::: from my front porch looking in :::

This little heart is breaking because the neighbor girl came to the yard but didn't want to play with her. She wanted to play with the older sister instead. And I could see that sad face, but, even more, I could see those golden rays playing with her amazing curls. I was in the yard, working to make my front walkway acceptable for Houdin's graduation ceremony and party on Sunday, and I looked up to see this. So, being the cruel (and dirt-covered) mother that I am, I hurried her up to my room to retrieve the camera. "Go! Go! Before I lose my light!" And off she went.

Shouldn't there be a smile on that lovely face? Isn't it amazing what lack of companionship, hope deferred, can do?

If only we could see how much the Son loves us, how He lights us up, even when we're distraught, how His love caresses us until we're practically glowing.
Then maybe when others don't love us, it wouldn't hurt quite so much.

::: seizing double :::

I recently read that you can reduce the number of chewing surface cavities you get by chewing on a stick of celery after your meals, which removes trapped food and helps saliva neutralize acids that cause tooth decay. I mentioned this to my husband, Bo, saying that it makes sense that 14 year-old Monet has so many chewing-surface cavities. We never eat celery!

"I like celery," Bo said.

19 years of marriage, and this, I never knew.

And as Bard was reading this, she said, "You didn't know that Dad liked celery? I like celery."

So while wandering in and around the produce department of my local grocer, I remembered that fact and reached out to score myself a bundle of crunchy greenness, plopped it into the cart, and reached for a second. I had to stop myself. It was a struggle, really. Not a physical struggle, no, but a mental struggle.

Why?

Because I'm afflicted with a terrible disorder. I seem to only be able to purchase things in twos.

I have no idea how this habit started or what my reasoning has been, if there has been any. But I remember discovering it for the first time.

I was standing in line at Stuff*Mart, placing my items on the conveyor, adding up my purchases in my head, when I became aware, through another strange habit of mine which is counting things, that I seemed to be bothered if I placed just one of something on the belt. One bottle of vitamins or one lampshade or one copy of Nacho Libre should be enough, if that's all I need, right? So why did it seem that the majority of my cart's contents came in multiples? And not in threes, or fives, or sevens, but always in twos. If there was one pound of butter, there was a second. One loaf of bread...two. One bottle of shampoo, one can of beans, one bag of rice? Yep, always a second one.

Now, to be fair to my slightly obsessive self, I do have a large family. With five kids in the house and usually one or two guests, plus a husband and a dad, we obviously go through more food, and more toilet paper, and more, well, more everything than a lot of people I know. But please. Who really *needs* two jugs of Tiki Torch fuel?

And also to be fair, it's often cheaper to buy two smaller containers of an item than the "family size." Have you ever noticed that? That family sizes can actually be more per ounce than the smaller ones? And that it changes, so you have to stay on your toes? Shame on those marketers. Shame, shame, shame.

So I've been trying to reform. I don't need double. I don't need double. and I certainly don't need to PAY double. While at the store today, I resisted the urge to toss in two boxes of allergy medicine. I chose three bottles of soda, in three different flavors. One bag of ice. With lots and lots of individual ice cubes inside the bag. I won't even attempt to count those. And even though I struggled in front of bargain bakery rack, I put back the fourth petite loaf of La Brea Roasted Chopped Garlic bread, leaving me with an odd number that only looks good in certain types of architecture.

From now on, I'll try to buy in twos only when absolutely necessary. Like in the case of pant legs. And Reese Cups. And pounds of baby swiss cheese. And extra-large glazed donuts from the local bakery. And strawberry rhubarb fry pies. And anything on clearance sale.

And Tiki Torch fuel.

::: are you watching? :::

There's an incredible display in the sky tonight. We're cuddling up on the trampoline under a mound of blankets to stare at the dark canvas filled with pinpoints of light. Every few minutes, if you were within earshot, you'd hear us gasping and, if it weren't so dark, you'd see us pointing at the quickly disappearing tail of a darting meteor.

Can you go out now? Can you watch them shatter the darkness? Can you watch them skip across the deep blue sea of the atmosphere?

Then do it!

Image from here.

Mastering the Art of Midnight Cooking

It was a long day of soccer practice, piano lessons, cleaning to prepare for the upcoming graduation party of Houdin, and, as if we weren't busy enough, a service planning meeting at church. Sometime during the day, I decided that it would all end with loveliness, so on the way to our meeting, I implored of my husband to not begin any lengthy discussions, to not bring up new topics, to cut to the chase, and I would do the same. I didn't want to sound short or bossy, but I knew I had to tell the other meeting attendees up front that we really needed to leave by 8:30. And I was pretty serious about it. I'm afraid I may have pushed the meeting on a bit--so I guess I was bossy in spite of my best mediocre attempts not to be.

And when we finished our meeting at 8:26, I think I actually hooted with glee.

My husband and I were going to go home, rush our two eldest and our young friend Lemony into the car (the two younglings were at a friend's house for the night), stop long enough to transfer Monet from another soccer parent's minivan to ours, and head north to the Medium Sized City for a 9:55 p.m. showing of Julie and Julia. My dear husband, who had awoken at 5:30 a.m. and would have to be to work at 7:00 a.m. the following morning, was completely game. We even scraped up enough money in this economically depressed month to pay for all of our tickets, the elder children chipping in all that they had. And when we got there? It was bargain Tuesday. $4.25 for tickets. Bonus!

No popcorn. No milk duds. Straight to the theater we strode, because I knew that, waiting at home for us, was a fresh batch of pesto and some crusty bread.

Bad idea.

See, the film was just packed full, as might be expected, of incredibly mouthwatering foods. They walked by amazing foods. They talked about amazing foods. They ate amazing foods. And we, hungry and amazed, watched helplessly, drooling, oohing and ahhing. Loudly. We were, by some miracle (maybe that it was the 9:55 p.m. showing) the only people in the theater, giving us the freedom to laugh loudly, discuss the food, and make slyly disparaging comments about the film's antagonists.

Meryl Streep was, as you've heard, amazingly incredible. Stanley Tucci was adorable. My only regret was that I had not been Julie Powell, had not stood in a moment of quiet desperation and committed an act of psychotic cooking bloggery. I could have done it (as everyone says). It could have been me. And, just like Powell's character in the film, I would have loved Julia, and I would have believed that Julia loved me, in spite of any evidence to the contrary.

I had decided that the day would end in loveliness, and I got my way. Julie and Julia was delightful, even with its flaws (my middle child got half-way through the film before he realized that the parallel stories were taking place during different decades..and he's a pretty bright kid). I found myself with the perfect opportunity to practice my very limited, very sad excuse for French. I nudged my daughter in the row ahead of me when Julie visited Julia's Cambridge, Massachusetts kitchen at the Smithsonian, because I, too, had been there just a short month and a half before. And after the film was over, as we were driving the long trip back home to my Little Village just after midnight, I was taking a mental inventory of what ingredients were scattered around my kitchen at home. My hope was to crack open my thrifted copy of Mastering the Art of French Cooking and duplicate, albeit more successfully, the poached egg scene in the film. I'd never poached an egg. I've never liked eggs.

Alas, it was not to be. My copy of Mastering the Art of French Cooking is Volume 2, which doesn't contain the egg-poaching pages.

But my eyes landed on a recipe that featured eggplant, and, as luck would have it, I'd just plucked a few nice eggplants from my garden and a few more from the farmer's market just that morning, so I gathered all of the ingredients (can you believe I actually had scallions in my kitchen? I rarely have scallions in my kitchen! But there they were, as was everything else, and so, at 1:00 a.m., my husband, kids and Lemony were eating pesto and peeling eggplant as I made the sauce and chopped the tomatoes.

This dish is supposed to be eaten cold, but I just couldn't wait. I'd already lost my husband, who had finally staggered off to bed, and Monet, who couldn't stay up any longer due to an impending early-morning soccer practice (they're doing two-a-days this week), so as soon as I folded the tomato/basil/garlic sauce into the simmered/sauteed eggplant, I was ready to eat. Houdin heaped it onto a piece of crusty bread, but I just scooped it into a dish and grabbed a fork. Delicious.

A small dish was set aside and refrigerated so that I can see what it's "supposed" to taste like once it's chilled.

With just a few short hours left of this morning before I have to rise and begin another day, I'm heading to bed, garlic on my breath, dreaming of my next meal.

::: ann voskamp :::

If you've not visited Ann Voskamp's blog, Holy Experience, who offers "just a bit of listening, laundry, liturgy... life," you really must. Her word pictures are touching and poetic, and her pictures, worth so much more than a thousand words, are an elegant and beautiful compliment to her craft. Today's post is so touching, I had to read it twice.

Enjoy.

Readily and Freely

I know that sometimes, when people see a verse from the Bible posted on a blog, they skip right over it. Some people are just turned off by Bible verses--even Christians--but do me a favor. Read this one. Because sometimes, I think it's a very good thing that everyone, both followers of Christ and those of other faiths, know and understand the things that Christians are supposed to do.

These passages are taken from The Amplified Bible.

²⁹Let no foul or polluting language, nor evil word nor unwholesome or worthless talk [ever] come out of your mouth, but only such [speech] as is good and beneficial to the spiritual progress of others, as is fitting to the need and the occasion, that it may be a blessing and give grace (God's favor) to those who hear it.

³¹Let all bitterness and indignation and wrath (passion, rage, bad temper) and resentment (anger, animosity) and quarreling (brawling, clamor, contention) and slander (evil-speaking, abusive or blasphemous language) be banished from you, with all malice (spite, ill will, or baseness of any kind).

³²And become useful and helpful and kind to one another, tenderhearted (compassionate, understanding, loving-hearted), forgiving one another [readily and freely], as God in Christ forgave you.

Shall we stick by each other as long as we live?

One of my little side hobbies is to do videography for weddings. While I'm at the event, I just can't help snapping a few stills, though the bride always has an awesome photographer of her own.
This evening, I took some shots at the rehearsal dinner in preparation for tomorrow's wedding. What a beautiful couple who chose a beautiful setting, the tree farm of a family friend. Mary's parents will play a lap dulcimer piece and part of Whitman's Song of the Open Road will be read during the ceremony.

Mon enfant! I give you my hand!

I give you my love, more precious than money,

I give you myself, before preaching or law;

Will you give me yourself?

Will you come travel with me?

Shall we stick by each other

as long as we live?

Your Thoughts on Healthcare Reform?

I've been reading through the bill on the proposed health care reform and I'd like to know what your respectful, educated opinion is on single-payer health care.

Thoughts?

The Whole Law=One Precept

pre·cept: \ˈprē-ˌsept\noun

Etymology:

Middle English, from Anglo-French, from Latin praeceptum, from neuter of praeceptus, past participle of praecipere to take beforehand, instruct, from prae- + capere to take — more at heave

Date:

14th century

1 : a command or principle intended especially as a general rule of action
2 : an order issued by legally constituted authority to a subordinate official.

Leviticus 19:18
Do not seek revenge or bear a grudge against one of your people, but love your neighbor as yourself. I am the LORD.

Matthew 5:43
"You have heard that it was said, 'Love your neighbor and hate your enemy.' But I tell you: Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, that you may be sons of your Father in heaven.

Matthew 19:19
Jesus replied, " 'Do not murder, do not commit adultery, do not steal, do not give false testimony, honor your father and mother,' and 'love your neighbor as yourself.' "

Matthew 22:39
And the second is like it: 'Love your neighbor as yourself.'

Mark 12:31
The second is this: 'Love your neighbor as yourself.' There is no commandment greater than these."

Mark 12:33
To love him with all your heart, with all your understanding and with all your strength, and to love your neighbor as yourself is more important than all burnt offerings and sacrifices.

Luke 10:27
He answered: " 'Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength and with all your mind' ; and, 'Love your neighbor as yourself.' "

Romans 13:9
The commandments, "Do not commit adultery," "Do not murder," "Do not steal," "Do not covet," and whatever other commandment there may be, are summed up in this one rule: "Love your neighbor as yourself."

James 2:8
If you really keep the royal law found in Scripture, "Love your neighbor as yourself," you are doing right.

Galatians 5:14
The entire law is summed up in this one precept [see definition above]: "Love your neighbor as yourself."

Download a copy of the poster above by clicking on the image or going to The Plow.

::: admonition (ad-mə-ˈni-shən) noun: gentle or friendly reproof :::

"Does it strike anyone else that much of christian parenting wisdom conforms to the kingdom of the sword rather than the kingdom of the cross?"

~Tonia at Study in Brown

I know you're all going to think I'm nuts, and that's okay, because I think I'm nuts, too. But I'm going to let you in on a little secret.

I think God is doing something amazing in the hearts of his people.

I really mean this. I do believe that the world is about to turn, and I'm one of the lucky human beings to be ON it when this happens.

Because, see, for years I've had a really hard time talking to other Christians about parenting, because what the experts in the field of Christian parenting advice seem to be bent on putting out the message that love must be tough, that training up a child has to involve physical force, that all of those things Jesus said about love and forgiveness and mercy and grace? That wasn't meant for children, just for strangers, neighbors (even if you don't like them) and enemies.

So when I started feeling very convicted about the idea of punishing my children with a belt, rod, switch or hand, I tentatively began talking to other people, both believers and non-believers about my thoughts, and when I discussed this with believers, you would have thought that I was considering giving up my faith to follow Marilyn Manson or drink cyanide laced Flavor-Aid.

There were, however, a couple of people who talked with me about my questions in a rational, conversational tone. There was no anger or fear in their voices.

When I brought up the oft-repeated argument that we are to use the "rod" on our children, she gently reminded me that the rod was used for sheep, was used by the shepherd to guide the sheep.

"If the shepherd hit the sheep with the rod, what do you think the sheep would do the next time they saw the shepherd coming with that rod?"
"They'd run from it," I answered.
"And that would be terrible for the shepherd, right? Because, you know, how can you guide someone with something that scares the tar out of them?"

And this made sense to me.

It's funny how people take that one tiny verse in the Bible, that one little place in Proverbs, and they hold on to that as a mantra. Why not hold onto the verse before it that says, "Much food is in the tilled land of the poor, but there are those who are destroyed because of injustice," and fight for that cause? Or obsess about the one that says, 'Throughout the generations to come you are to make tassels on the corners of your garments, with a blue cord on each tassel?" Why not commit yourself to that verse?

Or why not hold onto the one in Colossians (3:21) that says, "Do not provoke or irritate or fret your children [do not be hard on them or harass them], lest they become discouraged and sullen and morose and feel inferior and frustrated. [Do not break their spirit.]"

Or the one in Ephesians (6:4) that says, "Do not irritate and provoke your children to anger [do not exasperate them to resentment], but rear them [tenderly] in the training and discipline and the counsel and admonition of the Lord."

It's the same thing Jesus did with so many of the other laws we were bound to Before Christ. It's like all of the teachings that Jesus took and turned upside-down. While others were teaching the ethic of reciprocity with words like, "Do not to your neighbor what you would take ill from him," Jesus was taking it a step further by saying, "Whatever you desire that others would do to and for you, even so do also to and for them, for this is (sums up) the Law and the Prophets [emphasis mine]." Don't just avoid doing what you wouldn't want done to you. Think about what you would want and do it. Because, in a nutshell, that's what the spirit of the Law and Prophets was really getting at.

So, we have this line in Proverbs that says, "A refusal to correct is a refusal to love; love your children by disciplining them," which is not at all untrue, but after we're reunited with God through Jesus, we get, "Take them by the hand and lead them in the way of the Master." In other words, let's get to the heart of the problem before there is a problem. Let's be proactive instead of reactive. Let's use our hands to hold theirs, to lead them gently in the right direction.

Because, honestly? That's what I need the most work on. I know how to be reactive. I know how to lose my patience. I know how to anger and exasperate my children pretty well. I'd like to say that rearing them tenderly is what comes naturally to me, and I think, at the center of it all, it does, but then fear and selfishness creep in, and I find myself forcing my will, filling with pride, demanding my way. I think this kind of parenting, the kind I stumbled into motherhood being taught by well-meaning Christians, has done great damage to me, and to my relationship with my children. Particularly with my sons, who need to not feel inferior and frustrated. Because when they feel exasperated? Lord knows we both feel exasperated.

It's a good thing that people are beginning to see and teach another way. Women like Tonia are beginning to question and speak, are realizing that we like the quick, simple idea of punishment because we are not patient. Men like Shane Claiborne and Greg Boyd are bringing another way to the forefront of discussion, a way of service and peace on a more global level, not just with our children, but with all human beings, a way of doing the things that Jesus truly taught, that paradoxical, upside-down way that the world finds foolish but that leads to the spread of the Kingdom. Writings by John Howard Yoder are leaking into the mainstream. And people are resonating with it.

I'm learning more about servanthood than I've ever cared to learn by bumping into these folks as I wander around this thing called "life."

And I'm finding that a lot of other people are learning about it, too, talking about it, and putting it into practice. People are really beginning to actually read and apply what Jesus taught. There are more people beginning to reject the world's way and enter into a more narrow way.

And I think that's the amazing thing that God is doing in the hearts of his people.

Go to Bed

Life is too short to sleep on low thread-count sheets. ~Leah Stussy

My younger kids might as well not even have beds. Somewhere in the course of their lives, they've decided that bedrooms are overrated and every night, I find that they have migrated from their respective rooms, their respective comfy lofts or bunks, to the couches in what we call our Big Room. I can make whatever pleas, threats, bargains I like, but they somehow still end up here, all three of them.

And while you can't see it very well in this photo, they will also all end up on the same couch. See The Baby and Sweetheart on one end? See Monet's jeans jutting out from the other direction (that's the other thing. Why can't he wear pajamas like the rest of us? Do all fourteen-year-old boys wear the same clothes for days at a time unless they are pried from their kicking, screaming bodies?) We have two couches down there, see, a long one and a love seat, both scored at My Favorite Thrift Store for a song, and they're in pretty good shape (much better shape than the white one we'd picked up from freecycle which started out fine but ended up with us sitting on the floor), but I'm afraid these children are going to wear the fabric off of this one before I can even think about looking for another set.

And, as you can see, Pippin the cat must be wherever the girls are sleeping, If they happen to shut the door to wherever they choose to lay their heads, Pip will howl like the wind and cry like a rainstorm until I allow her communion with her children once again.

As for me, I'll take my own bed, thank you, and I'm so cruel as to not allow any animals to sleep with me.

Do your children sleep in weird places?

Teaching as Doctrine Rules Made by Men

I started out this morning with a post about the work the family did in the yard and garden yesterday, which will still show its face, I'm sure.

But I just couldn't bring myself to do it right now, because I'm feeling a bit bothered by some things, and I'd like to get them off my chest. Here is as good a place as any.

First, let me preface this by saying that I'm not a highly political person. I abstained from voting in the 2008 presidential election because there was not a presidential candidate who represented me. I went to the polls, yes, and I voted on other issues and positions. But when it came right down to it, voting my conscience meant not casting a vote for president.

I was, however, excited about Barrack Obama's election. I think it's an amazing time in history, and, had I voted, I probably would have voted for Obama. Between the two, Barrack Obama lined up more with my political and faith beliefs than did McCain. And while I didn't vote, I'm proud to call Barrack Obama my president. This doesn't mean that I agree with all of his policies or actions, which is partly why I abstained.

But here's what's really on my mind. Ever since the presidential election, I have witnessed some of the ugliest, most selfish, ignorant behavior by my fellow Christians who live in these United States. Immediately after the results were announced, I heard and read young Christian friends say things like, "We're screwed," (by a thirteen-year-old Christian girl) and "My family's moving to Canada," and "I'm stockpiling guns" (by an eighteen-year-old Christian boy) and other things I can't repeat. They've been tossing about terms like "socialist" and "anti-christ" and "commie" and "Muslim" and "terrorist."

But even before the election, this type of talk began flying around in Christian circles, with partial thanks to conservative alarmists who make money by creating fear and anger. Early in the presidential campaign, when I first started hearing about this controversial figure named Barrack Obama, I began watching his speeches online. It was in his Call to Renewal address that I heard him speak these words:

"Faith doesn't mean that you don't have doubts. You need to come to church precisely because you are of this world, not apart from it; you need to embrace Christ precisely because you have sins to wash away - because you are human and need an ally in your difficult journey.

It was because of these newfound understandings that I was finally able to walk down the aisle of Trinity United Church of Christ one day and affirm my Christian faith. It came about as a choice, and not an epiphany; the questions I had did not magically disappear. But kneeling beneath that cross on the South Side of Chicago, I felt I heard God's spirit beckoning me. I submitted myself to his will, and dedicated myself to discovering His truth."

Just a few days later, while I was coaching a Christian speech and debate club, one of the teenage girls who I know fairly well warned a group of teens and me that there was a previously unknown Muslim man who must be defeated running for president, that he had even used the Qur'an to be sworn into office (Office? I thought. Didn't you just say he was unknown?), and that he had to be a terrorist; his middle name is Hussein! She and others asserted that we could NOT allow him to be president; his very name sounded like Osama bin Laden's!

I listened patiently, but I was disappointed. Here before me was a young Christian whose hobby was debating and giving speeches, which involves a lot of research into political issues, which involves finding truth, and she was making this claim against a man I had heard days before speaking to an organization which I trusted and respected and making a confession of faith in Christ, submitting himself to God's will. Furthermore, the statements she was making were eerily similar to the ignorant, fear-mongering viral e-mail I'd seen in my inbox earlier that month, an e-mail that could easily be debunked by a quick trip to snopes. The rest of the teens in the room were eagerly nodding their agreement with their peer.

"Have you heard him speak?" I asked.
"No," she answered.
"He's not a Muslim. In fact, he's made a confession of the Christian faith. He's a practicing Christian. He's a fellow believer."

She seemed stunned. I felt like a heathen. I knew that this was not the accepted view in conservative circles and wondered if the parents of these students would shun me. How could this man, a black democrat with a Muslim-sounding name, be one of us?

And while young people are fully able to form opinions of their own, I believe that much of this misinformation, quick judgment and fear-mongering forms around the kitchen table and in the family car. Since the beginning of the presidential race, I've heard many adults spout similar ignorant nonsense.

Just a few weeks ago, I was volunteering at my favorite thrift store when I noticed a female shopper wearing a white t-shirt bearing this message, hand-written with fabric paint in red and blue:

"(Our county) Tea Party: Freedom or Socialism."

When she approached the register, in lieu of a greeting she said to me, "Have you heard the news?" I immediately thought of all of the "news" I've heard over the years that has shaken me--the 9/11 attacks, the Challenger explosion, the Ronald Reagan assassination attempt--and I braced myself.

"We're not a Christian nation," she huffed indignantly.
"I'm sorry?"
"We're not a Christian nation. That's what that Obama is going around the world telling all the other countries."

Because I was representing my favorite thrift store at the time, I didn't feel that I could respond the way I would if I were representing myself, my country and my faith. I wanted to tell her that, yes, President Obama did make the statement that we do not consider ourselves to be a Christian nation...or a Jewish nation...or a Muslim nation, but a nation of citizens bound by a set of values. That even George Washington made it clear, stating that "everyone shall sit in safety under his own vine and fig tree, and there shall be none to make him afraid." Our tenth president, John Tyler, touted the U.S's "total separation of Church and State" saying that "no religious establishment by law exists among us" leaving the conscience "free from all restraint and each is permitted to worship his Maker after his own judgment." He offered the U.S. as a welcoming place for all, saying, "The Mohammedan, if he will to come among us would have the privilege guaranteed to him by the constitution to worship according to the Koran; and the East Indian might erect a shrine to Brahma, if it so pleased him."

Why is this? Why can we not call the U.S. a Christian nation? It's because our country was founded as a republic, which is a state without a monarch, a state in which the rights of the individual are protected by a charter, in this case, the Constitution, not the Bible. You can have a communist republic or a socialist republic. Your country can be a republic but also a democracy. And, if I'm not mistaken, socialism and communism are economic systems, not forms of government.

Having said all that, let me go back to how all of this affects me personally.

I made a declaration of faith when I was sixteen years old, decided to become a Christian after a young man named Nicholas Giaconia jumped onstage in cut-off blue jeans, shoeless, with guitar in-hand, during a talent show I was judging, having been the reigning Old Fashioned Days queen the previous year. After his performance, I talked to Nick about the song he shared, how it moved me, and he invited me to a concert where he opened for a group called Glad. In the darkness of that hall, I stood and made a commitment to Christ. I was a young girl. I was moved greatly by my emotions. I'm not sure I entirely knew what I was committing to. But in the months, and, indeed, years that followed, I took that commitment seriously, reading my Bible and learning what it meant to be a Christian, one who lives to follow the teachings of Jesus of Nazareth. I wasn't really part of a Christian culture. I hadn't been raised in a church. My parents were not believers. I guess you could say that I was a Berean, that I studied the Scriptures daily to know how to live this life I had chosen, without much input from others.

Here are a few of the things I discovered that Jesus taught:

• Blessed are the gentle, for they shall inherit the earth.
• Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy.
• Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called children of God.
• Whoever strikes you on your right cheek, turn to him the other also.
• If anyone sues you to take away your coat, let him have your cloak also.
• Let your will be done, as in heaven, so on earth.
• If you don’t forgive men their trespasses, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses.
• You can’t serve both God and Mammon.
• Love your enemies, bless those who curse you, do good to those who hate you, and pray for those who mistreat you.
• He who seeks his life will lose it; and he who loses his life for my sake will find it.
• Every idle word that men speak, they will give account of it in the day of judgment.
• I was hungry, and you gave me food to eat. I was thirsty, and you gave me drink. I was a stranger, and you took me in. I was naked, and you clothed me. I was sick, and you visited me. I was in prison, and you came to me.
• Put your sword back into its place, for all those who take the sword will die by the sword.

These are the words that, as a sixteen-year-old girl, I had committed to live by. And the more I read the words of Jesus, the things He taught, the more I realized that He knew what He was talking about. I remember, shortly after my commitment to Christianity, having a conversation in my high school civics class centered around politics. I thought it was very simple, and I said so; if we all followed the teachings of Jesus, our biggest world problems would be solved.

I still believe that today.

This morning, as I was hanging out on my favorite social networking site, one of my young politically conservative Christian friends posted this as her status message:

• Socialism: If you own two cows you give one to your neighbour.
• Communism: You give both cows to the government and the government gives you back some of the milk.
• Fascism: You keep the cows but give the milk to the government, which sells some of it back to you.
• Obamaism: You shoot both cows and milk the government.

Several people commented after her, agreeing and laughing, but I couldn't help remembering the day I was representing my favorite thrift store, and the woman who proudly wore her "Freedom or Socialism" t-shirt.

What is it called when you freely give your cow to your neighbor?
Your food?
Your water?
Your time?
When your allegiance isn't to a country?
When you don't serve the dollar?
When you freely, voluntarily, give your life?

Because if the church were doing this first--whatever it is called--if the hands and feet of Christ were freely giving to those in need, the government, which nonetheless rests on the shoulders of Christ, wouldn't need to bother.

I think it's time that the Christians take seriously the words of Chronicles 7:14:

"If my people, who are called by my name, will humble [emphasis mine] themselves...then will I hear from heaven, will forgive their sin and will heal their land.

Because in addition to those red-letter words I mentioned before? There's this one, which I definitely don't want to be guilty of:

• These people draw near to me with their mouth, and honor me with their lips; but their heart is far from me, and in vain do they worship me, teaching as doctrine rules made by men. ~Matthew 15:9.
  

An Owlish Kind of Morning

Often early in the mornings, my dad, who lives with us, will come knocking on my door either to ask me for help with something, or to tell me he's going somewhere or to show me some critter. This morning, much earlier than usual, I stumbled to my bedroom door, managed to find the doorknob, twisted it open and, saw this:

It took me a few minutes to realize what it was, but then my brain adjusted, and I realized that it was an Eastern Screech Owl. Apparently it had flown into the cabin on our property where my dad is spending his summer and he caught it to send it back out into the world, but not before we woke everyone in the house to show them what Pop had found, each in turn saying sleepily, "What is that?" or "Is it real?" since it sat so perfectly still within Pop's firm grip. Then we took it onto the porch where it flew off into the east, on its search for a quieter place to sleep for the day.

Since I'm not usually up that early, I strolled around outside with my camera.

On Earth As It Is In Heaven

I canned ten quarts of peaches today. Not because I am or want to be Martha Stewart. Not because I have anything against the peaches you buy in cans at the local Stuff*Mart (actually, The Baby declared that she likes those better, though she has yet to taste the home-canned goods). Not because I grew my own peaches, because I didn't--my peach tree died last year after finally producing a heavy crop of almost-ripe fruit which calcified before it was time to harvest, just before all of the leaves turned a crisp peach-tree-death brown and fell to the ground.

I canned ten quarts of peaches today because I like the way they look, floating around in that fragile yet sturdy transparent jar, fleshy and buoyant and preserved. I like the way they look, and I like that I like the way they look. Some people like beer. Some people like cigarettes. Some people like hunting. I like canning peaches, okay?

Yesterday, while I was picking up a few canning supplies at my local necessary evil Stuff*Mart, I dropped my hodgepodge of shopping bags onto the conveyor. The young man at the counter, always up for a bit of controversial yet lighthearted conversation, grabbed the bags with mock begrudgery and sneered, "Thanks for ruining my day."

"Ruining your day? Oh...because one of my bags is torn?"
"No," he huffed, "for using them at all."
"Well, just look at it this way; I'm helping you in the long run."
"Ha! If you really think you're powerful enough to save the planet by not using a few plastic bags..."
"A little corner of it, yes..."
"...then, Al Gore certainly has brainwashed you."
"I've never even spoken to Al Gore."

A further conversation ensued about Al Gore's electricity usage and the size of his carbon footprint.

But that's not what I was thinking about.

I was thinking about my shopping bags. I was thinking that I like them. Not because I'm an Al Gore fanatic. Not because I'm trying to save the entire world. Just because I like them. I like how useful they are. I like that my daughter used them to move to her college dorm. I like how I can throw them in the washing machine and they come out nice and clean. I like the red ones and the green ones that are stamped with the words, "Speak Softly and Carry a Bag of Books" that I bought at the Better World Books store in Goshen, Indiana, a business that collects and sells books to fund literacy initiatives worldwide, with more than two million new and used titles in stock, operating as a self-sustaining company that creates social, economic and environmental value for all our stakeholders. Better World offers free shipping to any location within the United States or 3.97 worldwide, and every order is shipped carbon neutral with offsets from Carbonfund.org. And while I like my shopping bags, I also like that I'm not contributing to the consumption of 500,000,000,000 (yes, that's BILLION) plastic bags per year. I don't like to see them floating around in the trees. You don't either. Even Wal*Mart doesn't like it. That's why they stopped producing those trademark blue smiley-face bags that could be easily identified on roadsides and dangling from trees everywhere and went with the more generic white bags, added trash cans to their parking lots, and introduced their own line of reusable shopping bags. Watching a sea turtle choke on that blue plastic smiley face is a PR nightmare.

I was thinking about how I stopped buying paper towels about a year ago, and how I pick up cloth napkins and hand towels from my favorite thrift store, and how the money I spend there goes to help provide basic human needs internationally while the store also does their part to help people recycle things that they might otherwise have thrown away. I was thinking about the fact that I love that thrift store so much that I drag my sorry butt out of bed three Friday mornings per month to volunteer at the cash register.

I was also thinking about the furniture in my house, how almost all of it, with some very minor exceptions, came from that thrift store, or from Freecycle, or from dumpster diving.

And I was thinking about the local farmers I support, buying produce and deliciously smoky maple syrup and vases of gladiolas from that wonderful little stand called Blessing Acres run by a hard-working Amish woman whose husband died of cancer two years ago.

I might even have had time to squeeze in a few thoughts about the lack of chemicals on my lawn, how I bend down to pop a dandelion or broadleaf plantain out of my lawn and either eat it or toss it to the sheep, or how I let the milkweed, thistle and blackberries grow to provide food for the monarchs, goldfinches and other birds. How I didn't till my garden this year, but instead heaped it with all kinds of manure, both animal and green, and spent a few more hours this summer hunched over yanking bits of purslane out of the soil and popping them into my mouth, just so I wouldn't chop up the worms I've been trying so hard to encourage to live in my garden.

Because you can have a lot of thoughts in those few seconds after someone says, "Thanks for ruining my day."

I guess I just figure that God gave me this amazing planet and all of the absolutely incredible creatures that inhabit it (yes, humans included) to enjoy and be a good steward of. The way I look at it, in relation to heaven, this big ball of dirt must be pretty small, and if I'm faithful with it, I might get something bigger some day. That'd be cool.

So, now, I probably won't save the whole planet with my canned peaches, or my cloth shopping bags, or my thrift store napkins, or the redworms in my garden. But really. What's it gonna hurt?

And besides, I *like* them.

::: this one's for you, wherever you are :::

Life is too doggone short, you know?

This week, two of my friends have lost parents to complications from cancer. This evening, I attended the memorial service of one. I hadn't known my friend's dad very well at all, but listening to the people who spoke about his life, I was so sorry that I hadn't known him better. As a matter of fact, the longer I sat there, the more sorry I became that there are a lot of people I don't know as well as I should, and I was saddened by how unfamiliar everything was to me. Yeah, I was in a familiar church. Sure, I knew a lot of faces. Yes, I count some of those people as friends. But do I really know them? Do they really know me?

I remember when my uncle Paul died of a brain tumor about 12 years ago. I slinked into the funeral parlor sheepishly, not really wanting to make conversation with anyone. Though I spent a lot of time as a child at my aunt and uncle's house, I never felt like part of that family. I never felt like they knew me or loved me. For some reason, I always got the distinct feeling that I was the troublemaker, the black sheep. Even now, when my dad talks to his sister, I know that the bulk of their conversation is centered around me, my mistakes, my bad choices, my failures. So I didn't feel welcomed in that family, and I didn't feel welcomed at that funeral.

But when people began to talk about my uncle and the choices he made as a man with a brain tumor, the faith choices, I began to see him in a different light, and I wondered why I hadn't spent more time getting to know him. The people who shared what they knew about my uncle were strangers to me, and the man they talked about was just as much of a stranger. I hadn't known him as a man of faith. I had known him as a tough, strong, condescending kind of man. I remembered him as the big, scary person who would make fun of me--not tease me, mind you, but make fun of me--for having knots in my hair or stains on my pants or dumb-looking dolls. I always felt small and insignificant and stupid around him. Who was this great man all of these people were talking about at this funeral? Why hadn't I met *that* man? Why hadn't *he* been my uncle? What had I done wrong to lose out on *that* relationship?

I'm not saying it was all his fault, either. I don't have such a great track record with carrying on deep, meaningful relationships. I think my expectations of myself are too high. If I can't be a perfect friend, a best friend, then there's no point in trying to be a friend at all, you know?

And I'm pretty hard on friends, too, to be fair. Not as hard as I am on myself, but pretty darn hard. I expect a lot of a friendship, though I may not say that aloud. So if you're not going to be a true blue friend, don't even make the effort. Harsh, huh? I guess the older I get, the more of a misanthrope I become.

Because I've put myself out there quite a few times, taken the risk, exposed my soft (and it really is soft) underbelly. And I've been hurt so many times because of that vulnerability, torn apart by people who claim to know me but have never really taken the time to do anything other than judge me and look for my faults and then tell me, in no uncertain terms, how badly I've screwed up, that it gets harder and harder to put my real feelings out here on this blog for fear of being misunderstood, misjudged, and truly attacked.

Yet here I am again. And why? Because one person told me tonight that they miss my blog entries. That they enjoy my writing.

My son told me recently that it's been proven that it takes seven positive things to cancel out one negative thing. In other words, if one person in my life tells me that I'm a screw-up, that I've failed, that I really let them down, it takes seven people saying great things about me to neutralize that negative thing. I think that's a bit conservative, actually. I'd venture to say that it takes ten positives. Maybe even twenty. And I'm not sure that those harsh, hateful words ever disappear. I think they just sit there, haunting every word I type, sometimes just lying about benignly, but only until someone even hints at one of my weaknesses, and then all of those negative things come back to the surface, sniffing for wounds and ripping open a major artery like the 1916 shark attacks along the Jersey Shore.

So maybe you were number seven, Brenda. Or maybe your sincerity was enough to be numbers five, six and seven altogether.

Or maybe it was you, Mel, when you asked me if I feel that blogging is a valid way of recording family history (and for those of you who are wondering, my answer was yes), listened to my less-than-expert ramblings with patience, and made me realize that, if I believe that these writings are valid, accurate records of a life, I should probably keep at it, even in the face of the nasty trolls, both real and imagined, who try to convince me of my worthlessness. Because, as I've said before, this blog is not for them. It's for me. It's for my family. It's for Kim and Paul and Catherine and Nicholas. It's for Brenda and Mel. It's for Jill and MamaGeph and Michael and Kris. It's for Tammy and Hope and Kathie and Gina. It's for Donna and Diane and True and Lil Sis, Raymond and I.M and Patrick and Dean, Peaceful Lady and Marie and MamaNutt and Linda and Gail and Analisa and TulipGirl. It's for you who come here to cry with me, and laugh with me and empathize and nod and cheer, to comment or not to comment, but to read. To think. To be changed. To muddle through with me.

And it's for God. It's what I promised him when I handed over this mess of a life, this brief, fleeting moment, this comic tragedy. It's his to do with what he wants, to use how he sees fit.

I thank God for Benny, even though I only knew him for a fraction of a second. His life and death gave opportunity for all of us with our own fleeting moments to gather in one room for long enough to get yet another glimpse into each other's lives.

Can we get together more often? And not just at weddings and funerals over coffee and lemon bars? Can we enmesh ourselves in each other's lives, cook with each other, sing with each other, worship together, watch movies together, get angry together, and still accept each other with the same unconditional love with which Christ accepts us?

I want to get to know you deeply, truly, so that we don't sit at each other's funerals and say, "Gosh. I wish I would have known her."

Time keeps on slippin', slippin', slippin'...

It's been a month, I know, and I find it harder and harder to make time for this blog, as well as making motivation. I hope to sit down and give explanation eventually, but, for now, just know that life is sailing right along here, that things are happening, and things are not. Some big things are changing, some are staying the same. Hearts are being searched, minds are being stretched and time is at a premium, as always.

On Being A Non-Runner at Forty.

When I was lithe and slight and eighteen, an early summer day would find me stretched out on the lounger in my rural back yard, slathered with Hawaiian Tropic Dark Tanning Oil squeezed from that slippery bottle speckled with fresh grass cuttings, the promise of a deep island tan with the added benefit of that classic "tan of the island" coconut scent. It wasn't a relaxing endeavor; some days I would restlessly squint my eyes against the noonday sun and check under my suit strap for proof that I was cooking, wondering how long I could take the beating rays before giving in. Other days, I would partner up with the hose and mist myself every few minutes, taking advantage of any light breeze that would come my way. And some days, the breeze itself was enough to cool the heat, and I would relax, willing the wind to blow, but never falling asleep like my friend Stef, who would snooze on her side and come away with a raging burn on one half of her body, the other half maintaining its original ghostly whiteness.

I never had a problem achieving a tan. I can remember my dad coming home from work on summer days when I was just a child and declaring, "Well, you're brown as a biscuit!", a description he and I still use on my own little sunbunnies. I never had a freckle or a burn in my young life, just a Coppertone-girl golden-brownness.

As a teen, I would take advantage of this ease-of-tanning on those sometimes-blistering, sometimes-breezy days, feeling that I could give myself an instant makeover by just spending a couple of hours lounging around. My favorite part of the ritual was always the lukewarm shower that followed, the moments where the water would resist the oil and form droplets on my darkened legs, where the whiteness of winter would meet with the crisp, brown lines of summer. And then, after the shower, it was the choosing of the whitest tank top or t-shirt, something that would showcase all of my time and dedication. Of course, a thin layer of after-shower Hawaiian Tropic wouldn't hurt, either. Just enough to emit that summer scent.

After Bard was born, my skin changed. Hours in the sun would result in a smattering of freckles over my face and arms, but particularly on my shoulders. My legs, now carrying the weight of too many cravings, rarely saw any kind of light, let alone that of the sun, so they remained a pasty white. Though I'd never been into bikinis, due to a frightening incident of the realization of power when I presented myself in a white knit bikini to the young man I was dating as he picked me up for a boating outfit. His jaw dropped. I got scared. I changed into a one-piece. Still, I had allowed myself modest two-piece suits when tanning in my own yard. Now, the area that had once been my taught tummy, henceforth my big belly, would never again own a tan.

I have fantasies of living in that young body again, sleeping in it, running in it, tanning in it. Sometimes, like today when I was lying in my new lounger, the fantasy is so strong that I awaken with a sort of shock when I open my eyes to this frumpier, flabbier, frecklier body. And I vow I will change it. I will run. I will get fit. I will cut out the Dr. Pepper and the potato salad.

And I do think I should. I could just kick myself for getting out of the running habit, especially since it seems that everyone around me has picked it up and, ahem, run with it. And it makes me feel like a foreigner, an outsider, even a leper of sorts. Can't I just do this simple thing? Can't I just get out there and run?

But it seems that my impatience runs true. Face it, I tell myself, you have a hard time just LYING STILL for fifteen minutes. When running, I find myself constantly checking my clock. Am I done yet? Have I filled the time requirement? No? Then why do I feel like dying? When will this end?

And, unlike tanning, one outing doesn't offer a makeover. An afternoon in the sun would always elicit comments like, "Wow! You've been in the sun!" Unless I walk into the grocery store with my running shoes and jogging attire on, sweat dripping from my furrowed, impatient brow, no one will say, "Wow! You went running today!"

Even my pastor, my trusted pastor, has jumped on the bandwagon. On Sunday, he gave a sermon based on Hebrews 12: 1-2.

^"1-3Do you see what this means—all these pioneers who blazed the way, all these veterans cheering us on? It means we'd better get on with it. Strip down, start running—and never quit! No extra spiritual fat, no parasitic sins. Keep your eyes on Jesus, who both began and finished this race we're in. Study how he did it. Because he never lost sight of where he was headed—that exhilarating finish in and with God—he could put up with anything along the way: Cross, shame, whatever. And now he's there, in the place of honor, right alongside God. When you find yourselves flagging in your faith, go over that story again, item by item, that long litany of hostility he plowed through. That will shoot adrenaline into your souls!"

Some pastors,those with less talent, might think that preaching on a running theme would be banal. Some pastors might focus on the pioneers who blazed the way, or the veterans cheering us on. But not Patrick. He preached on running, and it got me all fired up. He said-- and I kid you not, this actually slapped me in the face like a pair of wet running shorts-- "Running is something only we can do for ourselves." Huh. I can't pawn this running responsibility off on someone else, eh? If I want it done, I actually have to do it myself? What a revelation that was... even though he was preaching from Hebrews.

One of the reasons I would like to run is for much the same reason I would like to tan. When I was young, I was good at it, and it felt good. Running came naturally. It was simple, enjoyable. It was the easiest way for a kid to get from one place to another. And it provided hours of entertainment. Freeze tag. TV tag. Kickball. Foot races. Chasing boys on the playground.

But now, I'm forty for crying out loud. And I'm not a *good* kind of forty, either. I'm a flabby, frumpy, freckly forty. My friend and former running partner Kim, who took the easy way out and did not give up running, is a different kind of forty. She's young and trim and gorgeous. And when I see her, and I realize how hard she works to keep running, I think, "You can't look like that. And you don't deserve to look like that. You're just a flabby, frumpy, freckly forty-year-old who can't run a half-mile without your digestive system running the other way," and the old Solomon in my head starts doing the nanny-nanny-boo-boo thing. All is vanity. It's futile to try. What's the point? Blah.

So I battle with myself this way. Every. Single. Day. And if I do get out and run, I criticize myself for not running farther, or often enough, or fast enough.

See why it's easier to tan? Or, better yet, to just stay inside, in my room, at my desk, and write about tanning and running?

Except that today, as I lay in the sun, I actually fell asleep. I actually got a bit of a burn on my upper legs. I didn't use Hawaiian Tropic. I didn't take a shower. I didn't put on my whitest shirt.

And no one anywhere said to me, "You're brown as a biscuit!"

Not even my father.

I guess this means that a tan can't suffice as a makeover anymore. I need something more serious.

I guess this means I'm in the market for a new running partner, someone who can handle me running at a turtle's pace. And possibly vomiting.

And then I'll work on the tan.

A Birthday Apart

When I awoke this morning, I just wanted to go and give you a big hug, wrap my arms around you and tell you how much I love you, how much I appreciate your carefree spirit, your adventurous nature, your individuality. We butt heads, you and I, like two big-horned rams, each coming at the other with our own ideals. Why can't they mesh, I wonder? Can they? Will they?

And if you had been here, I'd definitely have charged into your room and said, "Happy Birthday!" to you. Maybe even breakfast in bed. Maybe not.

But instead, I went on with my busy morning, rushing around, hoping not to be late or forget something. And when I had a moment, I called you, but there was no answer.

When you called me back, I was so happy to hear your voice. And when you wondered if we had plans for tonight, I wanted to tell you that we had plans for you, to entice you back home for the weekend so that I could relieve my mother-guilt of not being with her eldest son on his eighteenth birthday. And yes, we did have plans, but they weren't birthday plans. And now I feel terrible. I should have had birthday plans for you.

So what can I do, my son who is officially an adult but still so much my boy, to commemorate this day, the first day of a new phase of your life? What could I possibly do to mark this occasion well, give it the attention it deserves?

There isn't anything, really, I'm afraid. My attempts would be inadequate.

Tonight, as we sat in Leslie's garden, I missed you so much I could have cried, but, out of fear of embarrassment, I told the tears to mind their own business, to leave me alone. I don't think I've ever been away from any of the other kids on their birthdays. Why does that bother me so much? I was so convinced that I should be with you today that when I saw that tall teenaged boy wander into Leslie's yard, and when I heard someone shout out to him--he shared your name, I was sure it was you, against all logic. And when I realized that it wasn't you, that it couldn't possibly be, I felt something akin to homesickness. All I wanted was to hear your laugh, to see you swing the younger kids by their arms or play hide-and-seek with the big kids. I wanted to hear you play Ben Folds and The Beatles and Muse on Martin and Leslie's new Baldwin, hear you sing along with Tosca's eclectic playlist. And only part of it was that I was worried that you were spending your birthday alone at camp, the rest of the staff gone for the weekend, home with their families or hanging out with their friends. The other part was me.

I really missed you.

I really miss you.

There's so much I wish I could change about our story, you know? I think I could have been a much better mom if I'd just have known that you would be alright. You have no idea how much advice you get as a mother, and most of it is a bunch of bull. People who have their heads full of their own ideals seem to think they have the best answers for you, for your parenting and your child. Why didn't I just listen to us? Wouldn't it have been so much better to shut off those voices and trust you and me?

Maybe it's not too late. Can we start again? Can you believe me when I say I'm proud of who you are, of who you've been, who you're becoming? How about if we set aside the blame and set free the love? I mean, what's the worst that could happen?

Tomorrow morning, you'll run a 5K, and I'll be there to see you. And you won't believe the hug I'm preparing.

Happy eighteenth, Houdin. Let's move forward.

Love,

Mom

Good things

So, there are good things and there are bad things. Good thing: I finally got my tomatoes, peppers and eggplants planted. Bad thing: There were flea beetles on my eggplants the minute I put them in the ground and I can't remember where I put my floating row cover. Good thing: We just had a delicious lunch of charcoal-broiled chuckburgers with grilled buns, homemade redskin potato salad and corn. Bad thing: I'm so stuffed from eating that I really need a nap, and it's just too beautiful to spend the day sleeping. Good thing: It's nice enough to have all of the doors and windows open. Bad thing: the flies have decided that today is a good day to multiply and conquer.

Still, the good stuff is just too good to pass up, eh?

Now, I'm off to nap off those chuckburgers.

Psalm 51