There but for the grace of God go I . . .

I hope that is the right way to say it. I was thinking about how I, with my personality, could go a bit rampantly beserk with my impulses and ideas but for the marvelously, restraining hand God lays upon me. For example, two Sundays ago at church--during the hymn--I glanced behind our pew and saw a young man of sound body and mind with his mouth closed, clamped, zipped! That is one of the greatest pet peeves of mine: men who profess to be believers (and even OFFICERS in the church) who don't sing during worship. I have no sympathy for claims of shyness, inability to sing or this bizarre excuse: "men of that generation don't sing." Especially since God, in his word, tells us to sing to him! As I write this, I am thankful that it is God's business to deal with and not so much mine. In the heat of the moment, I was however, a bit idignant (shouldn't Christians be zealous to see God properly praised?) and had these wild ideas of making a sticker to go on the back of our car and perhaps my guitar case (which floats around the church) and maybe even a few t-shirts or baby onesies that read, "REAL MEN SING DURING WORSHIP" or something like that. I'm not sure how Tuan (or more, importantly God!) would feel about that, but even as I write, I'm once again getting inspred to passively-aggressively prod people with graphic design.

There but for the grace of God go I . . .

Yes, lurking beneath the surface of my already unique self are some odd tendencies and even struggles. One particular struggle that wars within is the result of my mom and dad coming from families that deal very differently with their possessions. In one corner of the ring are the Blackwell's. They are not attatched to stuff. It is easily replaceable--if it breaks, or gets left outside--buy a new one. If you move and the chair is too bulky to fit on the truck, leave it behind and get a new one. Every time my Blackwell grandmother moves, new sheets, comforters, pillows, etc . . . are purchased and her house is always fresh. I love this except . . . another part of me--the Calhoun side which is in the other corner of this "ring" is saying, "no, no, no that is perfectly good don't throw it away, keep it and repair it and store it." See, the Calhouns are possesed by Scottish thrift--NOTHING is thrown away--not pillows, not blankets, not even some trash. If a toaster oven is replaced by a new one and there is the chance that the old one might one day be repairable if a certain part in England is located--keep it.

So, here I am--torn between two extremes. I long for everything to be fresh and clean and smelling good, but I TRULY, TRULY hate waste and feel that if something can be fixed--after all, a penny saved is truly a penny earned. That is why I keep leftovers. The battle came out this week, however, as I began to feel that our bedroom smelled musty. Ignoring the fact that our mattress ( a hand-me-down from the Landrums who let missionaries sleep on it (not that that means anything) and were given it by the Griffith's whom I assume purchased it new, but as far as I can understand when Ben came home from the hospital this mattress was there) is old, I realized that it was probably time for new pillows. They are almost ten years old and have gotten lots of wear. On went the battle:

Blackwell: These pillows are old, they probably have an odour
Calhoun: No, no, but they are Ralph Lauren pillows . . .
Blackwell: Who cares, you shouldn't sleep on stinky pillows
Calhoun: If they smell, you can febreeze them
Blackwell: It won't work, you know. You need new pillows.
Calhoun: Fine, you talked me into it, but keep these pillows and if you ever have a guest bed or when Johnny gets a "big boy" bed he can use them, after all, they _are_ Ralph Lauren pillows . . .
Blackwell: Puh-lease! You paid ten dollars for them at TJ Maxx--they smell and do you really want your guests or SON sleeping on stinky pillows? SEND THEM TO GOODWILL AND LET THE POOR (ER) SLEEP ON THEM.

The Blackwell side won that battle. I ordered a set of four feather pillows from Overstock.com. But you see, dear reader the perilous line I walk daily, struggling between two extremes, as I make domestic decisions.

There but for the grace of God go I. . . .