On Today's Menu:
Still More Just Desserts (Or, A Diabetic's Nightmare)
I was recounting my jury duty experience and interrupted it with the news of my first fiction sale. (Yes, I'm still on that sugar rush--no worries, Robin B., pull up a chair and grab a spoon!) Well, the young woman, the victim's sister, requested to take the stand again after lunch.
Here comes a "Law & Order" twist.
She said, "Well, I'm not sure exactly who I saw look through that blind and shoot my brother."
The defense attorney pounced on this. From that point on, I could not be convinced beyond a reasonable doubt that this man was guilty of the crime he allegedly committee. I wasn't sure. I had a very, very strong feeling he could have done it, but we only had one witness's word (and his girlfriend's) about who was inside that house and where they were when the police arrived. Sleeping. Hmmm. And this same witness bore a very strong resemblance to the accused. Even when the DA called a few witnesses at the county jail to testify about some alleged conversations and shouting between the accused and some others who'd been present at the time of the incident, I still couldn't believe these officials had an accurate recollection of what they heard at the time, any more than I had believed the victim's sister.
The DA could not produce enough witnesses to satisfy my reasonable doubts. When my fellow jurors and I went into deliberations, our initial vote was 10 not guilty, 2 guilty. The charge required a unanimous verdict. We decided to have a good lunch and then come back and kick the evidence around some more. Eight of us ladies went to a local Mexican cafe, oh yum. We managed to talk about all kinds of things--men, our kids, our activities, local news, shopping--anything but the trial. Hey, we're women! After an hour's worth of chat and enchiladas, I was ready to work.
Late in the afternoon of the second day of the trial, we had our unanimous vote. The verdict was read, and the accused clenched his fists at his sides and hissed a soft, "Yes." Once the judge continued reading, the young man started wiping tears from his eyes. We as a jury were released from our gag order (which is why I can say all this now).
Michael spent the last nine months in jail. I hope he learned something in the midst of this mess. Whether or not he shot the victim is one thing. Did I help release a criminal to the streets? I hope not. If he was a criminal, I hope and pray he's not a criminal any more.
Fact is, there's lots of not-guilty people running the streets. Not innocent, but those who've been proclaimed "not guilty."
Sunday, May 22, 2005
Friday, May 20, 2005
Dancin' in the Streets... Or at least through the living room
On Today's Menu:
Buttercream Icing, A Whole Bowl Just for ME!
I interrupt my jury duty story with a thrilling bit of news. This Tuesday, I received "the e-mail." My novella has been accepted for publication next summer! Three of my author friends and I submitted a proposal together. Oh, I screamed. I scared my husband. I wrote one of my friends and asked her, "Does this mean what I think it does?" The publisher already sent me a PDF contract and I've signed two copies and popped it in the mail to them. This fall, I was planning to go to a writer's conference and now it's all covered.
After my posts of "The Prize in the Cereal Box" and "Uphill Both Ways in the Snow" I'm finally seeing some fruit of my labors. Yes, I believe my writing has a purpose even if it's not accepted for publication. Still, though, I really, really wanted a fiction contract--one with my name on the cover.
My life is full. I have many blessings beyond this contract, beyond writing. I have a wonderful husband, two great teenagers, a good job, family, friends--I could go on. This week though, I feel like I've been handed a bowl of dee-licious buttercream icing to go with my cake. And I can eat all I want. Yes, I've been flying!
I do have to come down and get to work on the book though. The sugar rush feels good!!
Buttercream Icing, A Whole Bowl Just for ME!
I interrupt my jury duty story with a thrilling bit of news. This Tuesday, I received "the e-mail." My novella has been accepted for publication next summer! Three of my author friends and I submitted a proposal together. Oh, I screamed. I scared my husband. I wrote one of my friends and asked her, "Does this mean what I think it does?" The publisher already sent me a PDF contract and I've signed two copies and popped it in the mail to them. This fall, I was planning to go to a writer's conference and now it's all covered.
After my posts of "The Prize in the Cereal Box" and "Uphill Both Ways in the Snow" I'm finally seeing some fruit of my labors. Yes, I believe my writing has a purpose even if it's not accepted for publication. Still, though, I really, really wanted a fiction contract--one with my name on the cover.
My life is full. I have many blessings beyond this contract, beyond writing. I have a wonderful husband, two great teenagers, a good job, family, friends--I could go on. This week though, I feel like I've been handed a bowl of dee-licious buttercream icing to go with my cake. And I can eat all I want. Yes, I've been flying!
I do have to come down and get to work on the book though. The sugar rush feels good!!
Monday, May 16, 2005
Guilty or Not Guilty, But Not Innocent
On Today's Menu:
More Just Desserts
I spent three days at the county courthouse last week on a jury for a criminal case. On day one, I sat around and waited. I didn't think I'd be chosen. My summons read juror #222. They only needed 12. I was certain I'd be back at my work computer that afternoon.
Somehow I fit whatever profile the DA and the defense attorney agreed upon. The 12 of us made the best of it as for a day-and-a-half we heard testimony from a myriad of witnesses about what happened on August 29, 2004 at a particular residence in the town where I live.
The young man was originally booked on a charge of attempted murder, but indicted on assault with a deadly weapon. Sitting in the courtroom, he looked like a polished young man with an inscrutable expression. His dark chocolate eyes didn't glance in our direction very often. I wondered what he wrote when he jotted occasionally on his legal pad. His defense attorney, a no-nonsense woman with a strong sharp voice and bad posture, would glance down at the paper from time to time. I learned later that he had not made bail when I saw him escorted across the parking lot after a day in court, headed towards the county jail diagonally across the street. His slight limp betrayed an ankle bracelet (just like Martha's!) covered up by his tailored khaki pants.
"None of these people are angels," the DA had said when he began the profile of the trial for us, the jury. "You will hear testimony from a young man in Federal prison. Some of these people on both sides of the case have had run-ins with the law before."
At first it seemed cut-and-dry. The accused had supposedly fired out the front window of the house where he was living, wounding a young man in the arm.
"We saw him look through the blinds before he fired," insisted both the young man, and his sister, who first told us she was with her brother at the front door.
The young man who'd been shot glanced over at the defendent. "I--I just wanna be careful, don't wanna send no one to jail if they ain't done nothing. But I know it was him, I mean, I'm pretty sure it was him."
Pretty sure?
Another young woman took the stand. She'd been with the young man and his sister when he was shot. Her long hair hung limply down her back. Her baggy clothes made her look heavier than she probably was.
She raised her hand to be sworn in. "I don't want to do this..." She was ready to cry, but she had no choice but testify. She'd been driven in from the prison, where she was serving a term for a felony misdemeanor.
Another young man testified. He'd been asleep in the house while the accused shot out the window, and he hadn't heard anything until the police came. He too had the same polished demeanor of the accused. I remember seeing their similar facial features and coffee-with-cream complexion and thinking, "They could be cousins," when the bailiff let him into the courtroom.
How easy it is for young people to mess up their lives. No education, no gainful employment, and lots of party time with the wrong crowd. Add in immaturity and a hair-trigger temper, and even the girls would end up in cat-fights. In fact, the night before the shooting, two of them had fought--one had cut another's hand with a knife. The one with the cut hand in turn slashed the tires of the other girl's car. A real "adult" way to solve conflicts, huh?
After a morning's testimony which included an ER physician who assured us the young man had to have the bullet remain in his arm, and a few officers who responded to the shots-fired call, I was ready to eat my sandwich in peace at the park and listen to Days on my car radio.
When we resumed after lunch, though, the first witness returned, telling the court she needed to add more to her testimony...
To Be Continued...
More Just Desserts
I spent three days at the county courthouse last week on a jury for a criminal case. On day one, I sat around and waited. I didn't think I'd be chosen. My summons read juror #222. They only needed 12. I was certain I'd be back at my work computer that afternoon.
Somehow I fit whatever profile the DA and the defense attorney agreed upon. The 12 of us made the best of it as for a day-and-a-half we heard testimony from a myriad of witnesses about what happened on August 29, 2004 at a particular residence in the town where I live.
The young man was originally booked on a charge of attempted murder, but indicted on assault with a deadly weapon. Sitting in the courtroom, he looked like a polished young man with an inscrutable expression. His dark chocolate eyes didn't glance in our direction very often. I wondered what he wrote when he jotted occasionally on his legal pad. His defense attorney, a no-nonsense woman with a strong sharp voice and bad posture, would glance down at the paper from time to time. I learned later that he had not made bail when I saw him escorted across the parking lot after a day in court, headed towards the county jail diagonally across the street. His slight limp betrayed an ankle bracelet (just like Martha's!) covered up by his tailored khaki pants.
"None of these people are angels," the DA had said when he began the profile of the trial for us, the jury. "You will hear testimony from a young man in Federal prison. Some of these people on both sides of the case have had run-ins with the law before."
At first it seemed cut-and-dry. The accused had supposedly fired out the front window of the house where he was living, wounding a young man in the arm.
"We saw him look through the blinds before he fired," insisted both the young man, and his sister, who first told us she was with her brother at the front door.
The young man who'd been shot glanced over at the defendent. "I--I just wanna be careful, don't wanna send no one to jail if they ain't done nothing. But I know it was him, I mean, I'm pretty sure it was him."
Pretty sure?
Another young woman took the stand. She'd been with the young man and his sister when he was shot. Her long hair hung limply down her back. Her baggy clothes made her look heavier than she probably was.
She raised her hand to be sworn in. "I don't want to do this..." She was ready to cry, but she had no choice but testify. She'd been driven in from the prison, where she was serving a term for a felony misdemeanor.
Another young man testified. He'd been asleep in the house while the accused shot out the window, and he hadn't heard anything until the police came. He too had the same polished demeanor of the accused. I remember seeing their similar facial features and coffee-with-cream complexion and thinking, "They could be cousins," when the bailiff let him into the courtroom.
How easy it is for young people to mess up their lives. No education, no gainful employment, and lots of party time with the wrong crowd. Add in immaturity and a hair-trigger temper, and even the girls would end up in cat-fights. In fact, the night before the shooting, two of them had fought--one had cut another's hand with a knife. The one with the cut hand in turn slashed the tires of the other girl's car. A real "adult" way to solve conflicts, huh?
After a morning's testimony which included an ER physician who assured us the young man had to have the bullet remain in his arm, and a few officers who responded to the shots-fired call, I was ready to eat my sandwich in peace at the park and listen to Days on my car radio.
When we resumed after lunch, though, the first witness returned, telling the court she needed to add more to her testimony...
To Be Continued...
Saturday, May 07, 2005
Fruit and Fads
On Today's Menu:
Holy Mixed Fruit Medley!
There's an old song that goes: "They will know we are Christians by our love, by our love..." I remember we sang it around the fire at camp, back in the Kum By Ya era. (I must note that back then I was very, very young.)
Am I showing Christ and how to live a Christian life because I say the right words and know the special secret code catch phrases? (See? I used a catch phrase there--'showing Christ,' as if I carried Him in my pocket to share with the class at show-and-tell.) In some circles, it's not enough to answer, "I'm fine," when someone asks how you're doing. It's better to say, "I'm blessed."
Do we think that because we wear only Christian clothes, read only Christian books, tune into only Christian news, listen to only Christian music, speak only Christian phrases, suck on Testa-mints instead of Tic-Tacs, consume only Christian food and drink that these things make us examples to others? "Be like me, join our club." Do we think someone wants to join in based on just those things?
What fruit do our lives bear? It doesn't matter if we look like Christ's #1 fan on the outside with a T-shirt that says "Go God!" in red festooned with pom-poms.
"The Pharisees, along with some religion scholars who had come from Jerusalem, gathered around him. They noticed that some of his disciples weren't being careful with ritual washings before meals. The Pharisees--Jews in general, in fact--would never eat a meal without going through the motions of a ritual hand-washing, with an especially vigorous scrubbing if they had just come from the market (to say nothing of the scourings they'd give jugs and pots and pans).
The Pharisees and religion scholars asked, "Why do your disciples flout the rules, showing up at meals without washing their hands?"
Jesus answered, "Isaiah was right about frauds like you, hit the bull's-eye in fact:
These people make a big show of saying the right thing,
but their heart isn't in it.
They act like they are worshiping me,
but they don't mean it.
They just use me as a cover
for teaching whatever suits their fancy,
Ditching God's command
and taking up the latest fads."
Jesus called the crowd together again and said, "Listen now, all of you--take this to heart. It's not what you swallow that pollutes your life; it's what you vomit--that's the real pollution.
When he was back home after being with the crowd, his disciples said, "We don't get it. Put it in plain language."
Jesus said, "Are you being willfully stupid? Don't you see that what you swallow can't contaminate you? It doesn't enter your heart but your stomach, works its way through the intestines, and is finally flushed."
He went on: "It's what comes out of a person that pollutes: obscenities, lusts, thefts, murders, adulteries, greed, depravity, deceptive dealings, carousing, mean looks, slander, arrogance, foolishness--all these are vomit from the heart. There is the source of your pollution."
Excerpts from Mark chapter 7 (the Message)
Lord, help me work on my insides most of all. I won't have to say "I'm blessed" or drive down the road with Mercy Me blaring out the windows, or buy the latest Holy Joe wrist band (in rainbow colors!). When You shine through, I won't have to try to look like a groupie.
Holy Mixed Fruit Medley!
There's an old song that goes: "They will know we are Christians by our love, by our love..." I remember we sang it around the fire at camp, back in the Kum By Ya era. (I must note that back then I was very, very young.)
Am I showing Christ and how to live a Christian life because I say the right words and know the special secret code catch phrases? (See? I used a catch phrase there--'showing Christ,' as if I carried Him in my pocket to share with the class at show-and-tell.) In some circles, it's not enough to answer, "I'm fine," when someone asks how you're doing. It's better to say, "I'm blessed."
Do we think that because we wear only Christian clothes, read only Christian books, tune into only Christian news, listen to only Christian music, speak only Christian phrases, suck on Testa-mints instead of Tic-Tacs, consume only Christian food and drink that these things make us examples to others? "Be like me, join our club." Do we think someone wants to join in based on just those things?
What fruit do our lives bear? It doesn't matter if we look like Christ's #1 fan on the outside with a T-shirt that says "Go God!" in red festooned with pom-poms.
"The Pharisees, along with some religion scholars who had come from Jerusalem, gathered around him. They noticed that some of his disciples weren't being careful with ritual washings before meals. The Pharisees--Jews in general, in fact--would never eat a meal without going through the motions of a ritual hand-washing, with an especially vigorous scrubbing if they had just come from the market (to say nothing of the scourings they'd give jugs and pots and pans).
The Pharisees and religion scholars asked, "Why do your disciples flout the rules, showing up at meals without washing their hands?"
Jesus answered, "Isaiah was right about frauds like you, hit the bull's-eye in fact:
These people make a big show of saying the right thing,
but their heart isn't in it.
They act like they are worshiping me,
but they don't mean it.
They just use me as a cover
for teaching whatever suits their fancy,
Ditching God's command
and taking up the latest fads."
Jesus called the crowd together again and said, "Listen now, all of you--take this to heart. It's not what you swallow that pollutes your life; it's what you vomit--that's the real pollution.
When he was back home after being with the crowd, his disciples said, "We don't get it. Put it in plain language."
Jesus said, "Are you being willfully stupid? Don't you see that what you swallow can't contaminate you? It doesn't enter your heart but your stomach, works its way through the intestines, and is finally flushed."
He went on: "It's what comes out of a person that pollutes: obscenities, lusts, thefts, murders, adulteries, greed, depravity, deceptive dealings, carousing, mean looks, slander, arrogance, foolishness--all these are vomit from the heart. There is the source of your pollution."
Excerpts from Mark chapter 7 (the Message)
Lord, help me work on my insides most of all. I won't have to say "I'm blessed" or drive down the road with Mercy Me blaring out the windows, or buy the latest Holy Joe wrist band (in rainbow colors!). When You shine through, I won't have to try to look like a groupie.
Friday, April 29, 2005
Uphill, Both Ways, In the Snow
On Today's Menu:
Mississippi Mud Pie
Trying to get my current book written is like going uphill, both ways, for ten miles, in the snow, with bare feet and no coat. Here I go again, hearing that inner admonition that if I really want to do something, I'll do it. Hey, I admit it--for the right item, I'll get to Wal-Mart the day after Thanksgiving at 5:30 a.m. (well-coffeed, of course). Otherwise, I'll sleep in like I will tomorrow morning. Well, to 8:00 at least.
What motivates me to write? Looking back on this blog, I can see that little by little, I've taken a journey and shared snippets of my travels with the world at large. Or small. Thank you, to my two fans! Seriously though, when properly motivated, people will do anything.
What's my payoff? At this point, it's simply finishing what I started. I haven't finished a full-length book in nearly three years. What is wrong with me? I believe part of the problem is getting sidetracked and losing focus. Then it sort of degenerated into a block of some kind that makes me almost think completing another book is beyond my reach. I got stuck in the mud. There, I've said it. A block. I can't remember who said there was no such thing as writer's block, but an abundance of lazy writers.
I'm waving my hand in the back row. The teacher's caught me sleeping in class. But I'm awake now, and working. I wrote seven pages tonight. They may be drivel, but they're seven pages. My heroine's in a tight spot, poor thing, and I'm glad she's squirming right now because I know I'm learning.
Of making many books there is no end, and much study wearies the body. Ecclesiastes 12:12b
Mississippi Mud Pie
Trying to get my current book written is like going uphill, both ways, for ten miles, in the snow, with bare feet and no coat. Here I go again, hearing that inner admonition that if I really want to do something, I'll do it. Hey, I admit it--for the right item, I'll get to Wal-Mart the day after Thanksgiving at 5:30 a.m. (well-coffeed, of course). Otherwise, I'll sleep in like I will tomorrow morning. Well, to 8:00 at least.
What motivates me to write? Looking back on this blog, I can see that little by little, I've taken a journey and shared snippets of my travels with the world at large. Or small. Thank you, to my two fans! Seriously though, when properly motivated, people will do anything.
What's my payoff? At this point, it's simply finishing what I started. I haven't finished a full-length book in nearly three years. What is wrong with me? I believe part of the problem is getting sidetracked and losing focus. Then it sort of degenerated into a block of some kind that makes me almost think completing another book is beyond my reach. I got stuck in the mud. There, I've said it. A block. I can't remember who said there was no such thing as writer's block, but an abundance of lazy writers.
I'm waving my hand in the back row. The teacher's caught me sleeping in class. But I'm awake now, and working. I wrote seven pages tonight. They may be drivel, but they're seven pages. My heroine's in a tight spot, poor thing, and I'm glad she's squirming right now because I know I'm learning.
Of making many books there is no end, and much study wearies the body. Ecclesiastes 12:12b
You betcha, and I'm tired! Signing off for the evening,
Ms. Lazywriter (but I'm being reformed, really I am!)
Wednesday, April 27, 2005
A Sob Story
On Today's Menu:
A Pity Party, With Chips
A friend has a problem, and I desperately want to help her. I believe she wants help, but I wonder why she still goes back and does the same things again and again? My compassion is wearing thin by now. Bear with me for a moment as I think aloud.
As a Christian, I believe I have every answer to every problem I'll ever face. Not in me, of course. I can mess things up quicker than a kid can stuff a PB 'n J sandwich into a DVD player and push "play." I succeed when I surrender to what Jesus wants for me in spite of my feelings, in spite of circumstances and when it seems like the world is spinning out of control. I may go along kicking and screaming, but I'm going along anyway. What a relief that my faith is not based on "getting it right" so I can achieve "paradise," or whatever other religions may offer. I would be the worst Buddhist, Christian Scientist, etc., (you fill in the blank) if it totally depended on me. But in spite of my failures and occasional cases of the "uglies," there's hope for me because of Christ.
Why then, do I continually see people who live as if there is no hope for them? They profess that they follow Christ and His teachings, they say they believe in the Bible, but the way they deal with their struggles is anything but hope-filled. So that brings me back to my friend. I wish I could help her, I really do, but until she knows for sure that Jesus is her deliverer and she can be strong in spite of what she's up against, my efforts are futile. All the self-talk and positive thoughts will provide only temporary comfort. She's left with herself and her struggles when the words die out.
Is it any wonder why some choose not to follow Christ? If those of us who do live as though we have no answers, I don't blame them. Then again, when all is said and done, we can't point the finger because so-and-so didn't act like a "Christian."Like when my kids bicker and say, "Well, they're not acting right, so--" No excuses, no sob story, no blame game.
Live full lives, full in the fullness of God.
God can do anything, you know--far more than you could ever imagine or guess or request in your wildest dreams! He does it not by pushing us around but by working within us, his Spirit deeply and gently within us. Ephesians 3:19-20, The Message
A Pity Party, With Chips
A friend has a problem, and I desperately want to help her. I believe she wants help, but I wonder why she still goes back and does the same things again and again? My compassion is wearing thin by now. Bear with me for a moment as I think aloud.
As a Christian, I believe I have every answer to every problem I'll ever face. Not in me, of course. I can mess things up quicker than a kid can stuff a PB 'n J sandwich into a DVD player and push "play." I succeed when I surrender to what Jesus wants for me in spite of my feelings, in spite of circumstances and when it seems like the world is spinning out of control. I may go along kicking and screaming, but I'm going along anyway. What a relief that my faith is not based on "getting it right" so I can achieve "paradise," or whatever other religions may offer. I would be the worst Buddhist, Christian Scientist, etc., (you fill in the blank) if it totally depended on me. But in spite of my failures and occasional cases of the "uglies," there's hope for me because of Christ.
Why then, do I continually see people who live as if there is no hope for them? They profess that they follow Christ and His teachings, they say they believe in the Bible, but the way they deal with their struggles is anything but hope-filled. So that brings me back to my friend. I wish I could help her, I really do, but until she knows for sure that Jesus is her deliverer and she can be strong in spite of what she's up against, my efforts are futile. All the self-talk and positive thoughts will provide only temporary comfort. She's left with herself and her struggles when the words die out.
Is it any wonder why some choose not to follow Christ? If those of us who do live as though we have no answers, I don't blame them. Then again, when all is said and done, we can't point the finger because so-and-so didn't act like a "Christian."Like when my kids bicker and say, "Well, they're not acting right, so--" No excuses, no sob story, no blame game.
Live full lives, full in the fullness of God.
God can do anything, you know--far more than you could ever imagine or guess or request in your wildest dreams! He does it not by pushing us around but by working within us, his Spirit deeply and gently within us. Ephesians 3:19-20, The Message
Thursday, April 21, 2005
Mi Vida Loca
On Today's Menu:
Hot Tamales, With Extra Salsa on the Side
Most people who know me, I hope, will characterize me as a pretty laid-back person. I don't generally get road rage. I can wait in lines. I don't howl at a red light.
But today, I think, I'm ready for a rant about rude old men. Really. It all started when I was actually in a hurry, on one of my work breaks, and driving Mom's Taxi. Somehow I had to fit in a trip by the grocery store for three things. Three--troi-tres measly items that we couldn't do without until the weekend. In the comedy of errors that was my afternoon, I decided to breeze in and out of our local HEB store with Zach. Ha. Some breeze. We were definitely in the doldrums, no sail, no outboard motor. The metaphor ends here.
Everyone in town had decided to go by the store just before 4:00 p.m. The lines stretched wayyy back down the aisles. Seems everyone in town wanted to buy ten items or less, too. I found myself standing next to the root beer and Mountain Dew.
Then, I saw him. He had gray hair with a Donald Trump comb-over and plastic framed glasses. He stood there, clutching his gallon of milk and other stuff, and seemed oblivious to the world except for the guy in front of him holding French bread and a tub of ice cream. Rrright. He had no clue the line continued down the aisle to his right. I supposed he'd lost all peripheral vision. He proved to be a sly old coot, and a rude one. The line moved forward, and Mr. Combover slid into the respectful line break ahead of us and behind French bread dude. I could feel the air crackle behind me; another shopper had played by the rules and gotten in line behind where he was supposed to.
I looked at Zach. "Did you see that guy? He just cut us!" I had a flashback to high school lunchroom. Ick. I bit my lip. Coming off the PMS would not have caused Christian, kind, uplifting, positive things to come from my mouth. Even my tone would have been bristly, though the words themselves would have been benign. So I gagged myself.
Then the sign over aisle 9 lit up. Whooee! Another man dashed to the aisle. That's okay. I was on my way, and I had a CART. Move over, basket-toters!
Mr. Combover, Mr. Oblivious to the World flew in front of me so quickly I nearly turned him into a speed bump. For a millisecond, I wanted to. Don't let those old guys fool you. They can move when they want to. On any other day, he probably complains about his back or knees or whatever in his body is degenerating, but not today. I ended up staying where I was. Now I was the one behind French bread dude after the mass migration.
Did I mention I also was in the line with the slowest cashier in the store? The other lines moved faster because they were really moving faster. I told myself never to get in Billy's line again. I don't care that he wears an earring. I did care that he moved slower than--well, you fill in the blank for something that moves like a glacier.
Mr. Combover left the store, and I believe I actually heard a sniff of triumph before the sliding doors whooshed open.
I could probably actually write a Psalm, about wicked old men who push their way in line and cut off nice young(ish) moms who are only trying to get out of the store so they can go get the one kid left at school and who's now probably wondering where Mom is by this time and so she can get home and work for another hour. Yes, the run-on is intentional.
One of the things I love about the Psalms is David's--and other writers'--frank emotions. I wasn't calling down fire from Heaven on some older man with a bad hairdo. But I can understand the psalmist's frustration, aggravation, despair, the questioning in his words. Our emotions are timeless, whether our enemies bear swords or come in the form of a man wrapped up in his own little world.
Now that I've allowed my rant, I understand the peace the psalmist felt, after recognizing in the big picture, God's got it all under control. I can vent and (hopefully) not let my anger infect me and spread to others, and I can acknowledge His place in the craziness. I'm not sure if I ever see Mr. Combover again that I'll offer him a place in line ahead of me. But I'll be able to smile at him and mean it. He's taught me I can find a Psalm in the grocery store.
Hot Tamales, With Extra Salsa on the Side
Most people who know me, I hope, will characterize me as a pretty laid-back person. I don't generally get road rage. I can wait in lines. I don't howl at a red light.
But today, I think, I'm ready for a rant about rude old men. Really. It all started when I was actually in a hurry, on one of my work breaks, and driving Mom's Taxi. Somehow I had to fit in a trip by the grocery store for three things. Three--troi-tres measly items that we couldn't do without until the weekend. In the comedy of errors that was my afternoon, I decided to breeze in and out of our local HEB store with Zach. Ha. Some breeze. We were definitely in the doldrums, no sail, no outboard motor. The metaphor ends here.
Everyone in town had decided to go by the store just before 4:00 p.m. The lines stretched wayyy back down the aisles. Seems everyone in town wanted to buy ten items or less, too. I found myself standing next to the root beer and Mountain Dew.
Then, I saw him. He had gray hair with a Donald Trump comb-over and plastic framed glasses. He stood there, clutching his gallon of milk and other stuff, and seemed oblivious to the world except for the guy in front of him holding French bread and a tub of ice cream. Rrright. He had no clue the line continued down the aisle to his right. I supposed he'd lost all peripheral vision. He proved to be a sly old coot, and a rude one. The line moved forward, and Mr. Combover slid into the respectful line break ahead of us and behind French bread dude. I could feel the air crackle behind me; another shopper had played by the rules and gotten in line behind where he was supposed to.
I looked at Zach. "Did you see that guy? He just cut us!" I had a flashback to high school lunchroom. Ick. I bit my lip. Coming off the PMS would not have caused Christian, kind, uplifting, positive things to come from my mouth. Even my tone would have been bristly, though the words themselves would have been benign. So I gagged myself.
Then the sign over aisle 9 lit up. Whooee! Another man dashed to the aisle. That's okay. I was on my way, and I had a CART. Move over, basket-toters!
Mr. Combover, Mr. Oblivious to the World flew in front of me so quickly I nearly turned him into a speed bump. For a millisecond, I wanted to. Don't let those old guys fool you. They can move when they want to. On any other day, he probably complains about his back or knees or whatever in his body is degenerating, but not today. I ended up staying where I was. Now I was the one behind French bread dude after the mass migration.
Did I mention I also was in the line with the slowest cashier in the store? The other lines moved faster because they were really moving faster. I told myself never to get in Billy's line again. I don't care that he wears an earring. I did care that he moved slower than--well, you fill in the blank for something that moves like a glacier.
Mr. Combover left the store, and I believe I actually heard a sniff of triumph before the sliding doors whooshed open.
I could probably actually write a Psalm, about wicked old men who push their way in line and cut off nice young(ish) moms who are only trying to get out of the store so they can go get the one kid left at school and who's now probably wondering where Mom is by this time and so she can get home and work for another hour. Yes, the run-on is intentional.
One of the things I love about the Psalms is David's--and other writers'--frank emotions. I wasn't calling down fire from Heaven on some older man with a bad hairdo. But I can understand the psalmist's frustration, aggravation, despair, the questioning in his words. Our emotions are timeless, whether our enemies bear swords or come in the form of a man wrapped up in his own little world.
Now that I've allowed my rant, I understand the peace the psalmist felt, after recognizing in the big picture, God's got it all under control. I can vent and (hopefully) not let my anger infect me and spread to others, and I can acknowledge His place in the craziness. I'm not sure if I ever see Mr. Combover again that I'll offer him a place in line ahead of me. But I'll be able to smile at him and mean it. He's taught me I can find a Psalm in the grocery store.
Monday, April 18, 2005
Lost in the Sand Dunes
On Today's Menu:
A big slice o' birthday cake
My son turned 15 last week. Which is why I haven't posted. That, and the tax man came and went. Now life has settled into a blur of overtime at work. Thank you, Lord, for job security!
But about the birthday. I've mentioned before on our morning ride in Mom's Taxi that the kids and I listen to our favorite deejays. At 7:30 they always announce local birthdays and anniversaries that listeners call in. To Zach, this is a big deal. So shortly after 7:00 I tried sneaking a call from my cell phone while hiding in the bathroom. Finally got through to the deejay, gave Zach's name, age, and town, then worked a little until I realized it was 7:29. We flew out the door just in time to jump in the car and listen for the birthdays.
We headed down the street on our regular route. Finally, the guy announced Zach's birthday. For two seconds, Zach glowed in the spotlight. He was a star. Yes, Zach in our town turned 15 today, and everyone needed to know! Somewhere, that mattered to someone. Lots of people, in fact. ( I had to buy 6 large pizzas Friday night for the sleepover.) We're all celebrities in our house, even the kitties.
No matter what culture someone belongs to, they seek significance. It's a pretty sorry belief to think that we're all just "dust in the wind, all we are is dust in the wind..." and have that be the end of it. Even though I find that old song by Kansas hauntingly beautiful, I refuse to be a fatalist.
Abraham was told his descendents would be as numerous as the sands of the seashore. That's a big family. Looking at the family tree of history, it would be easy to feel lost in the dunes.
Wanna know what I think? No, I believe? Our birthdays are cherished in the largest baby book of them all. Every day, more pictures are added. We all fit, somewhere, in that book. We matter. Often we seek our significance from other people.
Please--love me--validate me--make me believe I count. We look to meaning from other fallible creatures who can sorely disappoint us. Don't get me wrong--the icing on the cake of my life is to be loved by an amazing man, to become a mother to his children, to have friends I can call at 3 AM if I need them, to have girlfriends I can shoe shop with, to have soul sisters who also write--I feel like somehow, I do fit. But what if they all disappeared? Would I still belong?
This why the cry, "Love me--validate me--make me believe I count" cannot just be answered by things and people of this earth. People come and go from our lives. Things decay. Jobs change. Shoes wear out (even the really cute ones, drat it). I'd rather anchor myself to Someone immovable.
I thank you, High God--you're breathtaking!
Body and soul, I am marvelously made!
I worship in adoration--what a creation!
You know me inside and out,
you know every bone in my body;
You know exactly how I was made, bit by bit,
how I was sculpted from nothing into something.
Like an open book, you watched me grow from conception to birth;
all the stages of my life were spread out before you,
The days of my life all prepared
before I'd even lived one day.
The Bible, Psalm 139: 14-16
A big slice o' birthday cake
My son turned 15 last week. Which is why I haven't posted. That, and the tax man came and went. Now life has settled into a blur of overtime at work. Thank you, Lord, for job security!
But about the birthday. I've mentioned before on our morning ride in Mom's Taxi that the kids and I listen to our favorite deejays. At 7:30 they always announce local birthdays and anniversaries that listeners call in. To Zach, this is a big deal. So shortly after 7:00 I tried sneaking a call from my cell phone while hiding in the bathroom. Finally got through to the deejay, gave Zach's name, age, and town, then worked a little until I realized it was 7:29. We flew out the door just in time to jump in the car and listen for the birthdays.
We headed down the street on our regular route. Finally, the guy announced Zach's birthday. For two seconds, Zach glowed in the spotlight. He was a star. Yes, Zach in our town turned 15 today, and everyone needed to know! Somewhere, that mattered to someone. Lots of people, in fact. ( I had to buy 6 large pizzas Friday night for the sleepover.) We're all celebrities in our house, even the kitties.
No matter what culture someone belongs to, they seek significance. It's a pretty sorry belief to think that we're all just "dust in the wind, all we are is dust in the wind..." and have that be the end of it. Even though I find that old song by Kansas hauntingly beautiful, I refuse to be a fatalist.
Abraham was told his descendents would be as numerous as the sands of the seashore. That's a big family. Looking at the family tree of history, it would be easy to feel lost in the dunes.
Wanna know what I think? No, I believe? Our birthdays are cherished in the largest baby book of them all. Every day, more pictures are added. We all fit, somewhere, in that book. We matter. Often we seek our significance from other people.
Please--love me--validate me--make me believe I count. We look to meaning from other fallible creatures who can sorely disappoint us. Don't get me wrong--the icing on the cake of my life is to be loved by an amazing man, to become a mother to his children, to have friends I can call at 3 AM if I need them, to have girlfriends I can shoe shop with, to have soul sisters who also write--I feel like somehow, I do fit. But what if they all disappeared? Would I still belong?
This why the cry, "Love me--validate me--make me believe I count" cannot just be answered by things and people of this earth. People come and go from our lives. Things decay. Jobs change. Shoes wear out (even the really cute ones, drat it). I'd rather anchor myself to Someone immovable.
I thank you, High God--you're breathtaking!
Body and soul, I am marvelously made!
I worship in adoration--what a creation!
You know me inside and out,
you know every bone in my body;
You know exactly how I was made, bit by bit,
how I was sculpted from nothing into something.
Like an open book, you watched me grow from conception to birth;
all the stages of my life were spread out before you,
The days of my life all prepared
before I'd even lived one day.
The Bible, Psalm 139: 14-16
Wednesday, April 06, 2005
Those Crazy Lawn Ornaments
On Today's Menu:
An Unexpected Slice of Pineapple
One of the nice parts about working at home is being able to operate Mom's Taxi Service after school. We've got our little routine in the morning, the kids and I. After trooping to the car and settling The Great Daily Controversy about who gets to sit "up front"--you'd think at 13 and nearly 15 they'd have figured out a system by now instead of plowing each other over to get to the car--I turn on the morning radio show with the two hilarious local deejays. We always go the same route. I repeat the identical trip in the afternoon. No big deal.
Going through our neighborhoods of ranch houses of various ages, there's really not much interesting, unless you count the ominous BLUE VAN that belongs to the school district. It looks like a UPS van masquerading as one of the Blue Man Group, and we usually pass it either coming or going each morning or afternoon. Since the school district's maintenance and bus garages are across the street from our house, it's not so big a coincidence to see the BLUE VAN. When we pass it or it passes us, Hannah usually makes the sound, "Bumm-bump!" (think the theme from "Jaws") See? We're easily amused with our overactive imaginations, wondering why the BLUE VAN is following us around town.
Anyway, about our boring commute in Mom's Taxi. One day, going down Robertson past all the cookie-cutter ranch houses, I saw what looked like a giant--something--sitting in a lawn chair in front of a house. Huh?
I made a point to look more closely on the way home. Sure enough, next to an older Pacific Island man, as round as he is tall, sat a giant stuffed lion. They watched traffic go by from their seats on a matching set of lawn chairs. A whole menagerie of fuzzy critters in rainbow colors were scattered about the yard, the porch, and next to some potted plants.
I cracked up. This guy has got to be bonkers, sitting in his front yard with a bunch of stuffed animals!
Now that I noticed the Island man and his friends, I couldn't forget that house on the curve. The zoo never waved "hello" in the mornings. I guess we're all in such a hurry to get where we're going we wouldn't pay much attention, or care.
But going on 4:00 in the afternoon, when I've about wound down my work day and I'm tired, the Noah's ark on the front lawn brings a smile to my face.
Today, a giant teddy bear at least three feet tall sat in the lawn chair. And he wore a turquoise Hawaiian shirt. I almost waved. Maybe tomorrow I will!
The Island man knows what he's doing. Call him crazy, but all he's trying to do is bring a smile in the midst of the mundane. What a guy!
An Unexpected Slice of Pineapple
One of the nice parts about working at home is being able to operate Mom's Taxi Service after school. We've got our little routine in the morning, the kids and I. After trooping to the car and settling The Great Daily Controversy about who gets to sit "up front"--you'd think at 13 and nearly 15 they'd have figured out a system by now instead of plowing each other over to get to the car--I turn on the morning radio show with the two hilarious local deejays. We always go the same route. I repeat the identical trip in the afternoon. No big deal.
Going through our neighborhoods of ranch houses of various ages, there's really not much interesting, unless you count the ominous BLUE VAN that belongs to the school district. It looks like a UPS van masquerading as one of the Blue Man Group, and we usually pass it either coming or going each morning or afternoon. Since the school district's maintenance and bus garages are across the street from our house, it's not so big a coincidence to see the BLUE VAN. When we pass it or it passes us, Hannah usually makes the sound, "Bumm-bump!" (think the theme from "Jaws") See? We're easily amused with our overactive imaginations, wondering why the BLUE VAN is following us around town.
Anyway, about our boring commute in Mom's Taxi. One day, going down Robertson past all the cookie-cutter ranch houses, I saw what looked like a giant--something--sitting in a lawn chair in front of a house. Huh?
I made a point to look more closely on the way home. Sure enough, next to an older Pacific Island man, as round as he is tall, sat a giant stuffed lion. They watched traffic go by from their seats on a matching set of lawn chairs. A whole menagerie of fuzzy critters in rainbow colors were scattered about the yard, the porch, and next to some potted plants.
I cracked up. This guy has got to be bonkers, sitting in his front yard with a bunch of stuffed animals!
Now that I noticed the Island man and his friends, I couldn't forget that house on the curve. The zoo never waved "hello" in the mornings. I guess we're all in such a hurry to get where we're going we wouldn't pay much attention, or care.
But going on 4:00 in the afternoon, when I've about wound down my work day and I'm tired, the Noah's ark on the front lawn brings a smile to my face.
Today, a giant teddy bear at least three feet tall sat in the lawn chair. And he wore a turquoise Hawaiian shirt. I almost waved. Maybe tomorrow I will!
The Island man knows what he's doing. Call him crazy, but all he's trying to do is bring a smile in the midst of the mundane. What a guy!
Tuesday, April 05, 2005
The Great Grout Meltdown
On Today's Menu:
Patty Melt with Swiss Cheese (and perhaps a little wHine)
They finished our new bathroom today. I like to stand in the doorway and just look, even though we still haven't painted the walls, the vintage mirror I ordered off eBay still hasn't shipped, our towel bar is on backorder, and Wal-Mart sold out of the chrome free-standing TP holder. I can hardly believe that, yes, this is our dream bathroom, the first room we ever designed ourselves.
I always get annoyed with designers on home improvement shows who act like the world is ending because a certain feature of their design doesn't turn out right, either because someone does something wrong or an aspect just doesn't work out. I mean, really, be a little flexible, okay? What's the big deal if the paint is cream rather than ecru?
Tuesday morning I looked at the grout after our contractor had wiped the tiles down thoroughly. The floor is slate, a beautiful blending of greens and grays and dark blue and even a little rust, all swirled together to look like ocean water. I am in love with this floor. It will be a cool comfort to my feet on summer days. But the grout, supposedly darker, is a lighter gray than I remembered from the sample card.
"That's the color of the grout?" I tried not to show my disbelief.
"Yeah, this is it." Dave, on his hands and knees, buffed another tile. "Sure looked darker when we put it down."
Buddy, you got that right. No, it wasn't hideous, just not what I expected. I started the morning off in quite a mood and spent a little time trying to hide it. I found the grout color selector card we had used at the store, but of course, the section with the color we'd selected had gotten torn off and probably sent on its way to the landfill. Great. I wanted the grout to blend in with the tiles, not look like I could play tic-tac-toe on the floor.
Slowly but surely, I felt myself transforming into a Home Improvement Diva ready to enter her meltdown phase. "Stop the cameras, please!" The show was ending, the floor was NOT how I'd exactly envisioned it, and it really wasn't anyone's fault. My dear husband noticed, but didn't say much. I think, if I remember while in my diva haze, he did say something about cooling my jets. I walked off the set and to my office.
I suddenly realized how spoiled I've become. I would much, much rather this exquisite room of ceramic, slate, wood, and chrome--even with lighter floor grout than I expected--than have what I had before. NO, I don't want the ugly pink vanity back, or the Pepto-Bismol colored tiles. In twenty years, perhaps even in less time, the grout color won't matter at all.
I kicked myself out of my snit. Grout can come and grout may go, but attitudes are always remembered.
"The blessing of the LORD makes one rich,
And He adds no sorrow with it."
Patty Melt with Swiss Cheese (and perhaps a little wHine)
They finished our new bathroom today. I like to stand in the doorway and just look, even though we still haven't painted the walls, the vintage mirror I ordered off eBay still hasn't shipped, our towel bar is on backorder, and Wal-Mart sold out of the chrome free-standing TP holder. I can hardly believe that, yes, this is our dream bathroom, the first room we ever designed ourselves.
I always get annoyed with designers on home improvement shows who act like the world is ending because a certain feature of their design doesn't turn out right, either because someone does something wrong or an aspect just doesn't work out. I mean, really, be a little flexible, okay? What's the big deal if the paint is cream rather than ecru?
Tuesday morning I looked at the grout after our contractor had wiped the tiles down thoroughly. The floor is slate, a beautiful blending of greens and grays and dark blue and even a little rust, all swirled together to look like ocean water. I am in love with this floor. It will be a cool comfort to my feet on summer days. But the grout, supposedly darker, is a lighter gray than I remembered from the sample card.
"That's the color of the grout?" I tried not to show my disbelief.
"Yeah, this is it." Dave, on his hands and knees, buffed another tile. "Sure looked darker when we put it down."
Buddy, you got that right. No, it wasn't hideous, just not what I expected. I started the morning off in quite a mood and spent a little time trying to hide it. I found the grout color selector card we had used at the store, but of course, the section with the color we'd selected had gotten torn off and probably sent on its way to the landfill. Great. I wanted the grout to blend in with the tiles, not look like I could play tic-tac-toe on the floor.
Slowly but surely, I felt myself transforming into a Home Improvement Diva ready to enter her meltdown phase. "Stop the cameras, please!" The show was ending, the floor was NOT how I'd exactly envisioned it, and it really wasn't anyone's fault. My dear husband noticed, but didn't say much. I think, if I remember while in my diva haze, he did say something about cooling my jets. I walked off the set and to my office.
I suddenly realized how spoiled I've become. I would much, much rather this exquisite room of ceramic, slate, wood, and chrome--even with lighter floor grout than I expected--than have what I had before. NO, I don't want the ugly pink vanity back, or the Pepto-Bismol colored tiles. In twenty years, perhaps even in less time, the grout color won't matter at all.
I kicked myself out of my snit. Grout can come and grout may go, but attitudes are always remembered.
"The blessing of the LORD makes one rich,
And He adds no sorrow with it."
Sunday, April 03, 2005
Learning Curves
On Today's Menu:
A Piece of Chocolate Cake (made from scratch)
The more I learn to write, the more I discover how NOT patient I am. Yes, I just used bad grammar. But impatient seems so "fussy"and "proper" in this case. The road to publication hasn't been an easy one. I've had more detours and potholes than I care to relate. I have friends who've had harder journeys. So far I've contributed to about half a dozen books, had some articles published, received some really "nice" rejection letters, and earned frequent flyer miles from going to writers' conferences. I did buy myself a pretty necklace with the first check. Another check helped pay for conference expenses.
What is my motivation? I suppose like most writers it's because I've got something to say through story, and I want to share it. The power of story is what bridges gaps between generations and beliefs. Story helps us understand the "tuff stuff" we can't puzzle through on our own. Combine that with the God Factor and you've got some words with real power. Is it any wonder that the Bible is still the #1 best seller? Sure, real men wrote the Bible, but they wrote as God moved them. There's a consistency that we writers like to call voice that permeates each book. Not that I'd ever expect my writing to come close to the Bible, but I believe stories can point us in the right direction. Some of us understand different messages than others, so that's why I think there's room for all our voices. Now if only the publishers' budgets would agree!
Besides working through "tuff stuff," I think stories should entertain. I've read some great books that made me laugh and cry and transported me to places I've never been. Then, as an added bonus some of them slide around behind me and wham!--I learn something new or I'm challenged in a fresh way.
Thr3e by Ted Dekker did that for me last year. I rode a rollercoaster ride of suspense and had my thinking challenged, too. Not bad. If I can but learn to write half as well. Another book that did that was The Covenant Child by Terri Blackstock, part heart-wrenching tale, part allegory.
Becoming a better writer is learning to hone my craft better so I can entertain while weaving that message in so it shines through without the, "Okay, time for the sermon" moments that make some people scratch their heads or skim. Oh, how I long to aim ever higher, to realize that in some aspects I'm starting to "get it." I'm learning to keep some joy in the journey, even if it's longer than I hoped.
A Piece of Chocolate Cake (made from scratch)
The more I learn to write, the more I discover how NOT patient I am. Yes, I just used bad grammar. But impatient seems so "fussy"and "proper" in this case. The road to publication hasn't been an easy one. I've had more detours and potholes than I care to relate. I have friends who've had harder journeys. So far I've contributed to about half a dozen books, had some articles published, received some really "nice" rejection letters, and earned frequent flyer miles from going to writers' conferences. I did buy myself a pretty necklace with the first check. Another check helped pay for conference expenses.
What is my motivation? I suppose like most writers it's because I've got something to say through story, and I want to share it. The power of story is what bridges gaps between generations and beliefs. Story helps us understand the "tuff stuff" we can't puzzle through on our own. Combine that with the God Factor and you've got some words with real power. Is it any wonder that the Bible is still the #1 best seller? Sure, real men wrote the Bible, but they wrote as God moved them. There's a consistency that we writers like to call voice that permeates each book. Not that I'd ever expect my writing to come close to the Bible, but I believe stories can point us in the right direction. Some of us understand different messages than others, so that's why I think there's room for all our voices. Now if only the publishers' budgets would agree!
Besides working through "tuff stuff," I think stories should entertain. I've read some great books that made me laugh and cry and transported me to places I've never been. Then, as an added bonus some of them slide around behind me and wham!--I learn something new or I'm challenged in a fresh way.
Thr3e by Ted Dekker did that for me last year. I rode a rollercoaster ride of suspense and had my thinking challenged, too. Not bad. If I can but learn to write half as well. Another book that did that was The Covenant Child by Terri Blackstock, part heart-wrenching tale, part allegory.
Becoming a better writer is learning to hone my craft better so I can entertain while weaving that message in so it shines through without the, "Okay, time for the sermon" moments that make some people scratch their heads or skim. Oh, how I long to aim ever higher, to realize that in some aspects I'm starting to "get it." I'm learning to keep some joy in the journey, even if it's longer than I hoped.
Thursday, March 31, 2005
"I Fear Change"
On Today's Menu:
CLOSED for Renovations!
CLOSED for Renovations!
We have been a two-bathroom family "forever." This week, we are shower nomads, going to some friends' house to shower every night. I have never been out so much with wet hair and no make-up. The Teenage Drama Queen runs to the car, and says things like, "Oh, I hope no one I know drives by."
It took the contractor and his assistant less than an hour to gut our whole bathroom on Monday morning. I can't wait to see the end of this project. For nearly seven years, we've lived with a Pepto-Bismol pink tiled bathroom. Thank goodness they stopped the pink tiles halfway up the wall, or I would have really been nauseated every time I took a shower. The giant clunky vanity with drawers (pink, of course) might have been hip in its time. That time came and went about 20 years ago. I won't even get into the ugly tan shower surround.
Back to the contractor. After he tore up the linoleum--another feature I won't talk about--he realized how rotten the floor was. And, worst of all, someone in their not-so-infinite wisdom had cut out a floor joist years ago when they installed the drain line for the toilet. No wonder the floor kind of sagged a little in that part of the bathroom.
"This'll set us back an extra day." And, cha-ching, cost us more, of course. I had lain awake Sunday night wondering exactly how bad the bathroom floor was under all that linoleum glory. Now I knew. We couldn't just plunk down a new plywood floor, nice sturdy concrete board, and then lay our gorgeous slate tile floor. Underneath there would be nothing to hold up the beautiful new surface. So the contractor and his assistant spent most of a day building a new joist and putting a new beam in for under the floor. Now a 250-pound man can jump up and down on the floor and not get a trampoline sensation under his feet. It wasn't that bad before, but I'm horrified to realize how unstable the floor was.
Those of you who like analogies probably see where I'm going with this. Our contractor hasn't taken any shortcuts. In fact, he's a stickler for detail. I ought to know. I've never seen a tiled shower area go up so slowly. (Why does it look so fast and simple on HGTV?) But it's nice to hear him say, "Sweeeet!" when the tile cooperates, and not the crash of ceramic and, "Oh, no!"
I had closed my eyes to the pink tile, the clunky vanity, the icky linoleum, the shabby surround. Once you're used to something, it's easy to ignore. Our bathroom has served us well. There are some people who don't have bathrooms. So it's rough around the edges. Okay, going down the tubes--but I'll cut out the cliches.
We get comfortable in our same-old, same-old, possibly dangerous, often outdated, worn-out, rotten underneath, you-name-it stuff. Why make the change? I've wanted a new bathroom for ages. So my husband and I planned, dreamed, sketched, measured, and bought things here and there, storing them up in the hopes of maybe one day making that dream bathroom something real. Yet that still wasn't enough.
When our situation allowed, we called the contractor, got the estimate, counted the cost. We realized we'd be without our main bathroom for a week. In my mind, that's a small inconvenience. But we had to get to the point where we were prepared to see this project through to the end. We counted the cost. We knew it wouldn't be easy. We weren't happy at the extra cost.
Making changes in our lives is no easier. We can blind ourselves to what needs fixing or what is plain worn out. "Don't touch that, God, it's too much." Or, we could be like some friends of mine who tore up their bathroom themselves and seven years later it's still in a shambles. Really! Trusting can be difficult sometimes. Just remember:
There has never been the slightest doubt in my mind that the God who started this great work in you would keep at it and bring it to a flourishing finish on the very day Christ Jesus appears. (The Bible, Philippians 1:6)
That's what I love about God's contracting projects. He doesn't make it impossible. We never were promised ease, but peace. Even when the floor's ripped up and someone tore out the joist.
Bye, bye pink tiles! And on to that flourishing finish!
Sunday, March 27, 2005
The Prize in the Cereal Box
On Today's Menu:
A Bowl of Cocoa Puffs, well-soaked in Vitamin D milk
I admitted before that I can be a pretty cheap mom. Every once in a while, though, I surprise the kids by purchasing something other than generic cereal. Star Wars Episode III is coming out soon, and my 14-year-old practically froths at the mouth every time he sees the trailer. He always has a fact or tidbit to share repeatedly until our eyes glaze over. Well, last weekend my husband and I were performing our weekly grocery shopping ritual. (I hate grocery shopping. It's got to be the most boring shopping category. Get me to Ross, or another discount store, and I can bask among the racks for hours.) We stopped in the cereal aisle, and of course Episode III images were plastered all over the Kellogg's cereal boxes.
Back when I was a kid, cereal boxes always had cool FREE prizes. Remember? You'd open the box and scrounge to the bottom of the bag for the prize before you got caught for tearing the bag? The Frosted Flakes contained a FREE light saber spoon. Really, free! Of course I splurged and bought the box for my son. Even at nearly 15, he still likes little gadgets. He stayed home that day, and our daughter spent most of her time at Wal-Mart in the jewelry and nail polish sections. She bought herself some cute stretchy bracelets.
We arrived home, and our kids performed their weekly ritual of putting the groceries away. My son found the light-up spoon. My daughter promptly found me.
"Mom, why does Zach always get the prizes in the box?" As every parent of a teenage drama queen knows, the TDQ's two favorite words are "always" and "never."
"He doesn't always get the prizes, because for one thing, they don't just give out prizes all the time." Oops, I'd forgotten about the "Robots" game disk that came free in the Pop-Tarts. "Besides, it's not like you're into Star Wars."
"Just for once I'd like a prize." She played with the three stretchy bracelets on her left arm.
My 13-year-0ld daughter does NOT want a light-up Star Wars spoon. It's the principle of the thing. I remembered my one card to play.
"Hannah, remember when you didn't get to go bowling Wednesday night, and I'd given you four dollars for that?" (She'd kept the money, of course, and I hadn't bothered asking for it back.)
"Yes..."
I pointed at her bracelets. "You used it to get those cute bracelets, didn't you?"
She looked a little sheepish. "Um, yeah, I did."
"We didn't buy him anything today. But I let you keep that money." Point made. She fell silent, which is an event in itself, nodded, and left the room.
I do the same thing. I sometimes forget the gifts I've been freely given, and complain when I see someone else get something I think I'd like. Even though I try to remain content, that old competitive nature rears up.
"I want my prize from the cereal box!" Even if it's something whose novelty will wear off, or I don't really want deep down.
A book contract would be nice. But not out of a cereal box! Although it is something I want very, very, very much. Yes, I mean to sound redundant. I'm being honest.
Thank you, God, for the gifts I've received. Always what I need, always very good, and somtimes even what I want. And if and/or when You send that contract, I'll take it too.
A Bowl of Cocoa Puffs, well-soaked in Vitamin D milk
I admitted before that I can be a pretty cheap mom. Every once in a while, though, I surprise the kids by purchasing something other than generic cereal. Star Wars Episode III is coming out soon, and my 14-year-old practically froths at the mouth every time he sees the trailer. He always has a fact or tidbit to share repeatedly until our eyes glaze over. Well, last weekend my husband and I were performing our weekly grocery shopping ritual. (I hate grocery shopping. It's got to be the most boring shopping category. Get me to Ross, or another discount store, and I can bask among the racks for hours.) We stopped in the cereal aisle, and of course Episode III images were plastered all over the Kellogg's cereal boxes.
Back when I was a kid, cereal boxes always had cool FREE prizes. Remember? You'd open the box and scrounge to the bottom of the bag for the prize before you got caught for tearing the bag? The Frosted Flakes contained a FREE light saber spoon. Really, free! Of course I splurged and bought the box for my son. Even at nearly 15, he still likes little gadgets. He stayed home that day, and our daughter spent most of her time at Wal-Mart in the jewelry and nail polish sections. She bought herself some cute stretchy bracelets.
We arrived home, and our kids performed their weekly ritual of putting the groceries away. My son found the light-up spoon. My daughter promptly found me.
"Mom, why does Zach always get the prizes in the box?" As every parent of a teenage drama queen knows, the TDQ's two favorite words are "always" and "never."
"He doesn't always get the prizes, because for one thing, they don't just give out prizes all the time." Oops, I'd forgotten about the "Robots" game disk that came free in the Pop-Tarts. "Besides, it's not like you're into Star Wars."
"Just for once I'd like a prize." She played with the three stretchy bracelets on her left arm.
My 13-year-0ld daughter does NOT want a light-up Star Wars spoon. It's the principle of the thing. I remembered my one card to play.
"Hannah, remember when you didn't get to go bowling Wednesday night, and I'd given you four dollars for that?" (She'd kept the money, of course, and I hadn't bothered asking for it back.)
"Yes..."
I pointed at her bracelets. "You used it to get those cute bracelets, didn't you?"
She looked a little sheepish. "Um, yeah, I did."
"We didn't buy him anything today. But I let you keep that money." Point made. She fell silent, which is an event in itself, nodded, and left the room.
I do the same thing. I sometimes forget the gifts I've been freely given, and complain when I see someone else get something I think I'd like. Even though I try to remain content, that old competitive nature rears up.
"I want my prize from the cereal box!" Even if it's something whose novelty will wear off, or I don't really want deep down.
A book contract would be nice. But not out of a cereal box! Although it is something I want very, very, very much. Yes, I mean to sound redundant. I'm being honest.
Thank you, God, for the gifts I've received. Always what I need, always very good, and somtimes even what I want. And if and/or when You send that contract, I'll take it too.
Friday, March 25, 2005
We're helping the orthodontist pay for gas for his SUV!
On Today's Menu:
Anything But Chewing Gum
"I've just gotta have my purse!" Hannah wailed after we get home from church last night.
"What is so important that can't wait until Mr. J drops it off tomorrow?" I was more concerned with taking a few minutes to relax, and getting to some fresh strawberry shortcake.
"MY GUM!" The teenage drama queen reached a fever pitch.
"There is plenty--of gum--in the pantry. Someone left that pack in there." I need a vacation, I thought to myself.
"But it's not sour apple. I won't get to taste that gum for TWO--WHOLE--YEARS!!!"
Oh, the immediacy of a teen's life. You see, Hannah got braces today. She really wanted to get them and over with before high school, so two years from now just as she finishes junior high, she'll be getting them off. At least that's the plan. Last night she went on a chew-all-the-gum-she-could binge before D-Day.
Earlier this week, she looked at me and sighed. "Two years, no gum. No Jolly Ranchers. No Tootsie Rolls."
"It's going to be worth it, though." I tried to encourage her. "You'll have a perfect smile to go with that perfect profile. Good-bye, Sowell gap." (She inherited the famed front tooth "gap" from my husband's side of the family.)
"But it's such a long time."
Today is Good Friday. Sometimes I think evangelical Christianity, at least from my experience outside many of the centuries-old divisions, glosses over Good Friday. It's more fun to get to the part about Easter, the resurrection, and CELEBRATE~!! Woo, hoo!
God made us all for a purpose. Many people have heard of the book, The Purpose Driven Life. I highly recommend it. But we can't fulfill our purpose if we're not on His wavelength and on His terms. Maybe to some people that doesn't sound fair, but God went through a lot of trouble to make us good enough. A lot more than giving up sour apple gum for two years (remember Hannah's urgency?). He let His Son take the blame for everything to pull us out of the rut we were born into (the whole live, die, pay taxes scenario). God saw the end result--and to Him, it was worth it.
Anything But Chewing Gum
"I've just gotta have my purse!" Hannah wailed after we get home from church last night.
"What is so important that can't wait until Mr. J drops it off tomorrow?" I was more concerned with taking a few minutes to relax, and getting to some fresh strawberry shortcake.
"MY GUM!" The teenage drama queen reached a fever pitch.
"There is plenty--of gum--in the pantry. Someone left that pack in there." I need a vacation, I thought to myself.
"But it's not sour apple. I won't get to taste that gum for TWO--WHOLE--YEARS!!!"
Oh, the immediacy of a teen's life. You see, Hannah got braces today. She really wanted to get them and over with before high school, so two years from now just as she finishes junior high, she'll be getting them off. At least that's the plan. Last night she went on a chew-all-the-gum-she-could binge before D-Day.
Earlier this week, she looked at me and sighed. "Two years, no gum. No Jolly Ranchers. No Tootsie Rolls."
"It's going to be worth it, though." I tried to encourage her. "You'll have a perfect smile to go with that perfect profile. Good-bye, Sowell gap." (She inherited the famed front tooth "gap" from my husband's side of the family.)
"But it's such a long time."
Today is Good Friday. Sometimes I think evangelical Christianity, at least from my experience outside many of the centuries-old divisions, glosses over Good Friday. It's more fun to get to the part about Easter, the resurrection, and CELEBRATE~!! Woo, hoo!
God made us all for a purpose. Many people have heard of the book, The Purpose Driven Life. I highly recommend it. But we can't fulfill our purpose if we're not on His wavelength and on His terms. Maybe to some people that doesn't sound fair, but God went through a lot of trouble to make us good enough. A lot more than giving up sour apple gum for two years (remember Hannah's urgency?). He let His Son take the blame for everything to pull us out of the rut we were born into (the whole live, die, pay taxes scenario). God saw the end result--and to Him, it was worth it.
Sunday, March 20, 2005
Just Desserts (With a Chilled Side Order of Revenge)
On Today's Menu:
Brownie Sundae
I love watching people get something they deserve. Sometimes I tune in to Sunday evening's reality show, Extreme Home Makeover. Every time I watch it, I give thanks for where I am right now. Health, family, a good roof over my head that's mine, a place of peace on this earth. In the space of an hour, I see families get what they have long deserved and only dreamed--or never dared dream--of having.
You've got to wonder, though, how the networks screen applicants to find such deserving families. Nobody's perfect, and I wouldn't venture to guess at people's little secrets. But enough about those sweet families who receive places of beauty to brighten their lives.
Some people show their UN-deserving-ness for the world to see. Like the bozo who cuts you off in traffic and looks at you as if you did something wrong. Or the relative who for the past twenty years has managed to dig deep into you with her barbed comments, and knows exactly what she's doing. You're about ready to cancel family Thanksgiving dinner if you have to endure another holiday in her presence. Then there's the person who's a sneak, working every angle imaginable and never getting caught. You wish you could sell their story to the Enquirer.
"Oh, yes! I can think of things that they deserve." A nice traffic ticket. A look in the mirror of the heart to see their true nature. A public exposure of their secrets.
The natural response is to give--or hope someone receives--exactly what they deserve. So why are we amazed and touched when the good guys get something good? We all love winners; we root for the underdog, the less fortunate, the forgotten, the ones who've had a tough break for no real good reason--to get the prize.
Jesus said to His followers that if they do good to those who love them, they're no different than the other guy, the regular Joes and Janes who choose not to believe. He then commanded His followers to do good to those who hate them.
That doesn't sound very much like vengeance or just desserts, does it? Nor much fun, either, if you want to see the bad guy "get theirs" in a cinematic sort of way. I tell my husband that having a James Bond car that blasts idiot drivers will never be legal.
"But that person seems to exist only to make me miserable."
Those who say they're Christians, i.e., followers of Christ (the label "Christian has been applied to lots of people whom I'm sure Jesus would be ashamed of), are told to do the revolutionary. Do a loving act to those who don't deserve it. Wow, what a reality show that would make!
This Friday, millions of people will commemorate the time when Jesus didn't give us what we deserve, and instead gave us the ultimate act of love. Even those who will never appreciate or receive His gift. When I think about what He did for those of all time--for me, I feel like I've hit the Lotto.
Which is certainly much more than I deserve!
"Christ arrives right on time to make this happen. He didn't, and doesn't, wait for us to get ready. He presented himself for this sacrificial death when we were far too weak and rebellious to do anything to get ourselves ready. And even if we hadn't been so weak, we wouldn't have known what to do anyway. We can understand someone dying for a person worth dying for, and we can understand how someone good and noble could inspire us to selfless sacrifice. But God put his love on the line for us by offering his Son in sacrificial death while we were of no use whatever to him." The Bible, Romans 5, verses 6-8
Brownie Sundae
I love watching people get something they deserve. Sometimes I tune in to Sunday evening's reality show, Extreme Home Makeover. Every time I watch it, I give thanks for where I am right now. Health, family, a good roof over my head that's mine, a place of peace on this earth. In the space of an hour, I see families get what they have long deserved and only dreamed--or never dared dream--of having.
You've got to wonder, though, how the networks screen applicants to find such deserving families. Nobody's perfect, and I wouldn't venture to guess at people's little secrets. But enough about those sweet families who receive places of beauty to brighten their lives.
Some people show their UN-deserving-ness for the world to see. Like the bozo who cuts you off in traffic and looks at you as if you did something wrong. Or the relative who for the past twenty years has managed to dig deep into you with her barbed comments, and knows exactly what she's doing. You're about ready to cancel family Thanksgiving dinner if you have to endure another holiday in her presence. Then there's the person who's a sneak, working every angle imaginable and never getting caught. You wish you could sell their story to the Enquirer.
"Oh, yes! I can think of things that they deserve." A nice traffic ticket. A look in the mirror of the heart to see their true nature. A public exposure of their secrets.
The natural response is to give--or hope someone receives--exactly what they deserve. So why are we amazed and touched when the good guys get something good? We all love winners; we root for the underdog, the less fortunate, the forgotten, the ones who've had a tough break for no real good reason--to get the prize.
Jesus said to His followers that if they do good to those who love them, they're no different than the other guy, the regular Joes and Janes who choose not to believe. He then commanded His followers to do good to those who hate them.
That doesn't sound very much like vengeance or just desserts, does it? Nor much fun, either, if you want to see the bad guy "get theirs" in a cinematic sort of way. I tell my husband that having a James Bond car that blasts idiot drivers will never be legal.
"But that person seems to exist only to make me miserable."
Those who say they're Christians, i.e., followers of Christ (the label "Christian has been applied to lots of people whom I'm sure Jesus would be ashamed of), are told to do the revolutionary. Do a loving act to those who don't deserve it. Wow, what a reality show that would make!
This Friday, millions of people will commemorate the time when Jesus didn't give us what we deserve, and instead gave us the ultimate act of love. Even those who will never appreciate or receive His gift. When I think about what He did for those of all time--for me, I feel like I've hit the Lotto.
Which is certainly much more than I deserve!
"Christ arrives right on time to make this happen. He didn't, and doesn't, wait for us to get ready. He presented himself for this sacrificial death when we were far too weak and rebellious to do anything to get ourselves ready. And even if we hadn't been so weak, we wouldn't have known what to do anyway. We can understand someone dying for a person worth dying for, and we can understand how someone good and noble could inspire us to selfless sacrifice. But God put his love on the line for us by offering his Son in sacrificial death while we were of no use whatever to him." The Bible, Romans 5, verses 6-8
Saturday, March 12, 2005
The Queen of Absolutely Everything
On Today's Menu:
Forbidden Fruit Pie, a la mode
Wouldn't it be fun to fix everybody and their problems? I for one get so sick of people's bad habits and behavior patterns. I'm tired of hearing them bellyache about their kids, weight, finances, emotional life, relationships, spouse, dirty house, or --you fill in the blank. They're like hamsters on a wheel, galloping furiously for all they're worth, and wondering why they're not halfway to L.A. or wherever they'd like to be.
"Duh! Get off the stupid wheel!" I'd love to scream. "Change what you're doing if you don't like the direction you're going!"
"But, you see, I just don't know what to do." They shake their head.
"Didn't you hear what I just said?" By that point I'm ready to blow a gasket. Take a person who's tired of her children mouthing off. She's already been told not to argue with them. She's the mom, that's that. To see her spatting back and forth with her elementary age child makes me shake my head.
If I were to continue, I'd no longer be changing names to protect the "innocent." Who knows who might cruise by this blog and find themselves a perfect fit with the scenarios I'm describing?
So I point my fingers right back at myself. I'm tired of being overweight, for example. But am I tired enough to get off the hamster wheel and make the changes I need to make? Okay, maybe a treadmill in this instance is a good idea. I can boo-hoo to my friends about these extra pounds and the terrible time shopping and finding clothes that fit right--believe me, you can't camouflage everything. Yet my sob stories are for nothing if I won't make the changes I must make. I think of this now, as my aunt is in the hospital, gravely ill with congestive heart failure, with a poor prognosis. All because of choices.
Why do we do these things to ourselves? Here we go again, just like Eve who thought that forbidden fruit would make her happy. Did it taste just as sweet once she realized what she'd done? She never had another chance to go back to that tree after she got kicked out of Eden with her husband. I wonder if in her exile, she longed for the cool, green garden where all was provided for her and the world was at her feet. I wonder if she wished she could go back in time and run from the tree and what it represented. She had been the Queen of Absolutely Everything, and lost it all.
Choices, choices. Like a hamster on a wheel. We've never seen Eden, and yet forbidden fruit might as well be ripe for the picking in our backyards. We stay comfortable in our habits and behaviors, no matter how harmful. But we always have a choice.
I guess that's where God is far more merciful than I could ever be. If I were in charge, I don't think I'd be as kind and longsuffering. I'm working on those qualities, though. I suppose it's because of my own frustration at my shortcomings.
God is the King of Do-Overs. You want another chance, a do-over? He's the one to give it to you. Once we toss ourselves on the mercies of His court, we've got the biggest break imaginable.
So, get off the hamster wheel. Ending my rant for today!
Forbidden Fruit Pie, a la mode
Wouldn't it be fun to fix everybody and their problems? I for one get so sick of people's bad habits and behavior patterns. I'm tired of hearing them bellyache about their kids, weight, finances, emotional life, relationships, spouse, dirty house, or --you fill in the blank. They're like hamsters on a wheel, galloping furiously for all they're worth, and wondering why they're not halfway to L.A. or wherever they'd like to be.
"Duh! Get off the stupid wheel!" I'd love to scream. "Change what you're doing if you don't like the direction you're going!"
"But, you see, I just don't know what to do." They shake their head.
"Didn't you hear what I just said?" By that point I'm ready to blow a gasket. Take a person who's tired of her children mouthing off. She's already been told not to argue with them. She's the mom, that's that. To see her spatting back and forth with her elementary age child makes me shake my head.
If I were to continue, I'd no longer be changing names to protect the "innocent." Who knows who might cruise by this blog and find themselves a perfect fit with the scenarios I'm describing?
So I point my fingers right back at myself. I'm tired of being overweight, for example. But am I tired enough to get off the hamster wheel and make the changes I need to make? Okay, maybe a treadmill in this instance is a good idea. I can boo-hoo to my friends about these extra pounds and the terrible time shopping and finding clothes that fit right--believe me, you can't camouflage everything. Yet my sob stories are for nothing if I won't make the changes I must make. I think of this now, as my aunt is in the hospital, gravely ill with congestive heart failure, with a poor prognosis. All because of choices.
Why do we do these things to ourselves? Here we go again, just like Eve who thought that forbidden fruit would make her happy. Did it taste just as sweet once she realized what she'd done? She never had another chance to go back to that tree after she got kicked out of Eden with her husband. I wonder if in her exile, she longed for the cool, green garden where all was provided for her and the world was at her feet. I wonder if she wished she could go back in time and run from the tree and what it represented. She had been the Queen of Absolutely Everything, and lost it all.
Choices, choices. Like a hamster on a wheel. We've never seen Eden, and yet forbidden fruit might as well be ripe for the picking in our backyards. We stay comfortable in our habits and behaviors, no matter how harmful. But we always have a choice.
I guess that's where God is far more merciful than I could ever be. If I were in charge, I don't think I'd be as kind and longsuffering. I'm working on those qualities, though. I suppose it's because of my own frustration at my shortcomings.
God is the King of Do-Overs. You want another chance, a do-over? He's the one to give it to you. Once we toss ourselves on the mercies of His court, we've got the biggest break imaginable.
So, get off the hamster wheel. Ending my rant for today!
Sunday, March 06, 2005
Fairy Tales and Marsh-wiggles
On Today's Menu:
Krab Salad Sandwich (hold the crab)
According to Bill Maher, I as a "religious person" have a serious neurological disorder. However, I don't think his statement is truly a question of neurosis, but the big question is: What's real, and what's the fairy tale? Noah and the Ark, or Jack and the Beanstalk? Krab salad won't ever be real crab, not matter if the fish is painted red, bleached white, and flavored. Crab is crab. Painted-and-flavored fish is still painted-and-flavored fish.
Self-delusion is very powerful stuff. We can persuade ourselves nearly anything. I once had a friend who persuaded herself that having a fling with a young man she wasn't married to was the answer to her heart problem, and that God above was surely "working in her life." The same kind of self-delusion caused a dozen men to carry out a plot and bring down two buildings in New York for the glory of their god. Frightening, isn't it, that our hearts can deceive us just like terrorists'? And there I can see Mr. Maher's point.
Yet experience is much more concrete than delusion, or fooling ourselves. Part of me can see how it would be easy to think religions provide a salve for people's empty spots, that they are just making something up to help make the whole sorry trip make sense. Along the road of life, it would be very easy to think we are trudging through on our own, enjoying mountaintops of glory, and relying on our human "spirit" to pull us through our struggles and triumph.
I am reminded of one of my favorite characters in literature, Puddleglum the Marsh-wiggle, from The Silver Chair by C.S. Lewis. He and his human friends are held captive by the Queen of Underland. She's trying to convince them through words and magic that world above doesn't exist, and is but a dream. Puddleglum, always the realist (to the children's dismay), counters her incantations with this:
Suppose we have only dreamed, or made up, all those things--trees and grass and sun and moon and stars and Aslan himself. Suppose we have. Then all I can say is that, in that case, the made-up things seem a good deal more important than the real ones.
Suppose this black pit of a kingdom of yours is the only world. Well, it strikes me as a pretty poor one. And that's a funny thing, when you come to think of it.
We're just babies making up a game, if you're right. But four babies playing a game can make a play-world which licks your real world hollow. That's why I'm going to stand by the play-world.
I'm on Aslan's side even if there isn't any Aslan to lead it. I'm going to live as like a Narnian as I can even if there isn't any Narnia.
So, thanking you kindly for our supper, if these two gentlemen and the young lady are ready, we're leaving your court at once and setting out in the dark to spend our lives looking for Overland. Not that our lives will be very long I should think; but that's small loss if the world's as dull a place as you say."
Way to go, Puddleglum! He had experienced Narnia and the world above. No one could take that from him or charm him into thinking what he'd experienced was fake.
Mr. Maher and I have had religious upbringings. His lacked one thing, I think, from what he says: Experience. I did more than believe in God and His Words just because my parents hammered into my head (no, they didn't) for years and years. Is it any wonder children either a: leave their faith or b: become fanatics without experience (like our brainwashed terrorists) or c: discover their faith on their own. I sought for God and met Him on my own. That's where the truth comes alive. That's where faith comes in. I will not be charmed into thinking my experience is based on mere fairy tale.
Krab Salad Sandwich (hold the crab)
According to Bill Maher, I as a "religious person" have a serious neurological disorder. However, I don't think his statement is truly a question of neurosis, but the big question is: What's real, and what's the fairy tale? Noah and the Ark, or Jack and the Beanstalk? Krab salad won't ever be real crab, not matter if the fish is painted red, bleached white, and flavored. Crab is crab. Painted-and-flavored fish is still painted-and-flavored fish.
Self-delusion is very powerful stuff. We can persuade ourselves nearly anything. I once had a friend who persuaded herself that having a fling with a young man she wasn't married to was the answer to her heart problem, and that God above was surely "working in her life." The same kind of self-delusion caused a dozen men to carry out a plot and bring down two buildings in New York for the glory of their god. Frightening, isn't it, that our hearts can deceive us just like terrorists'? And there I can see Mr. Maher's point.
Yet experience is much more concrete than delusion, or fooling ourselves. Part of me can see how it would be easy to think religions provide a salve for people's empty spots, that they are just making something up to help make the whole sorry trip make sense. Along the road of life, it would be very easy to think we are trudging through on our own, enjoying mountaintops of glory, and relying on our human "spirit" to pull us through our struggles and triumph.
I am reminded of one of my favorite characters in literature, Puddleglum the Marsh-wiggle, from The Silver Chair by C.S. Lewis. He and his human friends are held captive by the Queen of Underland. She's trying to convince them through words and magic that world above doesn't exist, and is but a dream. Puddleglum, always the realist (to the children's dismay), counters her incantations with this:
Suppose we have only dreamed, or made up, all those things--trees and grass and sun and moon and stars and Aslan himself. Suppose we have. Then all I can say is that, in that case, the made-up things seem a good deal more important than the real ones.
Suppose this black pit of a kingdom of yours is the only world. Well, it strikes me as a pretty poor one. And that's a funny thing, when you come to think of it.
We're just babies making up a game, if you're right. But four babies playing a game can make a play-world which licks your real world hollow. That's why I'm going to stand by the play-world.
I'm on Aslan's side even if there isn't any Aslan to lead it. I'm going to live as like a Narnian as I can even if there isn't any Narnia.
So, thanking you kindly for our supper, if these two gentlemen and the young lady are ready, we're leaving your court at once and setting out in the dark to spend our lives looking for Overland. Not that our lives will be very long I should think; but that's small loss if the world's as dull a place as you say."
Way to go, Puddleglum! He had experienced Narnia and the world above. No one could take that from him or charm him into thinking what he'd experienced was fake.
Mr. Maher and I have had religious upbringings. His lacked one thing, I think, from what he says: Experience. I did more than believe in God and His Words just because my parents hammered into my head (no, they didn't) for years and years. Is it any wonder children either a: leave their faith or b: become fanatics without experience (like our brainwashed terrorists) or c: discover their faith on their own. I sought for God and met Him on my own. That's where the truth comes alive. That's where faith comes in. I will not be charmed into thinking my experience is based on mere fairy tale.
Saturday, February 26, 2005
The Kids are Warped...It's My Fault
On Today's Menu~
Broccoli Quiche (with cheddar cheese)
My teenagers have seen the Rocky Mountains and hiked the Garden of the Gods. They've taken a horse-drawn taxi in Mexico where we traveled down side streets in Nuevo Laredo and saw homes with dirt floors. We sailed 25 miles out from Gloucester, Mass. and saw humpback whales feeding and frolicking. We've gone to nursing homes to see people who are forgotten. One school year we tessered through Madeleine L'Engle's books and been to Narnia where we were tempted with Turkish Delight. They love all kinds of ethnic food and good 'ole U.S. of A. cooking (although my son and I share an aversion to black olives and beets).
Imagine my surprise at their reaction when I brought home a 5-pound bag of frozen broccoli spears.
"They look--they look like trees!" my 13-year-old daughter exclaimed.
"Um, yes. That's how broccoli comes." I put the bag in the freezer. What's the big deal?
"I never knew that." She stared at the bag.
I admit it. I've been a cheap mom over the years while getting them to appreciate vegetables. I always prided myself on the fact that they would eat salad and enjoy it, or snack on celery. But I never thought about buying the "full-size" broccoli. I would grab the least expensive bag of frozen chopped stuff and go on my way. Grocery shopping is a necessary evil. The old hunter-gatherer tradition still exists. Even today we went, and came home unscathed with a lighter wallet.
I went to great lengths to expose the kids to the beauty of the world and carefully let them see some of its sadness. I wanted them to see the world is far bigger than our town and everyday world. And yet they never knew broccoli came in spears.
Lest you think I laid awake worrying about this, I didn't. I had a good laugh about it with my husband, and went on.
No matter how good a job we try to do as parents, we're bound to miss something. Like the kids not knowing for so many years that broccoli comes in spears. But that's okay. As long as they keep learning, the wonder and amazement will still be there. I hope we have tons of time to discover new things together, even if it's something I already knew.
God knows all kinds of things, more than we can imagine. I bet He gets a kick out of our "discoveries," stuff He knew the whole time. And I believe He smiles at the wonder in our eyes and amazement in our voices.
Broccoli Quiche (with cheddar cheese)
My teenagers have seen the Rocky Mountains and hiked the Garden of the Gods. They've taken a horse-drawn taxi in Mexico where we traveled down side streets in Nuevo Laredo and saw homes with dirt floors. We sailed 25 miles out from Gloucester, Mass. and saw humpback whales feeding and frolicking. We've gone to nursing homes to see people who are forgotten. One school year we tessered through Madeleine L'Engle's books and been to Narnia where we were tempted with Turkish Delight. They love all kinds of ethnic food and good 'ole U.S. of A. cooking (although my son and I share an aversion to black olives and beets).
Imagine my surprise at their reaction when I brought home a 5-pound bag of frozen broccoli spears.
"They look--they look like trees!" my 13-year-old daughter exclaimed.
"Um, yes. That's how broccoli comes." I put the bag in the freezer. What's the big deal?
"I never knew that." She stared at the bag.
I admit it. I've been a cheap mom over the years while getting them to appreciate vegetables. I always prided myself on the fact that they would eat salad and enjoy it, or snack on celery. But I never thought about buying the "full-size" broccoli. I would grab the least expensive bag of frozen chopped stuff and go on my way. Grocery shopping is a necessary evil. The old hunter-gatherer tradition still exists. Even today we went, and came home unscathed with a lighter wallet.
I went to great lengths to expose the kids to the beauty of the world and carefully let them see some of its sadness. I wanted them to see the world is far bigger than our town and everyday world. And yet they never knew broccoli came in spears.
Lest you think I laid awake worrying about this, I didn't. I had a good laugh about it with my husband, and went on.
No matter how good a job we try to do as parents, we're bound to miss something. Like the kids not knowing for so many years that broccoli comes in spears. But that's okay. As long as they keep learning, the wonder and amazement will still be there. I hope we have tons of time to discover new things together, even if it's something I already knew.
God knows all kinds of things, more than we can imagine. I bet He gets a kick out of our "discoveries," stuff He knew the whole time. And I believe He smiles at the wonder in our eyes and amazement in our voices.
Sunday, February 20, 2005
It Just Ain't Natural...
On Today's Menu:
A Slice of Pineapple Upside-Down Cake
No. I'm not a fan of pineapple upside-down cake. It's just funny how you make it. Put the pineapple rings and cherries on the bottom of the pan, pour in the batter, bake it, and FLIP!--the bottom becomes the top.
Human nature is a funny thing, too. We are wired to preserve ourselves and survive, and our bodies are designed to help us avoid pain. That's why it hurts when we touch a hot stove. Those nerve endings are say, "Hellloooo! You're burning your skin, doofus!" And so we stop.
Then again, the very nature that makes us protect ourselves can also cut us off from those we love when they hurt us. We won't forgive--it hurts too bad, the nerves of our heart are screaming, warning us to--stay away. What a natural reaction. We don't want to be hurt again. We want to be comfortable, safe--alive.
Here I go, back to one of those old Bible guys. Well, I don't think Hosea was that old when he wrote that God asked him to marry an unfaithful woman turned prostitute. Gomer just wouldn't stay put, even when Hosea took her home and gave her a life she had never dreamed of having. Poor Hosea; you can guess this setup seemed doomed from the beginning. Can't you hear his mother when she found out about the marriage?
"Hosea, why don't you find Rachel, that nice daughter of Jakov, and marry her? Why, why, why did you take a woman like--like that Gomer to be your wife? You deserve so much better. Ach, my boy, you are headed for nothing but disappointment." She shook her head and clucked. "Everyone in the village will think I have an idiot for a son. Your father's name will be disgraced."
But Hosea took Gomer anyway. Three kids later, she ran off and sold herself into prostitution. By all rights, he could have just let her go. Gomer was the one in the wrong. Hosea had only obeyed God's instructions. Against human nature to kick someone to the curb, Hosea sought Gomer out, and bought her back. His manly ego took a blow, as did his wallet. Ouch. Yet he took her back, and loved her.
With the bad rap God gets sometimes, this whole story took place to show God's pursuit of the people He loves. Against what is natural inclination, He forgives the undeserving. Now that's a religion I can stick with. I don't deserve forgiveness, but He gives it anyway. Even to those who will never believe or accept.
Wow, kinda like being a lottery winner and never going to claim your check.
Accepting grace, which here means a gift you don't deserve (with nod to Lemony Snicket), is accepting what just ain't natural. You have to flip your perspective like a pineapple upside-down cake. When I do that, I need to live to a standard like Hosea. Keep on forgiving as I've been forgiven. And that can be a lot easier said than done, especially when someone you've shared your heart with does the wounding.
Signed,
Eve's Daughter
A Slice of Pineapple Upside-Down Cake
No. I'm not a fan of pineapple upside-down cake. It's just funny how you make it. Put the pineapple rings and cherries on the bottom of the pan, pour in the batter, bake it, and FLIP!--the bottom becomes the top.
Human nature is a funny thing, too. We are wired to preserve ourselves and survive, and our bodies are designed to help us avoid pain. That's why it hurts when we touch a hot stove. Those nerve endings are say, "Hellloooo! You're burning your skin, doofus!" And so we stop.
Then again, the very nature that makes us protect ourselves can also cut us off from those we love when they hurt us. We won't forgive--it hurts too bad, the nerves of our heart are screaming, warning us to--stay away. What a natural reaction. We don't want to be hurt again. We want to be comfortable, safe--alive.
Here I go, back to one of those old Bible guys. Well, I don't think Hosea was that old when he wrote that God asked him to marry an unfaithful woman turned prostitute. Gomer just wouldn't stay put, even when Hosea took her home and gave her a life she had never dreamed of having. Poor Hosea; you can guess this setup seemed doomed from the beginning. Can't you hear his mother when she found out about the marriage?
"Hosea, why don't you find Rachel, that nice daughter of Jakov, and marry her? Why, why, why did you take a woman like--like that Gomer to be your wife? You deserve so much better. Ach, my boy, you are headed for nothing but disappointment." She shook her head and clucked. "Everyone in the village will think I have an idiot for a son. Your father's name will be disgraced."
But Hosea took Gomer anyway. Three kids later, she ran off and sold herself into prostitution. By all rights, he could have just let her go. Gomer was the one in the wrong. Hosea had only obeyed God's instructions. Against human nature to kick someone to the curb, Hosea sought Gomer out, and bought her back. His manly ego took a blow, as did his wallet. Ouch. Yet he took her back, and loved her.
With the bad rap God gets sometimes, this whole story took place to show God's pursuit of the people He loves. Against what is natural inclination, He forgives the undeserving. Now that's a religion I can stick with. I don't deserve forgiveness, but He gives it anyway. Even to those who will never believe or accept.
Wow, kinda like being a lottery winner and never going to claim your check.
Accepting grace, which here means a gift you don't deserve (with nod to Lemony Snicket), is accepting what just ain't natural. You have to flip your perspective like a pineapple upside-down cake. When I do that, I need to live to a standard like Hosea. Keep on forgiving as I've been forgiven. And that can be a lot easier said than done, especially when someone you've shared your heart with does the wounding.
Signed,
Eve's Daughter
Sunday, February 13, 2005
Chasing the Wind
On Today's Menu: Empty Popovers
Time managers tell us we need to write down the things we wish to accomplish. Those of us thirty-somethings who wear lots of hats would spend more time writing than getting things done. Really. Take this blog, for instance.
I thought maybe once or twice a week would be good. After all, I lead a fairly busy and uninteresting life, so I figured I could share my thoughts or highlights. Even people with uneventful lives have something interesting on occasion.
But life has sped by and it's been nearly two weeks--two weeks--since I've posted. Hmmmm...does that mean I have nothing to say? Or is it just I'm too busy living to lift out something quirky and interesting?
Aha, here's something. Not quirky, but interesting to me in my thirty-something travels.
We hosted my niece's 21st birthday party last night with family and friends. I can't believe it's been 16 years since I had a 21st birthday party. I'm not a drinker, never have been, so the "ooh-let's-go-get-snockered-because-it's-legal" aspect of turning 21 didn't hold any interest for me. I thought I knew so much at 21. (Ha! I say now).
If I could have pulled Tiff aside and shared some things with her, I'd tell her not to run to the clubs for fun. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy spending time with my friends, but what happens when you wake up the next morning?
We live in such an instant gratification society that holds excess in esteem. Bigger, better, faster, more, thinner, lighter, tastier, richer, thicker, slower--let's find the top and go over it!
In the book of Ecclesiastes in the Bible, the writer speaks of "chasing after the wind." Plus, there is nothing new under the sun. Tiff, at 21, the world is at your feet. But listen to the words of a wise yet sad king:
"I said to myself, Let's go for it--experiment with pleasure, have a good time! But there was nothing to it, nothing but smoke. What do I think of the fun-filled life? Insane! Inane!
My verdict on the pursuit of happiness? Who needs it? With the help of a bottle of wine and all the wisdom I could muster, I tried my level best to penetrate the absurdity of life. I wanted to get a handle on anything useful we mortals might do during the years we spend on this earth.
I Never Said No to Myself, Oh, I did great things: built houses, planted vineyards, designed gardens and parks and planted a variety of fruit trees in them, made pools of water to irrigate the groves of trees. I bought slaves, male and female, who had children, giving me even more slaves; then I acquired large herds and flocks, larger than any before me in Jerusalem. I piled up silver and gold, loot from kings and kingdoms. I gathered a chorus of singers to entertain me with song, and--most exquisite of all pleasures--voluptuous maidens for my bed.
Oh, how I prospered! I left all my predecessors in Jerusalem far behind, left them behind in the dust. What's more, I kept a clear head through it all.
Everything I wanted I took--I never said no to myself. I gave in to every impulse, held back nothing. I sucked the marrow of pleasure out of every task--my reward to myself for a hard day's work!
Then I took a good look at everything I'd done, looked at all the sweat and hard work. But when I looked, I saw nothing but smoke. Smoke and spitting into the wind. There was nothing to any of it. Nothing."
Sounds like the cravings I spoke of last time, wanting more and more, and never satisified. Solomon realized that with everything, he was still a son of Adam. Tiff, you can only reach so far. Temporary things are just that--temporary.
Signed,
Eve's Daughter
Time managers tell us we need to write down the things we wish to accomplish. Those of us thirty-somethings who wear lots of hats would spend more time writing than getting things done. Really. Take this blog, for instance.
I thought maybe once or twice a week would be good. After all, I lead a fairly busy and uninteresting life, so I figured I could share my thoughts or highlights. Even people with uneventful lives have something interesting on occasion.
But life has sped by and it's been nearly two weeks--two weeks--since I've posted. Hmmmm...does that mean I have nothing to say? Or is it just I'm too busy living to lift out something quirky and interesting?
Aha, here's something. Not quirky, but interesting to me in my thirty-something travels.
We hosted my niece's 21st birthday party last night with family and friends. I can't believe it's been 16 years since I had a 21st birthday party. I'm not a drinker, never have been, so the "ooh-let's-go-get-snockered-because-it's-legal" aspect of turning 21 didn't hold any interest for me. I thought I knew so much at 21. (Ha! I say now).
If I could have pulled Tiff aside and shared some things with her, I'd tell her not to run to the clubs for fun. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy spending time with my friends, but what happens when you wake up the next morning?
We live in such an instant gratification society that holds excess in esteem. Bigger, better, faster, more, thinner, lighter, tastier, richer, thicker, slower--let's find the top and go over it!
In the book of Ecclesiastes in the Bible, the writer speaks of "chasing after the wind." Plus, there is nothing new under the sun. Tiff, at 21, the world is at your feet. But listen to the words of a wise yet sad king:
"I said to myself, Let's go for it--experiment with pleasure, have a good time! But there was nothing to it, nothing but smoke. What do I think of the fun-filled life? Insane! Inane!
My verdict on the pursuit of happiness? Who needs it? With the help of a bottle of wine and all the wisdom I could muster, I tried my level best to penetrate the absurdity of life. I wanted to get a handle on anything useful we mortals might do during the years we spend on this earth.
I Never Said No to Myself, Oh, I did great things: built houses, planted vineyards, designed gardens and parks and planted a variety of fruit trees in them, made pools of water to irrigate the groves of trees. I bought slaves, male and female, who had children, giving me even more slaves; then I acquired large herds and flocks, larger than any before me in Jerusalem. I piled up silver and gold, loot from kings and kingdoms. I gathered a chorus of singers to entertain me with song, and--most exquisite of all pleasures--voluptuous maidens for my bed.
Oh, how I prospered! I left all my predecessors in Jerusalem far behind, left them behind in the dust. What's more, I kept a clear head through it all.
Everything I wanted I took--I never said no to myself. I gave in to every impulse, held back nothing. I sucked the marrow of pleasure out of every task--my reward to myself for a hard day's work!
Then I took a good look at everything I'd done, looked at all the sweat and hard work. But when I looked, I saw nothing but smoke. Smoke and spitting into the wind. There was nothing to any of it. Nothing."
Sounds like the cravings I spoke of last time, wanting more and more, and never satisified. Solomon realized that with everything, he was still a son of Adam. Tiff, you can only reach so far. Temporary things are just that--temporary.
Signed,
Eve's Daughter
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