Sunday, December 1, 2013

For my oldest daughter, on her fourth birthday

For my oldest daughter, on her 4th birthday.


My little girl, no longer a baby, no longer a chubby toddler.  This year you have grown so much.  You continue to surprise and delight us with your songs, your stories, your knock-knock jokes.  


I am so proud of you, honey.  You are sweet, kind, silly and sensitive.  Sometimes you are feisty and sassy, but usually only to your momma.  I love to watch you dance, in dance class and at home.  Especially in dance class, when you are so intent on the teacher and you are trying so hard to do it right.  I love to watch you ride a horse, giggling when you trot, so serious when you’re trying to listen to your instructor.  You know your letters and you can count very well.  You love to write your name and you do an excellent job at it.  I, of course, think it means you’re a genius.  You can identify a few words in books, like Daddy and Mommy, and that of course makes me believe (again) that you are a genius. 


I worry about you, sweetheart.  Your enthusiasm for life is like a little soap bubble, so beautiful and filled with light, and so fragile.  I hope I can help preserve it.  I am awestruck by both your bravery and your vulnerability.  You alternate between being brave and confident, like when you march up to the front of the church to receive your birthday blessing, and being shy and careful, when you hesitate to ask another child to play with you at the park.  I worry that your strong desire to please will lead you to heartache, and I worry that your strong opinions will lead to friction.  You are both sassy and kind, demanding and obedient, fast and slow, loud and quiet.

I want so much for you, darling.  I want you to grow in confidence, to face challenges with determination, to be compassionate, to be creative, to be intelligent.  I want you to love deeply, to risk bravely, to work devotedly, to learn passionately, to live fully.  Most of all, I want to you enjoy being my little girl for as long as I’ve got you.

Loving the Poor in Spirit

In the last few weeks, I prayed my way through a meeting at work.  It wasn’t a difficult meeting; I should have had no trouble participating in it.  I was in a petty, bratty state of mind, for no real reason at all.  I prayed the Jesus prayer, “Jesus Christ, son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner,” as I breathed in and out and in and out.  It helped me hold my tongue, instead of making sarcastic remarks.  Later, I wanted to complain to a friend about the meeting, “I wish I’d been consulted…  I wish someone would just make up their mind…  I wish people showed some respect… blah… blah… blah...”  I prayed again, so I wouldn’t open my mouth, “Jesus, please help me not be an ass.”  Did it matter that I kept my negative thoughts to myself that day?  Probably not, not to anyone else but me.  After a few hours of occasional prayers, the negativity subsided.  Jesus did change my heart, and he let me see my silly pride.  My complaints were bullshit, merely put on so I could pick a fight in my mind with people who don’t deserve it.  Man, I am a pain in the ass.  Luckily, that one day, I kept it to myself--between myself and Jesus.


That night, I read Madeleine L’Engle’s book, Bright Evening Star:  The Mystery of the Incarnation.  She says, “He (Jesus) told them it is all right to grieve, to be meek, to be poor in spirit.”  I had always thought of “poor in spirit” as poor, sad, depressed people who need my love and deserve the kingdom of heaven.  As a modern day liberal, I really want to love the poor, the downtrodden, the meek.  But maybe that’s not the only ones Jesus means.  Maybe “poor in spirit” means those who just can’t be nice.  Maybe the “poor in spirit” are the regular-old pain in the asses like myself.  Maybe it means all those jerks, annoyances and nasty people that we meet all the time.  Jesus loves them, too.  And he loves me when I’m one of them.  Jesus heard my boring, narcissistic complaints today and helped me keep them to myself.  Man, he must be pretty tired of it, even if I were the only one he complaining to him (and I know lots of people are talking to him besides me).  


What is that kind of love, the kind of love that loves jerks, even when they’re acting like jerks?  The kind of love that forgives the prodigal son for running away and spending all of his inheritance and then crawling back home to daddy?  The kind of love that forgives the sinner?  That love is pretty awesome when you’re the forgiven sinner, but it’s kind of hard to look at when you’re the one who’s toeing the line and keeping the faith.  When I’m trying to be all kind, patient, compassionate and tactful, I am annoyed by those who are grumpy and intractable.  It’s not so easy to love the pain in the ass, even when it’s me.


I wonder about that kind of love.  If Jesus were my friend, walking around here, would I think he was a dupe for loving people?  Would he be like that 22 year-old girl who loves her jerk of a boyfriend so damn hard, no matter what an asshole he is?  Would I want to slap Jesus for putting up with his crap?  What does he see in him, anyway--seriously!  If Jesus were in a romance novel, would he be the annoying girl who loves her vampire boyfriend, insisting he is truly good and that he won’t actually kill her and suck her blood?

Then I realize what my metaphor is missing. See, Jesus loves me when I’m a jerk and he probably loves that blood-sucking vampire, too (except I hope he doesn’t whine and sigh about it as much as the girl in the movie).  But, the love of Jesus doesn’t let me stay a jerk.  The love of Jesus makes me want to change so much that I pray instead of talking, that I hold my tongue on all those negative thoughts.  Then, that love gives me a few hours to gain my perspective and recognizw my injured pride and my silly posturing.  I’m so grateful for his love that I become a little less of a jerk, a little bit more patient and a little bit more compassionate.  The love of Jesus loves the nasty, jerky, poor in spirit, but it doesn’t leave us that way.  The love of Jesus seduces us out of sin and into love.  And when we fall back into sin, he loves us right back into grace, over and over again.

Sunday, November 24, 2013

The exquisiteness of 3 year old princesses and high-school musicals

Tonight I took my almost 4 year old daughter to see Beauty and the Beast at our local high school.  I am a reformed princess-hater (see my earlier post about Princess Hater? Not so much anymore).  I wonder if there is a term for hating princesses, like regiphobe?  I have overcome my issues with fairy tales and commercialism of Disney and fully embraced princess make-believe with my kids.  So, here we are, walking up the steps of the high school, my daughter wearing her Sleeping Beauty Halloween costume, a size too large so it lasts, with a few rips and tears from the many dress-up games, but none the less sparkly, ruffly and resplendent.  She clutches her princess toys, Cinderella and Belle, while she holds up her too-long dress, clambering up the steps carefully to avoid tripping in her sparkly, Hello Kitty boots.  Looking at her, I am overcome with emotion.


I assume that other parents are also regularly struck sideways by the exquisite vulnerability of their children, as I am.   Almost daily, I envision horrific scenarios while performing mundane tasks; I see them burned, lost, cut, bruised, etc, from scary things that just might happen.  Don’t be alarmed, I am not thinking of harming my kids.  I just have flashes of ways they could get hurt and there are many, many, many ways that children under the age of four can be hurt.  I think of motherhood as a thin skin covering a blister of worry.  The blister of worry began the moment I found out I was pregnant and has grown ever since.  The skin that covers it keeps it under control, but sometimes I have to poke at it, just to make sure it is still there and it is still real.


Today, it was not a physical worry that poked the blister of motherhood.  She was just so darn adorable in her pink and sparkles, gripping her princesses, so trusting that she was going to see something magical. I had a visceral reaction to the incredible faith and vulnerability of my little girl going to see her first play, so excited because Mommy says it’s going to be great.  For a moment, I envisioned disappointment:  what if someone is mean to her in her dress?  What if someone takes her toys or makes fun of her?  What if I was wrong about the time and day of the play? What if the play is terrible and she’s scared of it and we have to leave?  None of those were likely and none of them would result in long-term damage.  Still, I am so very protective of her enthusiasm, her delight and her trust in new experiences.


My momentary fears were for naught.  The play, not surprisingly, turned out to be wonderful.  People seemed delighted at all the little girls in princess costumes with their toys, the actors were talented, and she was transfixed.  She kept asking, “Mommy, what’s happening next?” and she screamed in terror and delight when Gaston stabbed the Beast.  It was so special to hold her on my lap and watch her experience the wonder of live theater.


I might have hated princesses, but I always loved theater, especially high-school and amateur theater.  I prefer high-school theater to professional theater the same way I prefer local, amateur musicians to professional live music, and I prefer 4-H horse shows to the World Championships.  I don’t love the amateur versions because of the quality of the performances, but because of the enthusiasm and the rawness of the performers.  I love the fact that it is such a big deal to the players, that they are not putting in their time for a paycheck, or that they have another gig coming down the pipe tomorrow that is much more important.  I love how much it means to them.  The student actors are just as vulnerable as my mini-princess when she climbs up the steps, skirts in hand.


I remember the glorious triumph of high school musicals.  My view of the action was most often from the back stage, or from the back of the chorus during a large number.  My lack of talent didn’t diminish the transcendent nature of the experience.  I remember the trust in magic, trust in the talent of our cast and our director, trust in our youth and enthusiasm.  Our director used to pull us aside before every opening night and tell us a story.  He told us that our lives were made up of moments, that special moments were memories in the necklace of our lives, and that tonight was going to add a pearl to that necklace.  He was right.  My fellow performers, managers and crew gave those performances our best, leaving all our talent on the stage and holding nothing back.  We did not worry about what might happen; we put our best out there and trusted in the grace of the world.

I keep thinking of the vulnerability of my little girl and of the actors in the play tonight. I think that we become parents so we can experience the vulnerability of youth again.  As an adult, I have learned my strengths and learned to protect myself.  I hedge my bets and temper my excitement and I live safely within my own sphere of competence.  Parenthood threatens that bubble of competence.  Poking the blister of worry reminds me of the fragile nature of life.  That’s when I open up to new experiences, wearing sparkly princess costumes, clutching precious toys, ready for the magic that awaits me. 

Friday, November 22, 2013

The Slippery Nature of Loving Your Neighbor

There is a mystery in Christianity, which moves if you look at it too closely, which shifts in surprising ways.  I guess that is why they call it “the mystery of Christ”.  It is like one of those trick pictures, the ones with the young girl, then if you look again, it is an old woman, then a young girl, then an old woman, back and forth but never both at the same time and never perfectly clear which is the right one (because they both are right).  For instance, the Trinity, the three-in-one God, is something that cannot be nailed down.  It is the best metaphor for the unchanging God we long for, the personal God we seek, and the Spirit which we find in our seeking.  But, it’s not something you can nail down.  Then, there is the incarnation, the God-made-man, holy word encased in flesh, fully-human-fully-divine.  I can understand the historical Jesus.  I can worship a God that gives up his life for us.  But, I can’t quite hold them both in my mind at the same time.  I get one in my thoughts and then the other image comes around and shifts the whole scene.  Just because I can’t nail them down doesn’t mean they aren’t absolutely true, or at least the truest version I know.  Still, it’s slippery, isn’t it?


Another thing that is kind of slippery is how we relate to other Christians.  Recently, I’ve seen some articles posted around Facebook about Christians behaving badly:  not tipping waitresses in the name of the church, condemning the LGBT population, yelling at people in car crashes.  The understandable refrain, from Christians, atheists and other people is, “That’s not very Christian of them!”  I agree absolutely.  How does stiffing waitresses, condemning our neighbors and screaming at accidental mishaps resemble the words of Christ?  Not very much; not at all, actually.  No one wants to be associated with “those type of Christians”. I sure am grateful to not be like them.


Whoa, something feels slippery to me here.  Something seems too easy and too satisfying about my train of thought.  I was just about to pray, “Thank you, God, for helping me to be understanding, kind and tolerant of those with differences.  Thank you for giving me patience and generosity and thank you for helping me to be a good tipper.”  Wait a minute?  Isn’t that dangerously similar to the Publican who prays in the temple, “God, thank you that I am not like that other guy, that I fast and I tithe”?  Remember him?  Remember the hero of the story, the sinful tax collector who just prays, “God be merciful to me, a sinner (a poor tipper and a homophobe)”  Oh boy--what the heck am I supposed to think now?  I know that we’re supposed to love our neighbor and our enemy, so what if our neighbor and enemy are not loving others?  How are we supposed to love hateful people and still stand on the side of love?


I am asking this question honestly, not rhetorically.  I do not know the answer.  I am a newly renewed Christian; living into this faith and trying to love instead of judge is a new thing for me.  It seems like the minute I feel like I’m understanding something, I fall into pride and congratulate myself, and then I’m right back where I started.  If some lady with a Jesus fish on her car cuts me off in traffic and then flicks me off, am I supposed to yell at her for being a hypocrite or pray for her?  Or both?  These are the things I think of while driving to work. (I know, I have been told I think too much.)


The disciples are the most direct models for followers of Christ that we have.  They are the first generation, the eye-witnesses.  I know they did not actually write the Gospels, but the Gospels are still our best evidence.  Did the disciples act “very Christian”?  Well, sometimes, but they certainly had their bad days.  They fought with each other over seating arrangements, they wondered who would get the best reward in heaven, they misunderstood him, they denied him and they (one of them did) betrayed him.  And they actually hung out with the guy in person!  If they screwed it up, what hope do I have at all?


Maybe the answer is in the relationship with others.  If my best friend is having a bad day and goes off on someone who cut her off, would I condemn her?  No, I would sympathize with her frustration, without letting her off the hook for being a jerk.  I would try to help her see things differently so she didn't treat people so poorly in her anger.  What would it be like to treat all the people I encounter in my life like I treat those dearest to me?  Is it possible to love a nasty person without validating their nasty behavior? Is that the point?  I better not get too excited about my hypothesis, because I’ll get it wrong soon enough.

Thursday, November 14, 2013

In the midst of fleas and throw-up: thoughts on the incarnation

In the last few years, I have become undeniable aware of the messiness of human life.  I am the mother of two small children, and if living with several animals wasn’t enough to find the nitty-gritty of life, little kids bring the message right on home.  I mean the literal messiness of life, here.  I mean the snot, the puke, the pee, the poop, the dirt, the fleas of every-day human life.  One or the other of the creatures I care for is usually covered in something sticky and I don’t really ask questions about what it is.  There’s nothing new to this at all; I am just newly and constantly aware of it.  Given a recent batch of infestation and illness of my messy little charges (human and canine), I joke that I am just trying to keep my sense of humor in the midst of fleas and throw-up.


Modern humans try very hard to be civilized.  We scrub, shave and spray away the dirt, hair and stink of regular people.  We teach manners, hygiene and grooming and we expect fellow citizens to follow our customs.  When we go out in public, we are presentable and we hide the nitty-gritty of our existence.  But, it still shows through, especially when we’re around little kids and even more with adorable little babies.  Babies seem to hold (and spew at inopportune times) more bodily fluids than their tiny frames can hold.  Human life begins in mess and indignity.


So, thinking about the mess, the profane of daily human existence, brings me to thinking of the Incarnation.  The Holy Word of God became human, fully human, not some handsome super-hero with x-ray vision who could fly and was impervious to illness.  Jesus showed up as a messy, blood-covered, screaming, snotty, human baby, right in the midst of fleas and throw-up. That mess and indignity is where the miracle happens.  


Easter is the big show of Christianity, the extravaganza of the resurrection, the festival of the dying and rising God.  I came back to Christianity because of Easter.  It was Easter that lured me into church again; the idea of a god who gave up his life to save me, the idea of dying to my old life and starting anew.  That is what brought me through the doors of an Episcopal church during Lent.  I wanted the extravaganza, the passion, the whole enchilada.  


As in life, the unbearable grief and unbelievable triumph of the death and life overshadow the daily mess.  This coming Christmas season, I find an even more personal, messier, less glorious miracle in the incarnation.  The miracle of the Holy Word of God becoming human, with all the ordinary trappings of human life.  


Before Jesus could be the sacrament, before he could show us the power of forgiveness, before he could embody the love of God defeating death, he had to be a dirty, smelly, personal human.  He had to become regular person, dealing with family squabbles, jealousy, hunger, temptation, fear, frustration, and daily indignity.  To imagine the Word of God in that indignity, that profane, mundane existence--that is scandalous and ridiculous.  Frederick Buechner says, “The incarnation is "a kind of vast joke whereby the Creator of the ends of the earth comes among us in diapers... Until we too have taken the idea of the God-man seriously enough to be scandalized by it, we have not taken it as seriously as it demands to be taken.”

Are we scandalized enough by Christmas?  Are we scandalized enough that God himself became a helpless baby, born into the dirt, mess and pain of human life? Something absolutely holy and wondrous became part of the ordinary. In the daily mess of life, Jesus came to the world; the Holy Word made flesh in the midst of fleas and throw-up.

Saturday, November 2, 2013

Princess Hater? Not so much anymore

I admit it--I was a princess-hater.  I was derisive and dismissive of all that had to do with Disney princesses.  I disliked the depiction of women as a damsel in distress, I disliked the idea that all will be solved by a prince’s rescue and I disliked the incessant merchandising of absolutely everything.  I swore that there would be no princess crap in my house until my daughter asked for it by name.  Lo and behold, by her second birthday, she wanted a princess doll.  So I caved in. For her second Halloween, she dressed as an adorable Snow White.  That Snow White dress has earned its keep again and again; she wore it to day care, to the mall, to church, to the barn.  I didn’t argue, I supported her play with a veiled eye roll.  I was still too cool to embrace the princess culture.


Lately, a few things have made me realize I was wrong, wrong, wrong.  First of all, princess culture has its benefits.  Disney princesses are polite, and they clean up around the house, especially Cinderella, after her annoying step-sisters, and Snow White, with all those messy little dwarves.  It’s pretty convenient to say to my sassy three year old, “Cinderella would pick up her toys, wouldn’t she?  Snow White is kind to others; you should be kind to your baby sister and not knock her down when she takes your toy.”  Manipulative?  OK, but a mom’s gotta take any advantage she can these days.


Today, I was skimming my facebook feed, which is where I get all my news from the outside.  Our t.v. is permanently tuned to Dora’s latest adventure, not the national news.  There was an interesting article about an artist who turned ten important women into Disney princesses.  Here is the link:  http://www.womenyoushouldknow.net/flatten-heroine-artist-puts-disney-princess-filter-10-real-life-female-role-models/  He took people like Ruth Bader Ginsberg and Marie Curie and drew them as Disney princesses.  I believe the idea is that when we make people into flat, 2-dimensional, silly-looking cartoons, it diminishes them.  That’s true, I’m sure.  But, my three year old came by the computer and pointed to Rosa Parks as a princess, “Mommy, who is that pretty girl?”  “Kiddo, that is a woman who worked very hard to make things more fair for other people.  You know what ‘fair’ is, right?”  So, we had a short todder-version conversation of civil rights.  Then, she went off to color.


I am not above using princess culture to teach other lessons.  I can’t blame my daughter for loving pretty things, sparkles and ruffles.  I can’t blame her for being attracted to pretty drawings.  In this case, those pretty drawings were of really important women and I was very grateful for her to hear their names.  I wish they had a 10 Women You Should Know Princess coloring book.  I would be the first one to buy it.  Even better, a t.v. show where those 10 princesses go around bringing social justice to the world.


Most importantly, I now realize I was underestimating my kid with my princess resistance.  Recently, a good friend recently wrote a blog in favor of princesses.  (Here is the link:  http://searchingforingleside.blogspot.com/)  She is a strong, educated woman who I respect immensely.  She wrote about how she played kick-ass princess when she was young, not princesses who just waited around for some man to marry.  It was like getting hit over the head--Duh!  I, too, had played princess as a kid.  My princesses ran through the fields, rode imaginary hawks through the sky, fought to save Narnia from the evil witch, and rode really, really impressive horses.  None of my fantasies involved weddings or even princes at all, unless they were sword-fighting with me.  How could I be so blinded by the merchandising that I forgot the beauty of fantasy?  My daughter plays pretend in all sorts of ways, with a Snow White dress and crown or a hard hat and cowboy boots.  Why shouldn’t I give her the credit she deserves, to create her own kick-ass princesses?

I am a princess-hater no more.  Get out the diamond tiara because I’ve got a kingdom to save.

Monday, October 21, 2013

Guns don't kill people...

There is something incredibly wrong with the way we relate to guns in this country. I know this is a hot-button issue and maybe I have little education or right to an opinion.  But, a blog is a bully pulpit of sorts, for anyone who will listen.  Indulge me my little argument.


I grew up in a house with a stocked gun cabinet.  My dad kept a gun beside his bed--a loaded gun--because (as Dad put it) what was the point of an unloaded gun?  My English born brother-in-law and my American husband go target shooting on the 4th of July, just to celebrate their right to do it in the United States of America.  I learned to shoot a .22 calibre rifle when I was 12.  I didn’t like it much--it was loud and dirty and the kick hurt me.  I’m a terrible shot, a fact that my father lamented almost often as my mother lamented my complete lack of skills in the kitchen.  She failed to teach me how to cook--he failed to teach me how to shoot.


Lest my liberal friends ask me to turn in my bleeding-heart-liberal card, I must confess that there are no guns in my house today.  As I said, I don’t enjoy shooting and I don’t desire to defend myself.  It is possible I’ll regret it, but I feel safer without guns than with them.  That being said, I never worried about the guns in my father’s house.  He knew what he was doing and was taught to use and respect them by his father and grandfather.


However poor my target shooting, I did learn some important things about guns from my dad.  I learned that they are serious, that they deserve your attention and respect, that you never point a gun at something you do not fully intend to shoot, that guns are for killing. I have plenty of friends who enjoy target shooting and hunting.  I don’t begrudge them their leisure activity, any more than I expect them to be angry that I ride horses.  But, just as my horse is intended to be ridden, guns are intended to shoot and kill.  My dad taught me to be honest about guns.  I think we’re missing that honesty and open dialogue today.


Now, this part may sound a little conservative--brace yourselves…  I believe we are missing an honest relationship with firearms in this country.  Kids learn about guns on t.v. and video games, and most of them have no context for them outside of that.  They do not learn the deadly power of them at the side of their elders; they see them wielded by gangsters and cops.  My father’s generation watched shoot-outs in westerns and then learned to hunt respectfully with their grandfathers.  Kids were able to balance the fantasy of shooting the bad guys with the reality of watching an animal die at their own hand.  Young people today watch crime movies and then go play Black Ops.  They don’t hold a gun and realize its power until they pick one up in anger. The violent video games and the lack of exposure to the reality of firearms wield a double-edged sword of indifference to gun violence.  


The gun lobbyists have done a huge disservice to this country, as well.  Of course, “guns don’t kill people; people kill people” and of course a person can kill another person with a knife, a candlestick, or a noose.  (I learned all of that playing Clue.)  But, let’s be honest and call guns weapons.  What other object designed solely to kill can be owned by an average citizen?  I don’t see rocket launchers, bombs and tanks at Wal-Mart.  There is a problem with violence in this country. Guns DO kill people, and to say they don’t trivializes the entire discussion.  


We have lost our ability to have a conversation and retreated to separate political camps, reinforced by separate friends, separate magazines and separate t.v. news stations.  We have forgotten how to live with neighbors who think differently from us and how to compromise for the common good.  Just because I am upset by another shooting doesn’t mean I am going to make you turn in your guns.  Just because I own guns does not mean I am uneducated, fearful, or building a private militia.  To paraphrase, it isn’t the gun that’s the problem, it is the unreasonable fear and the inability to discuss it.  

I don’t know what the answer is.  I do know that my father would be shaking his head at the number of children killed by gun violence.  I do believe that a person would not have to give up his private right to bear arms in order to make this country a little safer for school children.  I do know that retreating to separate political camps and reinforcing opposite opinions is not helping this nation at all.  Until we begin speaking respectfully to each other about issues and stop spouting thoughtless propaganda on social media, we will not find an answer at all.

Friday, September 27, 2013

Twilight: confessional

I hate myself for watching you…  Yes, I have a confession to make, one that has taken me a few years to admit.  I watch the Twilight movies and I even read one of the books.  If you know me, you know I always make fun of them and act like I’m way too cool and too smart to enjoy them, like I only watch them because I hate them and I think they’re funny.  That’s what I want you to think, because they are terrible, terrible stories.

We all know the Twilight Saga is a poorly written, over-dramatic rip-off of gothic romance. First, there are the characters... Bella is insufferable, annoying, and unlikeable.  She is not “spunky” or “endearingly stubborn”; she is whiny and stupid.  Edward is just plain unbelievable.  First of all, he is supposed to be an incredibly attractive, irresistible predator that could overcome any foe, with no weakness at all.  I mean, he’s super-fast, super-strong and he can read minds.  Even Superman had his kryptonite.  What is this creature’s tragic flaw?  Only his undeniable love of Bella, a singularly unremarkable human being, who “smells good”.  I am gagging even as I write about it.

Then, there is the message…  The message to young girls (and women who should know better) that if a man treats you like he hates you, he might just really, really like you (except he wants to drink your blood, so he has to avoid you).  The idea that if you refuse to believe your boyfriend is bad, he will turn out to be good.  The idea that true love will make you want to kill yourself if you have to be separated from the object of your affection.  The idea that if a man hurts you, it’s OK because he probably didn’t really mean it, I mean, he really, really loves you and he can’t help it if he’s super strong and having sex with him gives you bruises and breaks the bed.  That is more than gag-worthy--it’s plain offensive to women.

So, yeah, I hate it.  Here’s the confession--I still WATCH it!  The first time was an accident.  There was nothing else on and I thought, “Oh, this will be funny. I wonder how long I can stand it.”  Within minutes, I was hooked.  I don’t know if it was the pretty actors, the melodramatic camera shots, the breathless inner monologue, I don’t know.  But, I was hooked.  I watched the first movie, the second, then I actually got a Netflix account just to get the newest one.  I even made my friend go with me to see the fourth one in a theatre.  She’s one of the few people to whom I could confess my dirty secret:  I was compelled to see the stupid movies.  Why, why, why?

I blame the fourteen-year-old girl inside of me.  The one with a secret crush on the captain of the football team, or the high-school musical star.  The ordinary girl who wants to believe she is special, so special that no regular boy can recognize it, but a superhuman, 200 year-old, romantic love-machine is the only one to see it.  The girl who sighs and thinks, “Oh Edward…”  I thought she was buried under a cynical, smart-ass woman, a woman who scoffs at lovey-dovey gestures, who values the reality of her regular-guy husband and laughs at romantic tragic-comedies.  I thought I outgrew her, but I now admit she is hiding inside of me, waiting for the next vampire love story.  She’s a lot like Bella.  I kind of hate her, too.

Sunday, September 22, 2013

Revised Marriage Vows--for real life

When we get married, we vow to love, honor, cherish/obey, until death do us part.  If we’re creative, original types (not like myself and my husband), we write our own vows and talk about how much the other means to us.  Then, we get down to the real business of marriage.  How often do we think of those vows?  Sometimes, in moments of real crisis or real bliss, we might remember them.  How often do they impact our daily life?  

Quite often in my personal life, it’s not the big deal things that cause problems.  In moments of crisis, it is clear what is on the line.  If big deal things happen, infidelity, betrayal, big, big lies, you know what your choices are--to learn to forgive and work on the relationship, or to move on without the person.  You think of the vows.  And you make a decision.

Marriage is difficult.  Life is fraught with daily, annoyances and frustrations.  When you live by yourself and you lock yourself out of the house, the only person to blame is you.  When you live with another person, it is so tempting to blame the other for careless mistakes, for not being “nice enough”, for not being _______ (fill in the blank).  It is tempting to make a scapegoat out of a spouse.  We can be quite creative in this:  “If you hadn’t done the laundry last night, I wouldn’t have ruined the flash drive containing my important presentation that I left in my pants.”  It is the daily life of marriage and the little moments that lead up to the big crises.  It is the small, impatient comments, harbored resentment, and plain frustration with daily life that lead to attrition, to turning elsewhere for comfort, to wanting to escape your life.   

We can never know what life holds in store for us and we get married with the best of intentions.  In my life, it’s worked out very well, even with the challenging moments.  But, I think that if a marriage ceremony were about the real challenges of marriage, the vows would be quite a bit different.  After 12 years of marriage, I wonder about the vows my husband and I could write now.   Here is my idea:

  • I vow to tell you what I need, not make you guess and then get angry when you get it wrong.
  • I vow to understand if you can’t give me what I need, at that exact moment.  
  • I vow not to expect you to fix all my problems, and not to try to fix all of yours.
  • I vow to give you space when you need it.  It’s OK if we do not go on picture-perfect family outings every weekend.  It’s OK if you go off to golf and I go off to ride.  It’s OK if our “family time” is cuddling with the kids on the bed during a power outage.
  • I vow to not keep score.  It might feel like I’m doing the lion’s share of the work, but that’s because I’m not paying attention when you’re aerating the lawn and fixing the kitchen sink (because I’m too busy doing the laundry and chasing the kids around).
  • I vow not to hide, my money, my feelings, my dirty clothes (because they smell after a while).
  • I vow to try not to place blame, even when you forget to close the freezer door, or leave the car ignition on, or forget to clean out a lunch box that results in a million fruit flies in the house.
  • I vow that if I can’t help but to place blame, I will not hold grudges and I will approach accidental mistakes with humor.
  • I vow to be patient, even when I want to bite your head off.
  • I vow to listen, even when I’ve heard a similar story a million times before.  It might be boring, but you need to tell it.
  • I vow to recognize the different ways you show your love, like building a new bathroom, or writing a blog, or waking up in the morning with the kids, or mowing the lawn.
  • I vow to pay attention, to what you say, to what you do, to what you need.

Saturday, September 14, 2013

For Glory--a dog story

Recently, we put down our wonderful, loving American Bulldog, Glory.  She was eleven and had cancer.  She'd made it a long time, with hip dysplasia, surgeries for torn ligaments, skin allergies and tumors.  We were lucky to have her as long as we did.  We miss her terribly.

So here it is--another sad dog story, another story about how much we love our dogs.  I guess those stories are so common because they are so true.  We all know what is wonderful about our dogs, how unconditionally they love us, how they comfort us no matter what, how loyal, how faithful.  It has been written on tear-soaked papers and keyboards about a million times.  So, indulge me as I make it a million and one.

My dad used to say that when he got out of the Air Force, he got “a horse, a dog and a pick-up truck” and he had one ever since.  I can't imagine my life without a dog in it.  We love our dogs and we all learn lessons from living with them.  By living with dogs and other pets, we live the circle of life.  We see them from the beginning to the very, bitter end.  It’s a wonderful, painful gift to watch the animal you’ve loved her entire life take her last breath.  We learn compassion, loyalty, patience, and unconditional love with our pets.  Pets are a commitment to a loving relationship.

One of the beauties of dogs is the universality of their loyal, loving companionship.  Dog stories are a common ground for strangers to share.  There are very few people I know who have not loved a dog in their lives.  Still, within the universal nature of the love of a dog, there are unique tendencies and unique lessons from each dog.  There are energetic dogs, couch-potato dogs, affectionate dogs, aloof dogs, naughty dogs, well-behaved dogs, there are dogs loved by all kinds of people.  Here are some of our memories from our Knucklehead, Glory.

To our Glory,
who was our knucklehead and who always knew the best, smelliest places to roll.  Who was our companion at horse shows, on walks and on many road trips.  Who snored like a saw all night long.  Who loved to lie in the sun until she panted and panted.  Who demanded politely to be petted--once you started, you couldn’t stop.  Who ate pears, apples, bananas, carrots and grain out of horse buckets.  Who loved to lie on the floor and be your pillow.  Who always hid in the corner when Max did something wrong, to make sure we didn’t blame her.  Who showed us the meaning of loyalty, faithfulness, and unconditional love.

We love you!

Sunday, September 8, 2013

The Best I Can Do--reconcilation and forgiveness

Sin, repentance and confession. In this secular world, sin is not a popular word.  People often explain sin as "missing the mark", or making a mistake.  For much of my life, I squirmed away from the idea of sin because I didn't want to admit there was something wrong with me.   I did NOT want to hear about sin and repentance from some person in a fancy robe standing in front of me. I felt that if I lived a good life and treated people right, I wasn't a sinner.  Ironic then, that an experience of sin and grace helped lead me to the Episcopal Church.

In Praying Shapes Believing by Leonel J. Mitchell, the author says, “The goal of the confessor’s counsel and direction is not to remove the symptoms of sin but to root out the disease--the cancer--of sin itself from the soul by the power of the redeeming love of Christ.  Reconciliation is not a program for self-improvement but an opening of the soul to salvation and redemption through the Paschal Mystery.  This opening to Salvation might also be described as taking place through the Blood of the Cross, or by grace through faith. (202).

Note that Mitchell says church is “not a program for self-improvement”. I worked hard on  self-improvement.  I went to a church where we talked about self-improvement; we had seminars on minimizing our carbon footprint, acting out social justice, building a loving community, classes taught by psychologists on “how to be a mature person”.  I took it seriously.  I read, meditated, I exercised to relieve stress, I focused on a positive attitude, I took the Bodhisattva vow, and treated others as I wanted to be treated.  It all helped.  Except when it didn’t.


Except when I was petty, mean, impatient, deceitful, dishonest, impatient, snarky, depressed, anxious…  What the heck?  I must not have been very good at “self-improvement”, right?  I must not have been very good at becoming a better person.


Outwardly, you might say I was doing pretty well.  I worked with children with special needs, I tried to raise my kids responsibly, I took good care of animals, I gave to charity, I loved my husband, I treated people kindly, I voted, I volunteered, I cut my grass and waved at the neighbors.  I had life figured out, right?  Still, my efforts to be “a better person” fell short as often as they hit the mark.  How come I, a person who seemed to “have it together”, was still a mess?  In all the striving, I never realized the grace I longed for was given as a gift.  It didn’t mean I was going to be “a good person”, but it did mean that I was loved and forgiven, no matter what.


After several years of marriage, my husband and I had “the Big Fight”.  It was pretty much the same fight we’d been having for years, over the same issues.  The details aren’t important, but if you’re in a relationship, you probably know what “Big Fight” I mean.  It always ended with one of us (usually me) promising to do better, to be kinder, to work harder, and to clean the house more often.  After years of making promises and always falling short, I finally said, “What if I can’t?  What if this is the best I can do?  What if, for the rest of our lives together, this is how I am?  Do you still want me?”  His answer, (thank God), was “Yes.”  You know what’s funny, we have NEVER had that same fight again.  We have had other fights, about loading the dishwasher and eating all the ice cream, but never “the Big Fight” again.  What changed?


Well, I can honestly say I did think of him more often, I did open up with things I would have kept closed and I did clean the house just a little bit more often.  It wasn’t because I had promised to do it. (I had tried it and that didn’t work).  The change in our daily life came organically.  I finally could rest in the knowledge of our love.  Rather than thinking that I needed to clean the toilets to avoid a fight or avoid “getting in trouble”, I cleaned the toilets because they were dirty.  When judgment dissipated, love remained.  I knew our marriage wasn't going away, so I might as well get to work.


This moment of marital stress is, for me, an example of God’s grace.  After trying and trying to make myself worthy and failing myself and God again and again, I asked God the same question.  When I stopped “trying to be a better person”, when I admitted my ineptitude, my greed, my selfishness, my SIN, and asked, “Do you still want me?”, the answer from God was “Yes”.  


Confessing sin isn’t a prescription to be a better person, or to get my life together.  My life might be a complete mess, but I still have God’s love.  There is nothing I can do to earn it, nothing I can do to deserve it, nothing I can do to pay it back.  The idea of grace, the "opening of my soul to salvation and redemption" snuck up on me slowly, nagged me, romanced me into a relationship with God in Christ.  Surprisingly, while thinking of the love of Christ in my heart, I act a little more lovingly, a little more patiently, a little more generously, a little more honestly.  

I am not going to clean the toilets of my soul in order to earn forgiveness.  I might as well clean them, though, because they are dirty.  Since God in Christ is dwelling in my soul and in my life, I might as well clean up a little bit for him.

Sunday, September 1, 2013

Serving when you are needing

Recently, I’ve heard and read lots of things about service and sacrifice within the church.  Blogs by various people and church newsletters discuss expectations.  The sermons for the last two weeks were about sacrifice.  The point is to not have a consumerist attitude towards church, to not go to church thinking, “What do I get out of it?” but instead thinking, “How can I serve?”

Church is funny, because it’s not just a service group.  If a person just wants to do some good in the community, there are lots of secular organizations:  animal shelters, Big Brothers, Big Sisters, United Way, Kiwanis, food pantries, etc.  Church is about serving its members and serving the community.  Although anyone who has volunteered will tell you how much they get back from it.  Still, they probably don’t complain that the leader of the Kiwanis club is a poor speaker and why don’t those people learn to sing, for God’s sake!  They don’t go to the United Way looking for spiritual guidance.  Church is supposed to overflow the cups of its parishioners with loving grace, so it spills over to everyone else.

When I found my first adult church, the Unitarian Universalist church, I was pretty broken and small.  I needed to rebuild myself.  So, of course, I needed healing, love and support.  I found it.  I also was challenged to serve but I didn’t rise to the challenge very well.  Maybe I wasn’t ready, maybe I was too shy, maybe it just wasn’t the right opportunity for my talents. I did get involved in the worship planning.  Some of my projects there led me in a surprising direction--to an Episcopal church.

Again, here I went, into to a new church.  I was a little stronger than I had been four years ago, a little calmer, a little wiser.  Still, I needed something.  I needed to hear the Good News, the universal, catholic, salvific words of Jesus.  I needed to see the love of God spoken in a Christian church.  I needed to see it acted out by Christians.  I came to church looking for something I needed.  Most people come to church looking for what they need.

I wonder how I would have felt in the earlier, more broken, days if I’d heard from the pulpit that I should look to serve.  I wonder how I would have felt if told that the church needed part of my already poor, empty spirit.  I wonder if I would have felt challenged or if I would have walked out with tears in my eyes.  The thing is, those broken days could very well come again.  Life is surprising and not hardly ever easy.  Some days, even now, I’m just plain worn out and I go to church for a moment’s rest.  Now you’re telling me to sacrifice?  WTH? (excuse the expression).  I am here to get some help, dude!

Except…  If most people come to church looking for something:  broken, hungry, sad, empty, then who is left to heal, feed, comfort and fill up their spirits?  Is it the ones who happen to be strong and happy that day?  Somehow I don’t think that’s the answer.  Do ministers say, “If you’ve got some extra time and you’re kinda bored, we’d love you to come to the soup kitchen?  Just throw whatever extra you’ve got into the collection plate--thanks!  If you’ve had a really great week, got a raise and your spouse and kids tell you they love you every day AND you have had a great night’s sleep, then please chair our next fundraiser!”?  No, I’m sorry, but out of the three churches I’ve attended for over 25 years, I NEVER heard any of those things said.  Churches are full of people who need something desperately and those are the exact same people who give the most to the community.

You know what’s funny, I’m pretty sure I heard sermons about sacrifice and service my entire life; and I’m sure I heard a few when I was broken and needy.  Maybe I just wasn’t ready; maybe the seeds of sacrifice fell on rocky soil at that moment.  Or maybe they were buried deep in the cold, frozen ground and waited for the thaw.

So, if a person comes to church in need, how do you change from looking for what you need to looking for what you can give?  For me, it took some time.  For me, the work and sacrifice of my fellow parishioners running fundraisers, serving food and teaching the children, that spirit started to spilled over into me.  For me, after discussions at adult christian formation and serving potatoes at a fish fry, I, too, saw a need I could help fill.

I guess that when you serve even when you’re tired, broken and sad, you will find what you need.  I know for sure I wasn’t always thrilled to head up my chosen project, Vacation Bible School. At times, I had no idea how I would get it done, with working full-time and having two little kids.  Yes, I’m a teacher and I’m “off” in the summer, which is why I stepped up for this project.  Still, it wasn’t like I had so much free time that I longed to make schedules and organize craft materials.  At times, I had a hard time focusing on church services because I was distracted by all the work I should be doing.  Through all the anxiety, everything came together and we had a wonderful week of fun, laughter and worship with a bunch of great kids.

That’s the funny thing about serving, it builds more service.  Although my current focus is family and work concerns, I miss having a project at church.  When the next fundraiser came up, I didn’t think, “Oh, I wish I could help but…”  I thought, “What can I do with the time, talent and money I have at my disposal?  There must be something.”  I had avoided comments about teaching Sunday School before.  I just didn’t need one more thing to teach in my life, not with 7th graders all day and toddlers all night.  But, after VBS, I sought out the Sunday School teachers to see how I could help.  I know I’ll be tired when it’s my turn to help with primary Sunday School, but I also know how much I will get out of it.  I am not volunteering to head up the biggest fundraiser or chair the most important committee, I don’t even quite know what I’ll be doing next.  I do know my attitude of “No, not me”, has changed into, “How could I help with that?”

So, how do you take people who are looking to fill a need and teach them to fill others’ needs?  I surely don’t know, except that it seems to be happening to me.  Churches all over the place are doing it and it must be happening through the strength of their members.  Healing must be happening over coffee hour sign-ups, soup kitchen rotations, silent auction donations and kitchen clean-up.  The needy are serving and meeting their own needs all the time.