictable and unwilling to be manipulated isn't necessary with legalism because you never sit still long enough to let God be God.<span style=""> </span>Legalism is about controlling God, manipulating God by your good actions and expecting God to bless you for your efforts.<span style=""> </span><o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;">It's amazing to me that in spite of all of Jesus' teachings against legalism that Christians have spent so much of their history promoting it.<span style=""> </span><o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;">For years I have avoided prayer, fearing the silence, fearing the feelings of failure because I couldn't hear God speak.<span style=""> </span>I felt like Saul who approached God all the "right" ways but never received an answer because God had rejected him (1 Samuel 28).<span style=""> </span>I was certain that the sound of divine silence was the mark of God's rejection of me.<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p face="georgia" class="MsoNormal">Legalism taught me that relationship with God was about getting somewhere, pursuing goals, and reaching benchmarks.<span style=""> </span>And legalism suffocated me spiritually—its ligatures encircled me, choking the breath of God from my midst.<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p style="font-family: georgia;" class="MsoNormal">Recently I've been learning something new and amazing:<span style=""> </span>time with God does <i style="">not</i> have to be goal-oriented.<span style=""> </span>Prayer can simply be a time of existing, being with God. I don't have to go into it expecting God to do my bidding; I don't have to come away from it with any wonderful insights.<span style=""> </span>I am discovering that in silence one can listen.<span style=""> </span>And even if I hear nothing, I can rejoice simply in being in God's presence.<span style=""> </span><o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:georgia;">I am learning to breathe again.</span><span style=""><span style="font-family:georgia;"> </span> </span></p>Susan Pigotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09562487595337173857noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3194262241686126652.post-57991663236552919272007-07-14T17:07:00.000-05:002007-08-05T17:42:40.691-05:00Why I Became a Vegetarian<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;">The stewing chicken pushed me over the edge.<span style=""> </span><br /><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;">I was deboning it for Chicken Tetrazzini, one of my all-time favorite meals.<span style=""> </span>But as I stood at my kitchen counter pulling chicken legs apart, stripping the greasy meat off the bones, and stretching arteries until they snapped, I thought, "I can't do this anymore."<span style=""> </span>The reality of this chicken's creatureliness overwhelmed me.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;">It's not like I somehow failed to realize that all the chickens before this one were, well, chickens.<span style=""> </span>It's just that, up until this chicken, I had never thought of them as creatures.<span style=""> </span>They were meat, packaged antiseptically in foam containers with plastic stretched over them.<span style=""> </span>They didn't look like the <i style="">real</i> chickens you see on TV--with feathers and beaks and general all-around quirky cluckiness.<span style=""> </span>No, what I was buying in the store, I had deluded myself, was meat, not a being.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;">But on this particular day three summers ago, the illusion was shattered.<span style=""> </span>What I was shredding with my fleshly fingers had itself been flesh and bone, a living thing that was now dead.<span style=""> </span>The thing lying before me was a corpse and I a cannibal.</p> <p face="verdana" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p face="verdana" class="MsoNormal">From there, I began to do what I do best:<span style=""> </span>research.<span style=""> </span>I got on the Internet and began discovering other reasons for being a vegetarian.<span style=""> </span>I visited the obvious websites first, such as PETA, where I watched a gruesome video called "Meet Your Meat."<span style=""> </span>I never made it all the way through.<span style=""> </span>What impacted me was that meat production involves horrendous suffering—suffering you don't see or realize exists as you carefully choose the lean hamburger at HEB.</p> <p face="verdana" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p face="verdana" class="MsoNormal">Then, I turned to Christianity—were any vegetarians out there Christians?<span style=""> </span>Or, did most people shy away from a lifestyle that is often associated with wild-haired, hippy liberals (well, that's what I had thought!).<span style=""> </span>But, much to my amazement, I found a whole community of vegetarian Christians.<span style=""> </span>And, after visiting several websites, I discovered a library of popular and academic works on vegetarianism and Christianity.<span style=""> </span>I read everything I could get my hands on.</p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal">What I learned was that very thoughtful, even brilliant people, had come to the vegetarian lifestyle.<span style=""> </span>Their reasons differed—some became vegetarians for ethical reasons, others for religious reasons, and still others for dietary reasons.<span style=""> </span>What impressed me most, however, was that all of them acknowledged that animals are beings worthy of respect and concern.</p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal">My favorite writer on this issue is Andrew Linzey, an Anglican scholar who has written on the subject since the 1970s.<span style=""> </span>His major premise is that while God's people are called to have dominion over all creation, dominion requires service and intervention for the powerless, not wholesale, tyrannical subjugation.<span style=""> </span>I obviously can't summarize his entire argument here, so you'll just have to read his books.<span style=""> </span>There's no one better at making the theological argument for vegetarianism than Linzey.</p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal">It seems such a futile gesture—becoming a vegetarian.<span style=""> </span>I mean, how can one person refusing to eat meat change the suffering of billions of creatures?<span style=""> </span>But, I consider it to be a worthwhile gesture.<span style=""> </span>I view vegetarianism as a perpetual fast, a spiritual protest against cruelty and utilitarian use of other creatures for our pleasures.<span style=""> </span>I see it as one small step toward the <st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">Peaceable</st1:placename> <st1:placetype st="on">Kingdom</st1:placetype></st1:place> envisioned by the prophets and by Jesus himself (more on this another day).</p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal">So, the stewing chicken pushed me over the edge, but what I found on the other side was well worth it.<span style=""> </span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal">**If you're interested in reading about Christianity and vegetarianism, go to my librarything site where I've posted most of my library.</p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>Susan Pigotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09562487595337173857noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3194262241686126652.post-31663937916944855822007-07-08T08:07:00.000-05:002007-07-08T09:08:24.457-05:00Technoholism<span style="font-family:georgia;">My name is Susan, and I'm a technoholic.<br /><br />I admit it, I love gadgets--no, I adore them. There's nothing more luscious than the arrival of a new gadget. The pristine corners of the box. The wonderful smell of plastic and electronics. You open the box, and everything is neatly packaged--the object of your lust, centrally placed in the box, surrounded by accessories, instructions, the warranty card. You pull out the central gadget, wrapped lovingly in plastic, carefully pull open the taped end, and hold the virginal device for the first time in your hands. No fingerprints yet, just a gleaming, beautiful, techno-scented piece of equipment beckoning you to explore its wizardry (after, of course, you charge it, which seems to take endless hours as you wait in anticipation).<br /><br />Over the past several years, I've suffered from technoholism. It started with a Palm PDA (I owned the original one). I've since succumbed to a Canon Elph, a Treo 600, a fifth-generation iPod, a Treo 680, and a Canon Powershot (well, the Canon Elph I had was only 3.1 mp, the Powershot is 7.1 mp!!!!).<br /><br />And now, I'm ashamed to say, the iPhone is singing to me like a Siren. I've tried to plug my ears and eyes, but, alas, it's to no avail. I knew I was lost when I went to Apple's evil website and explored the iPhone's features. My husband caught me in the middle of this lurid episode--I quickly minimized the page, but too late.<br /><br /> "Susan," he cried, "No! Not an iPhone."<br /><br /> "I'm just looking," I lied, "I don't really want one. I mean, my Treo can do lots more than the iPhone. Pshaw, I'm loyal to Palm."<br /><br />But as soon as he left, I maximized the page, ogling over all the amazing features. Sure, I keep telling myself that my Treo 680 is better. But as soon as I assure myself that the iPhone is evil, my Treo crashes (yet again) or refuses to let me answer a phone call. I skulkingly return to the Apple site and my fingertip reaches toward the computer screen and caresses the iPhone picture lovingly.<br /><br />No, I wasn't one of the crazies, standing in line on June 29th to get the first iPhones, though, admittedly, I wanted to be. I read every news article I could find about the iPhone's arrival--brazenly using my Treo 680 to access them--oh the adultery of it.<br /><br />And then, yesterday, I took the next-to-last fatal step. I visited the local ATT store, dragging my children with me, making them swear not to tell my husband where we had gone. We walked in, and, when a salesperson approached, I asked imploringly, "Do you have an iPhone I can look at?" The salesperson assessed me knowingly, "Ah, another one," she surely thought. "The display's over there."<br /><br />And like Mecca calling her pilgrim, the iPhone drew me to her temple. There were three iPhones at the altar-just enough for me and my two innocent children. We walked to the shrine and dared to touch the shiny idols.<br /><br />I knew I was lost the moment I touched the iPhone. It was smaller than I imagined and lighter. Its screen awoke the moment I touched it, and it whispered, "Slide to unlock." My finger swept the pristine glass screen, and, the beautiful icons appeared ready to be pressed.<br /><br />I don't know how long I stood there mesmerized. But I tried several times to leave the display only to be drawn back--Apple's fruit seemed good to the eyes and useful for making one techno-fulfilled. The coup-de-grace was when I confessed to another salesperson how frustrated I was with my old lover (the Treo 680). I was told how simple it would be to dump it for the iPhone. "It's so easy," the salesman breathed, cunningly luring me like the serpent in the Garden, "You just buy the phone and Apple will do all the rest."<br /><br />I left the store without a phone (I have no money, right now). But I am only one writing project away from being able to afford one. It's inevitable now. I've reached the point of no return.<br /><br />The most lurid part of all of this is that my addiction is contagious. As we were leaving the store, my son (only a tender nine years old) said, "Mommy,<span style="font-style: italic;"> everyone</span> in my class has a cell phone--everyone except me. I need one, I really do. I only need $400 more dollars in my account, and I can get an iPhone!"<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><br /></span>Susan Pigotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09562487595337173857noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3194262241686126652.post-80618443986704667532007-04-09T18:33:00.000-05:002007-04-09T18:43:50.136-05:00What I Learned from a Liturgical Easter<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">We celebrated Easter this Sunday in a liturgical setting. The kids and I didn't make it to the early service (with the flowering of the cross), but the later service was just as beautiful and symbolic. We walked in to the sanctuary and the altar was transformed. During Lent, there had been no flowers and the cross on the altar and the ones used in procession were covered. Easter Sunday, the altar was bedecked with beautiful flowers and the crosses were unveiled. Symbolically, the death and resurrection were displayed on the altar, in the colors, and in the liturgy of Lent and Easter.<br /><br />During the service, as the acolytes processed, the first cross was adorned with a crown of thorns interwoven with roses. The second cross bore Easter lilies. The crown of thorns had been used during the Maundy Thursday service, during which the priest scrubbed the altar clean and placed the crown, all alone, on the altar. It stayed there through Good Friday and Saturday, until Easter. The symbolism of all this is so powerful--death in the crown of thorns, hope in the blood-colored roses, and joy in the Easter lilies.<br /><br />We sang celebrative songs, and the sermon reminded us that, while the resurrection certainly exemplifies God's power, more importantly it exemplifies God's love--love is what caused Jesus to rise from the dead.<br /><br />There's nothing more incredible than celebrating the Eucharist on Easter Sunday--what joy it represents! Since for me the past several months (since September 2006) have been an awakening, the celebration of the season of rebirth and new life has been especially meaningful.<br /></span>Susan Pigotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09562487595337173857noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3194262241686126652.post-6963786349933781832007-04-07T22:08:00.000-05:002007-04-08T10:20:11.168-05:00Easter Eve<span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Okay, so it's Easter Eve, and I'm up sitting in front of my lap top. I've done the Easter Bunny thing, about which I'm guiltily ambivalent, feeling like I've cowed to culture, but at the same time wanting to make childhood really fun for my kids. Of course I know Easter's not about a dumb bunny, but there's something incredibly magical about waking up and finding Dove chocolate eggs all over the house and discovering an Easter basket with some goodies in it. My mom always made it special for me, so I figure I need to carry on the tradition. I'll never forget the Easter after I became a Christian, when Mom put a real leather NIV New Testament (and Psalms and Proverbs) in my basket. It was extra sweet of her, since I'd been lambasting her with threats of going to hell if she didn't know Jesus. The fact that she acknowledged my Christianity in this way was a tender act by a mother too loving to be offended by her over-zealous daughter.<br /><br />Tomorrow my kids will experience Easter for the first time in a liturgical setting. I bought them some flowers so they can participate in the flowering of the cross tradition. They've been noticing how different church is during Lent--how somber, how symbolic, how incredibly moving. Tomorrow, they'll sense the excitement of resurrection, of hope, of joy. And so will I, since this year I rediscovered joy in worship.<br /></span>Susan Pigotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09562487595337173857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3194262241686126652.post-56189624990717326052007-04-07T10:14:00.000-05:002007-04-07T10:18:34.801-05:00Initial Post<span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">This is my first post, and I'm just trying things out for now. My plan is to include ideas about teaching religion at the university level, vegetarianism, animal theology, and my current spiritual journey. My sabbatical is coming up in the fall, so I'm hoping that will be integral to my blog, as I will be concentrating on my current interests in animal theology.</span><br /></span>Susan Pigotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09562487595337173857noreply@blogger.com3