I read that 40 percent to 45 percent of American adults make one or more New Year’s resolutions each year.
Among the top resolutions are losing weight, increasing exercise and quitting smoking. Next in line are better money management and debt reduction.
Even if people swear on a stack of Bibles that they will stick to their resolutions, their resolve seems to be short-lived.
I did some research on this and according to one study, 75 percent keep their resolutions after the first week, 71 percent after two weeks, 64 percent after one month and only 46 percent of those who make New Year’s resolutions are hanging in there after six months. Eventually, only 7 percent of all resolutions are ever kept.
Television advertisers are most certainly tapping into this apparent soft spot in the American psyche. If I see one more weight loss ad or stop smoking commercial, I am liable to start binge eating or, worse yet, light up.
Am I the only one who thinks making New Year’s resolutions and keeping them has lost its luster?
I remember a time when making resolutions on New Year’s Eve was a central and important year-end tradition. Do you remember the thought and care we used put into it?
I’ve made resolutions to be a better person, to spend more time with my husband and to do a better job of dusting my house.
Unfortunately, part of the problem is that too many New Year’s resolutions do not involve full disclosure. Most of the time, they are kept in a shroud of secrecy, making it easier to slip up.
Another problem when making New Year’s resolutions is that there is no plan or support system to help us tow the line and to hold us accountable.
Nowadays, I just think about what it is I want to improve, stop or start doing and hope for the best.
Once in awhile, I reveal my resolution and then I'm stuck. I have to either to keep it or spend the whole year making excuses for why I failed to keep it.
What is it about this age-old tradition that has fallen by the wayside in our disposable age, where "short-term" is the end of the week and "long-term" means the end of the month?
I am looking for a few sojourners in that 7 percent who have made and kept New Year’s resolutions. Just to know that resolutions aren’t empty promises gives rise to hope and promise.
When it comes right down to it, we probably have more control over our lives than we are willing to admit. Just think how much better the world would be if more people kept their New Year’s resolutions.
People would be healthier and happier. They would be less agitated and more peaceful. At least, I'd like to think so anyway.
2009 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took three first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
"Together time" is riding shotgun on Christmas vacation
In the early morning hours of Christmas vacation, I would ride shotgun while my father drove our boxy Dodge van, tires crunching through several inches of freshly fallen snow on already frozen highways.
We were on our way to the store – our family-owned paint and hardware business – and this surely counted as "together time."
I was sixteen and old enough to help with odd jobs at the store whenever I had off days off from school. I ran errands and kept the place tidy by organizing and straightening merchandise. From time to time, I even processed bills.
The store was a main character in our family, one that sustained us in a lifelong drama agitated by Dad’s heart disease and Mother's depression.
The commerce that took place under that leaky roof fed, clothed and kept our brood of six children warm and secure in our century-old home.
The store seemed to own my Dad, not the other way around. He worked all the time, always returning home late, long after we were in bed.
Like most kids, I had an affinity for my dad. Because he did not say much to me, I got into the habit of making appeals for his attention with my heart, and sometimes in writing.
Moments like this, just Dad and me floating along wintry roads, expanded the definition of our father-daughter relationship.
While riding in silence, I would romanticize what I knew of his youth, including his WWII service in the Navy. He met Mom before he was deployed to a base in Puerto Rico. They exchanged love letters while he was stationed there for more than a year and were married when the war ended.
My dad was born to sell. During his career, he sold Chevrolet cars, Mary Carter paint, paintbrushes, rollers, adhesive, drop cloths and all the hardware accessories one could imagine.
I was in elementary school when he sold Thomas-built school buses. I rode along then, too, in spanking new buses Dad drove to waiting schools. I remember thinking he was the best salesperson ever with satisfied customers for miles around.
When I think of my dad, I gather those moments on the way to work – just Dad and me, speechless, traveling through sleeping neighborhoods, stopping while traffic lights turned green on empty peaceful street corners.
I treasure those memories like Christmas morning, rich and fulfilled.
2009 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took three first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.
We were on our way to the store – our family-owned paint and hardware business – and this surely counted as "together time."
I was sixteen and old enough to help with odd jobs at the store whenever I had off days off from school. I ran errands and kept the place tidy by organizing and straightening merchandise. From time to time, I even processed bills.
The store was a main character in our family, one that sustained us in a lifelong drama agitated by Dad’s heart disease and Mother's depression.
The commerce that took place under that leaky roof fed, clothed and kept our brood of six children warm and secure in our century-old home.
The store seemed to own my Dad, not the other way around. He worked all the time, always returning home late, long after we were in bed.
Like most kids, I had an affinity for my dad. Because he did not say much to me, I got into the habit of making appeals for his attention with my heart, and sometimes in writing.
Moments like this, just Dad and me floating along wintry roads, expanded the definition of our father-daughter relationship.
While riding in silence, I would romanticize what I knew of his youth, including his WWII service in the Navy. He met Mom before he was deployed to a base in Puerto Rico. They exchanged love letters while he was stationed there for more than a year and were married when the war ended.
My dad was born to sell. During his career, he sold Chevrolet cars, Mary Carter paint, paintbrushes, rollers, adhesive, drop cloths and all the hardware accessories one could imagine.
I was in elementary school when he sold Thomas-built school buses. I rode along then, too, in spanking new buses Dad drove to waiting schools. I remember thinking he was the best salesperson ever with satisfied customers for miles around.
When I think of my dad, I gather those moments on the way to work – just Dad and me, speechless, traveling through sleeping neighborhoods, stopping while traffic lights turned green on empty peaceful street corners.
I treasure those memories like Christmas morning, rich and fulfilled.
2009 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took three first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.
Oh, rest beside the weary road...
"And you, beneath life’s crushing load, whose forms are bending low, who toil along the climbing way with painful steps and slow, look now, for glad and golden hours come swiftly on the wing, and ever o’er its babble sounds, the blessed angels sing…Oh rest beside the weary road and hear the angels sing!" – It Came Upon a Midnight Clear by Edmund H. Sears
With admiration and awe, I observe the woman two rows ahead and three seats over from where I am sitting at a holiday concert. Decorated like a spruce, she is adorned from head to toe with bells and bows.
Embodied with Christmas spirit, she flutters about musically as her arms move in airy waves and her head turns with gentle precision as though she is leading a grand chorus of angels.
Knitted into her sweater is a star illuminating a brightly colored manger scene. Her festive red shoes, trimmed in sparkling gold, coordinate with a cherry shoulder purse and a shimmering crimson skirt that flows to her ankles.
She jingles, too, with a bracelet of bells on her wrist, a string of bells around her neck and a cluster of bells dangling from each ear. Even hairpins she has so painstakingly placed make her gray locks dazzle.
It appears that this woman has donned every Christmas item from a vast collection of festive holiday apparel. I imagine there is nothing left in her closet now darkened, save everyday stuff sulking in drab browns, grays and blues.
Her jewelry box, too, has become a velvet-lined wasteland, emptied of every Rudolph pin that flashes and holly berry necklace that glimmers.
This woman reminds me of my one and only Christmas pendant that I have left waiting silently somewhere in a dresser drawer.
She inspires memories of elementary school teachers, who every year on the last day before Christmas vacation applied the same festive merrymaking as this woman, for whom I am so grateful.
She is a walking Christmas card – a moving yuletide carol aglow with 'tis the season joy written in a code understood throughout the ages.
Such holiday spirit, gaudy yet graceful, chases away my gloom brought on by winter’s darkness and embodies a light recognized by generations.
I love this Christmas lady, her glad and golden garb reminds me that Christmas, once again, is calling to set me free.
Her spirit sings to me, "And you, beneath life’s crushing load, whose forms are bending low, who toil along the climbing way with painful steps and slow, look now, for glad and golden hours come swiftly on the wing, and ever o’er its babble sounds. The blessed angels sing…Oh rest beside the weary road and hear the angels sing!"
2009 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took three first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.
With admiration and awe, I observe the woman two rows ahead and three seats over from where I am sitting at a holiday concert. Decorated like a spruce, she is adorned from head to toe with bells and bows.
Embodied with Christmas spirit, she flutters about musically as her arms move in airy waves and her head turns with gentle precision as though she is leading a grand chorus of angels.
Knitted into her sweater is a star illuminating a brightly colored manger scene. Her festive red shoes, trimmed in sparkling gold, coordinate with a cherry shoulder purse and a shimmering crimson skirt that flows to her ankles.
She jingles, too, with a bracelet of bells on her wrist, a string of bells around her neck and a cluster of bells dangling from each ear. Even hairpins she has so painstakingly placed make her gray locks dazzle.
It appears that this woman has donned every Christmas item from a vast collection of festive holiday apparel. I imagine there is nothing left in her closet now darkened, save everyday stuff sulking in drab browns, grays and blues.
Her jewelry box, too, has become a velvet-lined wasteland, emptied of every Rudolph pin that flashes and holly berry necklace that glimmers.
This woman reminds me of my one and only Christmas pendant that I have left waiting silently somewhere in a dresser drawer.
She inspires memories of elementary school teachers, who every year on the last day before Christmas vacation applied the same festive merrymaking as this woman, for whom I am so grateful.
She is a walking Christmas card – a moving yuletide carol aglow with 'tis the season joy written in a code understood throughout the ages.
Such holiday spirit, gaudy yet graceful, chases away my gloom brought on by winter’s darkness and embodies a light recognized by generations.
I love this Christmas lady, her glad and golden garb reminds me that Christmas, once again, is calling to set me free.
Her spirit sings to me, "And you, beneath life’s crushing load, whose forms are bending low, who toil along the climbing way with painful steps and slow, look now, for glad and golden hours come swiftly on the wing, and ever o’er its babble sounds. The blessed angels sing…Oh rest beside the weary road and hear the angels sing!"
2009 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took three first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.
I will do someone’s chores, pay more attention, smile more
"Who does not thank for little will not thank for much." - Estonian Proverb
When I noticed the neighbor’s house was unusually dark and their van was curiously missing from the driveway, I knew something wasn't right.
It’s not that we talk everyday or every week, for that matter. It’s just that I had come to count on their presence day in and day out like a wall of security.
Shook up, I asked around and learned that he fell and broke his hip. She doesn't drive, so their son was using the van to transport her back and forth to the hospital for dialysis and to visit her husband.
For nearly 35 years, I had taken these neighbors for granted without even realizing it. My gratitude for them suddenly became inestimable. Nervous over their health issues, I stopped what I was doing and rapped on their door.
That was in March. Since then, I remain startled by the feelings of loss this awakening provoked and find myself calling on the elderly couple more often.
But now that it is Thanksgiving, it's hard to focus on anything other than where to have dinner and who’s coming.
Although, underneath my plans for Turkey Day, a renewed consciousness elbows me to demonstrate more gratitude to my husband, my children and my neighbors. Sometimes it takes courage to outwardly express thanks.
Bonnie Ceban, author of "101 Ways to Say Thank You," offers advice on how to show gratitude.
What I love about Ceban’s instructions is that her ideas are simple; most of them cost nothing except time.
Of course, with my consumerism DNA, I naturally think I have to spend money to show appreciation. However, in reality, there are far more meaningful ways to say "thank you."
Besides the usual verbal affirmation, I am considering putting into practice several of the author's less obvious suggestions.
With a little practice and more courage, I’m going to show my appreciation by doing someone’s chores, paying more attention and smiling more.
Oh, yes, and I'm not going to wait until the lights go out and the car is gone to show how much I care.
[Thank you to my many readers. You are the reason I rise early and stay up late to listen for the soothing and sometimes pained voice of stories untold. For you, I am grateful.]
2009 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took three first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.
When I noticed the neighbor’s house was unusually dark and their van was curiously missing from the driveway, I knew something wasn't right.
It’s not that we talk everyday or every week, for that matter. It’s just that I had come to count on their presence day in and day out like a wall of security.
Shook up, I asked around and learned that he fell and broke his hip. She doesn't drive, so their son was using the van to transport her back and forth to the hospital for dialysis and to visit her husband.
For nearly 35 years, I had taken these neighbors for granted without even realizing it. My gratitude for them suddenly became inestimable. Nervous over their health issues, I stopped what I was doing and rapped on their door.
That was in March. Since then, I remain startled by the feelings of loss this awakening provoked and find myself calling on the elderly couple more often.
But now that it is Thanksgiving, it's hard to focus on anything other than where to have dinner and who’s coming.
Although, underneath my plans for Turkey Day, a renewed consciousness elbows me to demonstrate more gratitude to my husband, my children and my neighbors. Sometimes it takes courage to outwardly express thanks.
Bonnie Ceban, author of "101 Ways to Say Thank You," offers advice on how to show gratitude.
What I love about Ceban’s instructions is that her ideas are simple; most of them cost nothing except time.
Of course, with my consumerism DNA, I naturally think I have to spend money to show appreciation. However, in reality, there are far more meaningful ways to say "thank you."
Besides the usual verbal affirmation, I am considering putting into practice several of the author's less obvious suggestions.
With a little practice and more courage, I’m going to show my appreciation by doing someone’s chores, paying more attention and smiling more.
Oh, yes, and I'm not going to wait until the lights go out and the car is gone to show how much I care.
[Thank you to my many readers. You are the reason I rise early and stay up late to listen for the soothing and sometimes pained voice of stories untold. For you, I am grateful.]
2009 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took three first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.
Stealth game brings out the Mission Impossible in us
Secret Santa starts this week at work. Just in case you've never participated in this holiday experience, let me explain.
Secret Santa, also known as Kris Kringle, is a five-week gift exchange game. Players’ names are drawn from a hat.You are a Secret Santa for the person whose name you draw, giving gifts anonymously until the very last one. Bestow as many gifts as you’d like, but the total value must not exceed $15.
Be sure to sign gift tags Secret Santa, S.S. for short or leave them blank. To ensure anonymity, some change their handwriting or ask someone else to sign for them. Finally, in the last week, reveal who you are by signing your name on the last gift or by hand-delivering it.
Part of the challenge is figuring out how to deliver gifts in an undercover operation without letting on it's you. If your place of employment is a large complex with multiple buildings, try sending gifts through interoffice mail.
Serious Secret Santas are an unusual breed of undercover givers who make "Mission Impossible" look like child’s play. They devise clandestine plans for gifts to suddenly appear on recipients’ desks without a trace or trail.
With a North Pole twinkle in their eyes, the people at my work are really into Secret Santa and look forward to it all year.
Last year during the fourth week of S.S., I realized the level of seriousness when I stopped by the office of my recipient, a Secret Santa die hard and organizer of the annual event. I wasn't conducting reconnaissance. I had a legitimate reason for being there.
On the windowsill behind her desk were all the gifts I had given her, displayed for everyone to see. With poorly disguised curiosity, I gawked and quickly passed judgment on my Secret Santa efforts. There on the ledge were a Dollar Store box of chocolates, a cheesy Christmas ornament, a blah pair of cotton winter gloves and a gaudy pair of earrings.
Because she was showcasing my Secret Santa acumen for all to see, I thought maybe I’d better step up my game, but quickly settled myself down with a little self-talk. It’s anonymous, silly. You old worrywart, nobody knows it’s you! Whew, I felt better.
This year, I am changing my strategy a bit. For some months now, I have been stockpiling clearance items that were marked down to under $5. I may even drop by my new recipient's office for casual surveillance. Plus, I'm thinking about how to cunningly deliver each gift under the radar just like Saint Nick himself.
If you haven’t been a Secret Santa, you may want to consider tossing your name into the hat. It could be one the most magical holiday games you’ll ever play.
2009 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took three first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.
Secret Santa, also known as Kris Kringle, is a five-week gift exchange game. Players’ names are drawn from a hat.You are a Secret Santa for the person whose name you draw, giving gifts anonymously until the very last one. Bestow as many gifts as you’d like, but the total value must not exceed $15.
Be sure to sign gift tags Secret Santa, S.S. for short or leave them blank. To ensure anonymity, some change their handwriting or ask someone else to sign for them. Finally, in the last week, reveal who you are by signing your name on the last gift or by hand-delivering it.
Part of the challenge is figuring out how to deliver gifts in an undercover operation without letting on it's you. If your place of employment is a large complex with multiple buildings, try sending gifts through interoffice mail.
Serious Secret Santas are an unusual breed of undercover givers who make "Mission Impossible" look like child’s play. They devise clandestine plans for gifts to suddenly appear on recipients’ desks without a trace or trail.
With a North Pole twinkle in their eyes, the people at my work are really into Secret Santa and look forward to it all year.
Last year during the fourth week of S.S., I realized the level of seriousness when I stopped by the office of my recipient, a Secret Santa die hard and organizer of the annual event. I wasn't conducting reconnaissance. I had a legitimate reason for being there.
On the windowsill behind her desk were all the gifts I had given her, displayed for everyone to see. With poorly disguised curiosity, I gawked and quickly passed judgment on my Secret Santa efforts. There on the ledge were a Dollar Store box of chocolates, a cheesy Christmas ornament, a blah pair of cotton winter gloves and a gaudy pair of earrings.
Because she was showcasing my Secret Santa acumen for all to see, I thought maybe I’d better step up my game, but quickly settled myself down with a little self-talk. It’s anonymous, silly. You old worrywart, nobody knows it’s you! Whew, I felt better.
This year, I am changing my strategy a bit. For some months now, I have been stockpiling clearance items that were marked down to under $5. I may even drop by my new recipient's office for casual surveillance. Plus, I'm thinking about how to cunningly deliver each gift under the radar just like Saint Nick himself.
If you haven’t been a Secret Santa, you may want to consider tossing your name into the hat. It could be one the most magical holiday games you’ll ever play.
2009 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took three first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.
Lost my drive, what's his name hasn't helped me
When my drive turned up missing, I panicked and immediately searched every corner, every stack and every drawer. I even shook out my boots, thinking I might find it there.
My flash drive is a life source holding my columns, my book, my plays and the many stories of my life. It is like a best friend, a trusted confidant on good days and bad. It is my tireless laborer, lifting the heavy burdens of my thoughts, carrying them and me from one week to the next.
For more than a week now, I have tried to retrace every step I took, remember each place I touched and recall every move I made.
Out of desperation, I have invoked the aid of Saint Anthony, patron saint of lost things. Mind you, even though I have not officially practiced Catholicism for 37 years, part of me always will be Catholic.
My formative years were ceremoniously shaped by and around the Church. The sanctuary was my second home, the confessional, my safe haven, and the saints, my constant companions.
In my childhood home, Saint Christopher protected my family on road trips. We turned to Saint Jude when in hopeless situations and petitioned Saint Blaise whenever we had sore throats.
Saint Anthony of Padua is the saint Catholics turn to for lost keys, lost books, lost memory, lost people, lost anything and everything. And with the commotion of six kids in my childhood home, we were always losing something.
We even had prayer cards with his image on one side and a petition for finding what was lost on the other. Saint Anthony might as well have had a place at our table; we turned to him that much.
The notion of being able to enlist God's army of saints was and still is nothing less than spectacular. Although I must admit, Saint Anthony has yet to come through this time.
It has been 10 days since I last remember removing the drive from my computer. My faith is waning and I have concluded with crushing disappointment that my beloved memory stick is either hiding in some obscure place or it's in the landfill.
I am not ashamed to admit that I have been bouncing back and forth, ushering appeals not only to Saint Anthony, but to Mother Mary and Father God. Maybe with all three pulling for me my drive will miraculously appear.
After rechecking my desk drawers for the fifth time, my purses for the umpteenth time, my coat pockets a gazillion times, I am starting to question my faith, second-guess my absent-mindedness and worry about my dependence on that little stick of memory.
It is probably time to let go and begin to rebuild my repository of writing on a new flash drive. (No offense, Saint Anthony.)
This whole incident smacks of our pet salamander that turned up missing many years ago. He was in the aquarium one day and gone the next. Vanished. I put Saint Anthony to work on that one, too.
Fifteen years later, when rearranging furniture, I reached behind a heavy dresser to get what I thought was a cobweb. Instead, I grabbed a salamander’s skeletal remains while emoting a primal scream. Startled and then relieved, I uttered, "Thank you, Saint Anthony."
2009 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took three first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.
My flash drive is a life source holding my columns, my book, my plays and the many stories of my life. It is like a best friend, a trusted confidant on good days and bad. It is my tireless laborer, lifting the heavy burdens of my thoughts, carrying them and me from one week to the next.
For more than a week now, I have tried to retrace every step I took, remember each place I touched and recall every move I made.
Out of desperation, I have invoked the aid of Saint Anthony, patron saint of lost things. Mind you, even though I have not officially practiced Catholicism for 37 years, part of me always will be Catholic.
My formative years were ceremoniously shaped by and around the Church. The sanctuary was my second home, the confessional, my safe haven, and the saints, my constant companions.
In my childhood home, Saint Christopher protected my family on road trips. We turned to Saint Jude when in hopeless situations and petitioned Saint Blaise whenever we had sore throats.
Saint Anthony of Padua is the saint Catholics turn to for lost keys, lost books, lost memory, lost people, lost anything and everything. And with the commotion of six kids in my childhood home, we were always losing something.
We even had prayer cards with his image on one side and a petition for finding what was lost on the other. Saint Anthony might as well have had a place at our table; we turned to him that much.
The notion of being able to enlist God's army of saints was and still is nothing less than spectacular. Although I must admit, Saint Anthony has yet to come through this time.
It has been 10 days since I last remember removing the drive from my computer. My faith is waning and I have concluded with crushing disappointment that my beloved memory stick is either hiding in some obscure place or it's in the landfill.
I am not ashamed to admit that I have been bouncing back and forth, ushering appeals not only to Saint Anthony, but to Mother Mary and Father God. Maybe with all three pulling for me my drive will miraculously appear.
After rechecking my desk drawers for the fifth time, my purses for the umpteenth time, my coat pockets a gazillion times, I am starting to question my faith, second-guess my absent-mindedness and worry about my dependence on that little stick of memory.
It is probably time to let go and begin to rebuild my repository of writing on a new flash drive. (No offense, Saint Anthony.)
This whole incident smacks of our pet salamander that turned up missing many years ago. He was in the aquarium one day and gone the next. Vanished. I put Saint Anthony to work on that one, too.
Fifteen years later, when rearranging furniture, I reached behind a heavy dresser to get what I thought was a cobweb. Instead, I grabbed a salamander’s skeletal remains while emoting a primal scream. Startled and then relieved, I uttered, "Thank you, Saint Anthony."
2009 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took three first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.
Right side, left side, back or front?
Way back on the Epistle side of the sanctuary in the very last pew is where you'll find the Johnsons every Sunday. Since Don uses a walker, he sits near the exit with his wife, daughter and grandchildren at his side.
Up front on the Gospel side are the Andersons, behind them the Swansons. Travel straight back to the center of the church and you’ll find the Larsons, next to the Larsons are the Smiths.
Behind the Smiths, the Bensons and clear in the rear on the Gospel side are the Gibsons.
My attention was first drawn to the territorial nature of where people sit in church some years ago on Good Friday. My congregation was producing a play that I wrote entitled "Marys Crossing." We all hoped the edgy Passion drama, which is written from the female perspective, would bring in a crowd of newcomers, and it did just that.
The night of the performance, dozens upon dozens of unfamiliar faces filed into the church, flushing the Johnsons, the Andersons and others out of their galvanized positions. Even the balcony was filled for the first time in decades.
Bernie, whose spot was taken, was miffed. "Hey, someone took my seat," he whispered to me.
"Yes, isn't that grand," I said, ever so pleased with the turn out. "Looks like you'll have to find to a new place tonight."
As I watched Bernie begrudgingly shuffle his way into the sanctuary, I considered the fixed places we assign ourselves and wondered what would happen if we moved around now and then.
I once knew a woman who left her church all because of the seating chart nature of the place.
"When I saw Linda’s picture in the Obituaries, I felt sad and mad at the same time," she fumed. "Linda always sat on the left side and, of course, I always sat on the right. I knew her face, but I never learned her name, never once spoke to her," she continued with tears welling in a sideways glance, her lips pinching back grief.
"There's something wrong," she blurted mournfully. "We are silently segregating ourselves from one another and nothing is being done about it! That's not what church is supposed to be. It's just not the Christian thing to do, so I quit going."
I first experienced an antidote to such self-segregation at a Latino worship service.
During the "Sharing of the Peace," everyone got out of their seats and greeted each other in two processional circles that moved in opposite directions around the perimeter of the sanctuary.
Conscious of my own fixed place in church, I occasionally force myself to sit on the other side. It is a different experience for me. At first, I feel out of place and a little uncomfortable.
But there in the front corner on the Epistle side far from where I usually sit on Sunday morning, my circle widens. I shake hands with and speak to people for the first time. I hear new voices. I experience a new brand of fellowship without even leaving the building.
So I'm wondering, where do you sit in church?
2009 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took three first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com
Up front on the Gospel side are the Andersons, behind them the Swansons. Travel straight back to the center of the church and you’ll find the Larsons, next to the Larsons are the Smiths.
Behind the Smiths, the Bensons and clear in the rear on the Gospel side are the Gibsons.
My attention was first drawn to the territorial nature of where people sit in church some years ago on Good Friday. My congregation was producing a play that I wrote entitled "Marys Crossing." We all hoped the edgy Passion drama, which is written from the female perspective, would bring in a crowd of newcomers, and it did just that.
The night of the performance, dozens upon dozens of unfamiliar faces filed into the church, flushing the Johnsons, the Andersons and others out of their galvanized positions. Even the balcony was filled for the first time in decades.
Bernie, whose spot was taken, was miffed. "Hey, someone took my seat," he whispered to me.
"Yes, isn't that grand," I said, ever so pleased with the turn out. "Looks like you'll have to find to a new place tonight."
As I watched Bernie begrudgingly shuffle his way into the sanctuary, I considered the fixed places we assign ourselves and wondered what would happen if we moved around now and then.
I once knew a woman who left her church all because of the seating chart nature of the place.
"When I saw Linda’s picture in the Obituaries, I felt sad and mad at the same time," she fumed. "Linda always sat on the left side and, of course, I always sat on the right. I knew her face, but I never learned her name, never once spoke to her," she continued with tears welling in a sideways glance, her lips pinching back grief.
"There's something wrong," she blurted mournfully. "We are silently segregating ourselves from one another and nothing is being done about it! That's not what church is supposed to be. It's just not the Christian thing to do, so I quit going."
I first experienced an antidote to such self-segregation at a Latino worship service.
During the "Sharing of the Peace," everyone got out of their seats and greeted each other in two processional circles that moved in opposite directions around the perimeter of the sanctuary.
Conscious of my own fixed place in church, I occasionally force myself to sit on the other side. It is a different experience for me. At first, I feel out of place and a little uncomfortable.
But there in the front corner on the Epistle side far from where I usually sit on Sunday morning, my circle widens. I shake hands with and speak to people for the first time. I hear new voices. I experience a new brand of fellowship without even leaving the building.
So I'm wondering, where do you sit in church?
2009 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took three first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com
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