At one of my former daycares, worked an Indian woman, a Hindu, who was one of the wisest, kindest people I knew. We were talking about crime and I was holding forth about what we should do with criminals. Ah, the years when I knew everything! This woman looked into my eyes, and said with a gentle tone, "It was Mother Theresa who said, 'I can't judge you because of the Hitler in me.'" I was stopped cold and I've never forgotten that proverb. Any of us are capable of anything given the perfect storm of circumstances - so it behooves us never to say, "I would never..."
Along with the nation and the world, I am horrified at the disaster in Newtown, Connecticut. For the first two days I couldn't stop crying when it came on the news. I'm was a preschool teacher for 30 years. I see the faces of those precious little ones, and superimposed over them, the bullet holes, the blood, the survivors seeing their friends torn apart. So much misinformation came out as news anchors rushed to be the first to spread the news. Grasping for bits of gossip, interviewing traumatized children. The shooter's mother worked there, they let him in because they knew him, he had ADHD, she was too hard on him...
As it turned out the mother never worked at the school, the boy had untreated Asperger's, he broke a door to get in, and his mother was in the middle of trying to get her son into treatment for his mental illness. The guns were hers, from her collection. She was an enthusiast and taught her boys how to handle a gun safely. Sure, we can ask now how she could keep weapons in the house with a mentally unstable son, but hindsight?
I wanted to say something vengeful about the dead shooter but the only thing that came to mind was, "Lord Jesus, have mercy!" Wow! Where did that come from? I know what mental illness is like. It's around me, it's in the family, I myself need medication and counsel. I spent 20 years behind a curtain, cut off from the world, seeing it but not being able to participate. When I was diagnosed the curtain was ripped away and I saw with painful clarity how disastrous my life had been up until that point. Was that me who said _______? Did I really ______? How could I have ______!
I feel like I can see the mind video of Adam Lanza. He wasn't capable of seeing life in the abstract, only the individual details. Things like love, happiness, patience, puppies and babies, respect, God - his mind wasn't able to understand these concepts. He adapted, of course, in order to survive. He learned how to play the game. But he was mentally and emotionally blindfolded.
When he grabbed the guns, although he certainly knew what guns were for, and that he would use them to kill, he didn't reason out the consequences because 'reasoning out' an idea from beginning to end was not in his capability. When he broke his way into the school he didn't recognize adults, children, teachers. Age is an abstract concept. He saw bodies. Shooting and killing them were video games, TV shows, not real life human beings. He could have chosen to break into an old folks home, lovers in the park, a daycare or church. Human differences didn't exist in his disordered mind.
It made sense to him according to the context of his brain function. If he had lived he wouldn't have recognized that he had done anything wrong. He would have blamed the police for interfering.
All mentally ill people are not serial killers. Mass murder is still rare though seeming to gain ground. I doubt that I harbor serial killer genes nor do my friends who struggle with mental health issues. But I've done enough harm in my own corner of the world to understand the concept of it being done on a wider scale.
That's why I pray, Mercy, dear Jesus, for this boy, Adam Lanza. As distasteful as it is to contemplate, I see God standing there in that school as Adam put the gun to his own head, holding out his hand and walking his spirit off the scene. Adam looks around in a panic and says, "No! Did I do this?" And God says, "Beloved, come and let's talk." And all over the school angels are lifting children to their feet and dusting them off, gathering them in a group like the count before a field trip, which is kind of what's happening - the ultimate field trip. And their ageless spirits recognize Adam's and he is forgiven on the spot.
Wednesday, December 26, 2012
Saturday, December 8, 2012
Defining People, Dividing People
Its fun to people watch! Our world is full of such variety, and good thing. It would be a boring world without it. Gender, race, religion, gender identity - such a garden. But I noticed something in myself that I don't like and here I am telling on myself.
I tend to make snap judgements about people based on appearance or tone of voice. I hate that I do that and I'm immediately sorry and change my thought pattern, but that first reaction is there, negative stereotypes. An obese man went by on the store Scooter. "Probably ate himself into obesity." Talking to someone about their diabetes - "Well if they'd lay off the sugar.." Screaming children - "spoiled brats". The cranky old woman - "Old battle ax". Anyone who doesn't look like me and mine - "Am I safe?" "Just like a _______ to ______." When the fact is, I don't know the medical history of any of these people. I don't live in their homes. I don't see what happened just before they got to Walmart, or what's waiting for them at home. I don't know their personal histories or tragedies. How can I judge on the basis of a 4 second glance?
Forty years ago my mother got cancer. By the time they found it and operated, it had spread everywhere. (By a miracle she recovered and lived for another 30 years.) I was going to lose my mother in the worst possible way. And I had only just had a baby who would never know this remarkable woman. I went to the grocery store, in a daze, and knocked something off the shelf. Didn't even realize it. Until an elderly lady walked up to me, a stranger, and said, "I saw you knock that down and you didn't even pick it up. You're the reason prices are so high." I burst into tears and said, "My mother is dying and I can't see straight!" And she said, "Yeah right." and walked off in disgust. I have never forgotten how that felt. One can knocked to the floor defined me.
Ten years ago, my father died and I took mother to the grocery store. He loved to shop and this store was the last place he had gone. We took his suit to the funeral home, then to Superfresh. Inside the door, helping my crippled and mourning mother into the Scooter, I met someone I've tussled with from time to time. He said in a monotone, "Hellohowareyou". With tears in my eyes I said, "Not so good..." That's all I got out before his whole expression changed to one of disgust. He turned and walked away. I know he didn't know my father had just died. But his first response was to assume it was old negative depressed Martha again. He defined me by my emotions.
Today I was speaking with a businessman I know and like. Very good man. Who is gay. Femininely so. I felt the thought rising and stopped it before it saw the light of day. His gender identity doesn't define him. It doesn't even enter into the equation. It hasn't got anything to do with anything. But something in people, not just me, reacts so nastily to the person who doesn't meet our moral standards or our stereotypes of what a man and woman should look like, talk like, walk like, feel or behave. What is it in humans that makes them define a person by their mannerisms or personal life? Fear? Probably.
I'm not perfect and I'll probably do it again. But I'm in there trying!
I tend to make snap judgements about people based on appearance or tone of voice. I hate that I do that and I'm immediately sorry and change my thought pattern, but that first reaction is there, negative stereotypes. An obese man went by on the store Scooter. "Probably ate himself into obesity." Talking to someone about their diabetes - "Well if they'd lay off the sugar.." Screaming children - "spoiled brats". The cranky old woman - "Old battle ax". Anyone who doesn't look like me and mine - "Am I safe?" "Just like a _______ to ______." When the fact is, I don't know the medical history of any of these people. I don't live in their homes. I don't see what happened just before they got to Walmart, or what's waiting for them at home. I don't know their personal histories or tragedies. How can I judge on the basis of a 4 second glance?
Forty years ago my mother got cancer. By the time they found it and operated, it had spread everywhere. (By a miracle she recovered and lived for another 30 years.) I was going to lose my mother in the worst possible way. And I had only just had a baby who would never know this remarkable woman. I went to the grocery store, in a daze, and knocked something off the shelf. Didn't even realize it. Until an elderly lady walked up to me, a stranger, and said, "I saw you knock that down and you didn't even pick it up. You're the reason prices are so high." I burst into tears and said, "My mother is dying and I can't see straight!" And she said, "Yeah right." and walked off in disgust. I have never forgotten how that felt. One can knocked to the floor defined me.
Ten years ago, my father died and I took mother to the grocery store. He loved to shop and this store was the last place he had gone. We took his suit to the funeral home, then to Superfresh. Inside the door, helping my crippled and mourning mother into the Scooter, I met someone I've tussled with from time to time. He said in a monotone, "Hellohowareyou". With tears in my eyes I said, "Not so good..." That's all I got out before his whole expression changed to one of disgust. He turned and walked away. I know he didn't know my father had just died. But his first response was to assume it was old negative depressed Martha again. He defined me by my emotions.
Today I was speaking with a businessman I know and like. Very good man. Who is gay. Femininely so. I felt the thought rising and stopped it before it saw the light of day. His gender identity doesn't define him. It doesn't even enter into the equation. It hasn't got anything to do with anything. But something in people, not just me, reacts so nastily to the person who doesn't meet our moral standards or our stereotypes of what a man and woman should look like, talk like, walk like, feel or behave. What is it in humans that makes them define a person by their mannerisms or personal life? Fear? Probably.
I'm not perfect and I'll probably do it again. But I'm in there trying!
Thursday, December 6, 2012
The Reason for the Season
I remember Christmases past. The earliest memories are of sitting under the tree, (yes I was that small), and somehow, somehow the whole tree fell over. Ornaments were made of glass then, there was no plastic and predictably, shards spread across the carpet, adults came running. I do not remember being punished or made to feel bad. Mother spoke gently to me and I felt such guilt I didn't do it again.
I remember when, around Thanksgiving time some of my dolls disappeared. I asked where they were and mother said they had all gone to the hospital. "ALL of them? At one time?" Yes, it was contagious. "Well what did they have?" Mumps. I couldn't let it go. It worried me terribly that my babies were sick and I couldn't help. Meanwhile I was banned from the basement. There were sounds coming from there all the time my father was home. On Christmas morning, when the family descended the stairs en mass there under the tree were eight cradles, with my eight babies, all wearing new outfits and one extra each.
I remember piles of presents. But going back in my mind, there was one big one, usually a doll, and lots of small things - a hairbrush, shirt, dolly bottles, coloring book. It looked like a mountain of gifts, and although it was exactly that, they were negligible items from Woolworth.
My parents never told us Santa knew we were naughty or nice and would reward us based on behavior. The thought that we could influence love and generosity by mistakes made or sins comitted was anathema to my parents. They believed that the idea of Santa was so close to a kid's view of God they never wanted us to make the jump to believing God was the stern keeper of records. In Him was light and not darkness.
And so it went.
For my own children it was the same. Piles of presents under the tree - one big one and many small, dime store items. It was all we could afford. We counted boxes to make sure each girl got the same because believe me, they counted. Each year I would start in October to sew up Barbi clothes. Buying bits and pieces of fabric for 25c gowns, leisure sets, pants suits, fur coats and business dresses would come off my machine. A card of Barbi shoes and purses would complete the gift. One year there were homemade Mickey Mouse hats. One year homemade Cabbage Patch dolls. We had so little money and did the best we could to make sure the girls never knew it.
As an adult my aging parents had little extra but they always took care of me. Every single year they got me a sweater - in size L. I've worn a 1x since I was 30 but mother simply wouldn't believe her 5 pounder was that big. Size Large it would be. They would give me my favorite pens, a hair clip, slippers, socks. David would receive a bath towel in his favorite color with his name embroidered on it. I loved it because they came from these generous, thoughtful people.
Here we are in 2012 and there's no extra money for Christmas. I have everybody's Christmas lists and wish I could tick everything off. David and I promise each other every year that we aren't going to get each other anything (yeah, right). Save the money for Brianna. I hate this. I keep searching my mind thinking where I can get extra money and where I can get knock offs inexpensively. By Christmas eve I will have earned enough from my little job, minus the bills, to provide a modest pile under the tree. I'm very proud of my daughters who have taught their children not to expect a consumer's paradise. They do not bury their children in gifts this one day a year.
But there are other memories of Christmases past. Helping my father search for the perfect tree that we could afford. He always knew 'a guy'. Throwing the tinsel on the tree, my brother would guffaw and step all over the lights, Dad and Mother retelling the stories of the ornaments as they came out of their wrappings, testing the bubble lights, placing the tin foil angel on the top of the tree, hot chocolate and homemade donuts when we were through, Dad reading Luke 2 and praying, carolers, Christmas Eve services, brother ringing sleigh bells to make me think Santa was there, having to stop on the stairs to get an 'excited' picture taken every stinkin' year instead of rushing downstairs and diving in, waiting for each other instead of thinking of our own gifts only, dinner at Granny's or Aunt Jessie's, inviting the neighbors in and us going to their homes to view the gifts.
I've never been one to burble on about 'the reason for the season!' or keeping Christ in Christmas or how much more fun it is to go to church than open presents. Seriously? But I do know there's more to the season than the height of the pile of gifts or their expense. Family, tradition, memories, warmth, the knowlege that we were never outside of our parents or our God's good graces, generosity, creativity, thoughtfulness, celebration. That's the Reason for the Season!
I remember when, around Thanksgiving time some of my dolls disappeared. I asked where they were and mother said they had all gone to the hospital. "ALL of them? At one time?" Yes, it was contagious. "Well what did they have?" Mumps. I couldn't let it go. It worried me terribly that my babies were sick and I couldn't help. Meanwhile I was banned from the basement. There were sounds coming from there all the time my father was home. On Christmas morning, when the family descended the stairs en mass there under the tree were eight cradles, with my eight babies, all wearing new outfits and one extra each.
I remember piles of presents. But going back in my mind, there was one big one, usually a doll, and lots of small things - a hairbrush, shirt, dolly bottles, coloring book. It looked like a mountain of gifts, and although it was exactly that, they were negligible items from Woolworth.
My parents never told us Santa knew we were naughty or nice and would reward us based on behavior. The thought that we could influence love and generosity by mistakes made or sins comitted was anathema to my parents. They believed that the idea of Santa was so close to a kid's view of God they never wanted us to make the jump to believing God was the stern keeper of records. In Him was light and not darkness.
And so it went.
For my own children it was the same. Piles of presents under the tree - one big one and many small, dime store items. It was all we could afford. We counted boxes to make sure each girl got the same because believe me, they counted. Each year I would start in October to sew up Barbi clothes. Buying bits and pieces of fabric for 25c gowns, leisure sets, pants suits, fur coats and business dresses would come off my machine. A card of Barbi shoes and purses would complete the gift. One year there were homemade Mickey Mouse hats. One year homemade Cabbage Patch dolls. We had so little money and did the best we could to make sure the girls never knew it.
As an adult my aging parents had little extra but they always took care of me. Every single year they got me a sweater - in size L. I've worn a 1x since I was 30 but mother simply wouldn't believe her 5 pounder was that big. Size Large it would be. They would give me my favorite pens, a hair clip, slippers, socks. David would receive a bath towel in his favorite color with his name embroidered on it. I loved it because they came from these generous, thoughtful people.
Here we are in 2012 and there's no extra money for Christmas. I have everybody's Christmas lists and wish I could tick everything off. David and I promise each other every year that we aren't going to get each other anything (yeah, right). Save the money for Brianna. I hate this. I keep searching my mind thinking where I can get extra money and where I can get knock offs inexpensively. By Christmas eve I will have earned enough from my little job, minus the bills, to provide a modest pile under the tree. I'm very proud of my daughters who have taught their children not to expect a consumer's paradise. They do not bury their children in gifts this one day a year.
But there are other memories of Christmases past. Helping my father search for the perfect tree that we could afford. He always knew 'a guy'. Throwing the tinsel on the tree, my brother would guffaw and step all over the lights, Dad and Mother retelling the stories of the ornaments as they came out of their wrappings, testing the bubble lights, placing the tin foil angel on the top of the tree, hot chocolate and homemade donuts when we were through, Dad reading Luke 2 and praying, carolers, Christmas Eve services, brother ringing sleigh bells to make me think Santa was there, having to stop on the stairs to get an 'excited' picture taken every stinkin' year instead of rushing downstairs and diving in, waiting for each other instead of thinking of our own gifts only, dinner at Granny's or Aunt Jessie's, inviting the neighbors in and us going to their homes to view the gifts.
I've never been one to burble on about 'the reason for the season!' or keeping Christ in Christmas or how much more fun it is to go to church than open presents. Seriously? But I do know there's more to the season than the height of the pile of gifts or their expense. Family, tradition, memories, warmth, the knowlege that we were never outside of our parents or our God's good graces, generosity, creativity, thoughtfulness, celebration. That's the Reason for the Season!
Sunday, November 25, 2012
I Remember Mama
Maybe I should be worried - I've been thinking of my mother and her last weeks lately. No idea what's triggered it. Maybe I feel like the 'mother' part of me is going, going, gone with the advancing ages of my children? Maybe my life here in her house has taken a very Eunice and Jim turn?
I remember the night Dad died. Mother called me around 10 pm to say 'Daddy is very sick and I can't get him out of the bathroom.' Not because he was hogging up his time limit, but because she was, by then, pretty much crippled from arthritis and couldn't support his weight. I told her to call 911, I would meet them at the hospital and David would come get her. She bumped down the stairs on her bottom to open the door for the paramedics and they had to carry her back up. Throughout those hours she sat beside him in her wheelchair, holding his hand. At various times he had private conversations with David and I, saying goodbye and thank you for being a good son and daughter, giving mother into our care. When the time came and Dad began to fly away mother didn't cry. She watched stoically, holding his hand tightly. Then she pushed herself up out of her wheelchair, laid her hands on him and prayed a prayer of thanksgiving for their marriage. I don't think I have ever been so proud of being Eunice's daughter. When I brought her home we lay in her bed, weeping. "What am I going to do without him?" she kept asking.
The answer came a month later. Aunt Martha had moved out of the downstairs apartment, we renovated it for mother and planned to move into the upstairs to take care of her. Our thoughts were that somewhere down the line we'd sell and get a bigger house for all of us. When I took mother on a tour of her new apartment she said, "Well now, I've lost everything. My husband, my home and my independence." I came in the morning for my daily visit and found her sitting in her green chair by the window. She was gazing out at the familiar scene. She turned and smiled at me. "Daddy was here. He said it was ok to come. Do you think I was hallucinating?" "No," I said, "I think he really did speak to you. I'm sure he's waiting for you."
From that moment on she didn't have another sad day. She quietly went about her business.
She developed what I thought was a cold. I made the doctor treat her. 'Rest' was all they would say. It wasn't a cold, of course, it was congestive heart failure that had been coming on for years. The only reason she had lived this long was because of Dad. "Bring her to the ER" said the doctor. I couldn't believe it. I wheeled her in and we had to sit in the waiting room. She kept smiling at a point in the far corner. We finally got to a booth in the ER, undressed, comfortable on a gurney if that's possible, waiting for tests and more doctors. I was reading a book when mother said, "Oh look, there's Daddy." We looked up the hallway in front of us, maybe 30 feet away. A short man stood in profile, wearing the shabby brown tweed coat Dad was buried in, scuffed brown shoes, his arms folded akimbo as was his usual, a thin line mouth expression. He rocked back and forth exactly like Dad did. Mother and I looked at one another, and when we looked back the man was gone. Now you tell me.....
The next week was mother's last. I sat by her bed almost 24/7. Her friends came to say goodbye, sing hymns, pray with her. They brought their children who loved 'Granny the Cookie Lady'. She and I shared the secrets of her life, things I had suspected but didn't know for sure. People from the 40s and their peccadilloes, the stray baby, the children gone wrong. Saintly behavior, grace in the face of disaster. I fastened a picture of Dad in his wedding suit on her tubing so she could see it without moving. One day when I came she said, "He's here, you know." and smiled her young girl's 'I know a secret' smile. She was getting younger by the hour. I was amazed. One would think a dying woman would get older, but no, she was going back, back in their lives together.
On the day she died, I apologized for being such a brat of a kid and she said, "I loved being your mother." I will never receive a gift as precious as that from my dying mother. As they took her up to hospice I put Dad's picture in her hand and she breathed her last holding on to him. Do I think he was there? You bet. She stopped struggling which she had been doing for the last week and with a gentle sigh, drifted away.
I saw her several times over the next month. I had a waking dream where she showed me heaven and answered questions I posed to her. I wrote this all down as it was appearing to me and have that paper framed in my home. One night, about 3 months later, I felt her presence beside my bed, leaning over me, tenderly. She said, "Its time for me to go. You'll be just fine. In motherhood is your salvation." And I have never again felt her presence. I do meet her in dreams when I need her as has happened several times, too many to be coincidence.
And here I am, right now, wanting my mother. Maybe she'll come to me tonight in my dreams?
I remember the night Dad died. Mother called me around 10 pm to say 'Daddy is very sick and I can't get him out of the bathroom.' Not because he was hogging up his time limit, but because she was, by then, pretty much crippled from arthritis and couldn't support his weight. I told her to call 911, I would meet them at the hospital and David would come get her. She bumped down the stairs on her bottom to open the door for the paramedics and they had to carry her back up. Throughout those hours she sat beside him in her wheelchair, holding his hand. At various times he had private conversations with David and I, saying goodbye and thank you for being a good son and daughter, giving mother into our care. When the time came and Dad began to fly away mother didn't cry. She watched stoically, holding his hand tightly. Then she pushed herself up out of her wheelchair, laid her hands on him and prayed a prayer of thanksgiving for their marriage. I don't think I have ever been so proud of being Eunice's daughter. When I brought her home we lay in her bed, weeping. "What am I going to do without him?" she kept asking.
The answer came a month later. Aunt Martha had moved out of the downstairs apartment, we renovated it for mother and planned to move into the upstairs to take care of her. Our thoughts were that somewhere down the line we'd sell and get a bigger house for all of us. When I took mother on a tour of her new apartment she said, "Well now, I've lost everything. My husband, my home and my independence." I came in the morning for my daily visit and found her sitting in her green chair by the window. She was gazing out at the familiar scene. She turned and smiled at me. "Daddy was here. He said it was ok to come. Do you think I was hallucinating?" "No," I said, "I think he really did speak to you. I'm sure he's waiting for you."
From that moment on she didn't have another sad day. She quietly went about her business.
She developed what I thought was a cold. I made the doctor treat her. 'Rest' was all they would say. It wasn't a cold, of course, it was congestive heart failure that had been coming on for years. The only reason she had lived this long was because of Dad. "Bring her to the ER" said the doctor. I couldn't believe it. I wheeled her in and we had to sit in the waiting room. She kept smiling at a point in the far corner. We finally got to a booth in the ER, undressed, comfortable on a gurney if that's possible, waiting for tests and more doctors. I was reading a book when mother said, "Oh look, there's Daddy." We looked up the hallway in front of us, maybe 30 feet away. A short man stood in profile, wearing the shabby brown tweed coat Dad was buried in, scuffed brown shoes, his arms folded akimbo as was his usual, a thin line mouth expression. He rocked back and forth exactly like Dad did. Mother and I looked at one another, and when we looked back the man was gone. Now you tell me.....
The next week was mother's last. I sat by her bed almost 24/7. Her friends came to say goodbye, sing hymns, pray with her. They brought their children who loved 'Granny the Cookie Lady'. She and I shared the secrets of her life, things I had suspected but didn't know for sure. People from the 40s and their peccadilloes, the stray baby, the children gone wrong. Saintly behavior, grace in the face of disaster. I fastened a picture of Dad in his wedding suit on her tubing so she could see it without moving. One day when I came she said, "He's here, you know." and smiled her young girl's 'I know a secret' smile. She was getting younger by the hour. I was amazed. One would think a dying woman would get older, but no, she was going back, back in their lives together.
On the day she died, I apologized for being such a brat of a kid and she said, "I loved being your mother." I will never receive a gift as precious as that from my dying mother. As they took her up to hospice I put Dad's picture in her hand and she breathed her last holding on to him. Do I think he was there? You bet. She stopped struggling which she had been doing for the last week and with a gentle sigh, drifted away.
I saw her several times over the next month. I had a waking dream where she showed me heaven and answered questions I posed to her. I wrote this all down as it was appearing to me and have that paper framed in my home. One night, about 3 months later, I felt her presence beside my bed, leaning over me, tenderly. She said, "Its time for me to go. You'll be just fine. In motherhood is your salvation." And I have never again felt her presence. I do meet her in dreams when I need her as has happened several times, too many to be coincidence.
And here I am, right now, wanting my mother. Maybe she'll come to me tonight in my dreams?
Thursday, November 22, 2012
Thankfulness
Today's the day! Brianna and I have been planning the menu for days, not that it takes too much thought. We're pretty traditional. We know what we like. Normally she's just in it for the turkey but this year she's asked for cheesy mashed potatoes and corn. Okay with me. We had breakfast together, then Dave put his famous orange turkey together and in to cook for it's 5 hours.
Brianna and I will plan our Black Friday journey. We go out at 5 am to Walmart and KMart, then breakfast at Panara. Then sleep all day.
Memories of the past - Mother put the turkey on early, Dad took me to a park. We'd feed the ducks, he'd take pictures, I'd have to go to the bathroom so he'd hold me over a hidden pile of leaves in the woods. I always had to go to the bathroom. Dinner was a big deal. Brother would put away prodigious amounts of food, sister was always serene, I was the wild card - didn't eat much, didn't like side dishes, was too ADHD to do well in a group, I'd get feisty, knock something over. Mother never seemed to mind. To her, that was life in a loving family. We were who we were.
Dinners at Granny's house or Aunt Jess's - quiet, dark houses, 'be on your best behavior Martha Jeanne', foods that I wouldn't touch with a ten foot pole, knick knacks that drove my mother insane that I might decided to play with them and break them, fragile, formal dishes and heavy silverware, linen cloth and napkins, paper thin aperitif glasses always full of crandberry juice which was yucky. BUT - in a circle of people who loved me, had some special treats for me, told wonderful stories about the Old Country. I was part of something bigger than I.
As a young married, dinner at David's house, Thanksgiving was also his mother's birthday, I was assigned a seat next to Aunt Kate who was the relative who was 'difficult' to them (I liked her) and Dave's father, an old Navy man. First I got my finger stuck in the tiny handle of a teacup, He looked at me and said, "What's the matter with you?" and yanked my finger out. Then Jan told me the dishes belonged to her grandmother and 'not a piece has been broken'. Gulp. Then, Art would carve at the table and give you the piece he wanted you to have, not the piece I wanted and he put it on my plate with these words from the military, "Take what you want, but eat what you take." Gulp again. When the kids came along it was my Granny's house all over again - stressed that someone would break something.
There was the year we decided not to go to their house and to make our own. I have a photo of my mother and I holding that turkey and smiling. It's one of my favorite pictures.
I find myself very thankful this year for all the usual things. But in particular, for the worst event that happened to me in the last three years. I've finally gotten to the point where I can see the reason and thank God for it. Yay! 3 years ago I walked into a restaurant in November, slipped and sprained hip, arm, leg and foot. I had to retire from my career, use a cane or walker for a year, go through a prolonged and nasty lawsuit, lose our life savings. We went from okay, to barely squeaking by. Had a breakdown.
2012 - Ah!! I see. The settlement, although small and not at all what I thought it would be, is a nice nest egg, and emergency fund for disasters. And we've had them. I hadn't realized then that I was really at the end of my career. Times change, especially in education and I wasn't up to rolling with them. I have a job now as substitute special ed assistant that lets me be home when I need to be, and when I'm working, it's terrific. I love the kids and have met some superlative teachers. The money isn't much but it buys food and emergencies. And I'm home for Brianna, otherwise she wouldn't be able to join any teams at school.
So I'm thankful for enlightenment most of all.
Brianna and I will plan our Black Friday journey. We go out at 5 am to Walmart and KMart, then breakfast at Panara. Then sleep all day.
Memories of the past - Mother put the turkey on early, Dad took me to a park. We'd feed the ducks, he'd take pictures, I'd have to go to the bathroom so he'd hold me over a hidden pile of leaves in the woods. I always had to go to the bathroom. Dinner was a big deal. Brother would put away prodigious amounts of food, sister was always serene, I was the wild card - didn't eat much, didn't like side dishes, was too ADHD to do well in a group, I'd get feisty, knock something over. Mother never seemed to mind. To her, that was life in a loving family. We were who we were.
Dinners at Granny's house or Aunt Jess's - quiet, dark houses, 'be on your best behavior Martha Jeanne', foods that I wouldn't touch with a ten foot pole, knick knacks that drove my mother insane that I might decided to play with them and break them, fragile, formal dishes and heavy silverware, linen cloth and napkins, paper thin aperitif glasses always full of crandberry juice which was yucky. BUT - in a circle of people who loved me, had some special treats for me, told wonderful stories about the Old Country. I was part of something bigger than I.
As a young married, dinner at David's house, Thanksgiving was also his mother's birthday, I was assigned a seat next to Aunt Kate who was the relative who was 'difficult' to them (I liked her) and Dave's father, an old Navy man. First I got my finger stuck in the tiny handle of a teacup, He looked at me and said, "What's the matter with you?" and yanked my finger out. Then Jan told me the dishes belonged to her grandmother and 'not a piece has been broken'. Gulp. Then, Art would carve at the table and give you the piece he wanted you to have, not the piece I wanted and he put it on my plate with these words from the military, "Take what you want, but eat what you take." Gulp again. When the kids came along it was my Granny's house all over again - stressed that someone would break something.
There was the year we decided not to go to their house and to make our own. I have a photo of my mother and I holding that turkey and smiling. It's one of my favorite pictures.
I find myself very thankful this year for all the usual things. But in particular, for the worst event that happened to me in the last three years. I've finally gotten to the point where I can see the reason and thank God for it. Yay! 3 years ago I walked into a restaurant in November, slipped and sprained hip, arm, leg and foot. I had to retire from my career, use a cane or walker for a year, go through a prolonged and nasty lawsuit, lose our life savings. We went from okay, to barely squeaking by. Had a breakdown.
2012 - Ah!! I see. The settlement, although small and not at all what I thought it would be, is a nice nest egg, and emergency fund for disasters. And we've had them. I hadn't realized then that I was really at the end of my career. Times change, especially in education and I wasn't up to rolling with them. I have a job now as substitute special ed assistant that lets me be home when I need to be, and when I'm working, it's terrific. I love the kids and have met some superlative teachers. The money isn't much but it buys food and emergencies. And I'm home for Brianna, otherwise she wouldn't be able to join any teams at school.
So I'm thankful for enlightenment most of all.
Tuesday, November 20, 2012
Holiday Dinners
Breathes there a child who hasn't had to live through holiday dinners with the extended family? Waiting for dinner while the grown ups socialized, that one relative nobody really wants to invite but, hey, what are you going to do, picking at your dinner while the grown ups ate and socialized, wilting with boredome while the grownups yakked away after dinner, tried to find something to do for the rest of the night but there wasn't much so you got in trouble in one way or another and mother sighed on the way home, "Next time we're leaving you home!" ("Good").
Oh, was that just me?
My earliest memories are of my aunt and uncle's house. It was a beautiful old carriage house, soft lighting, dark wood. I was the baby so everybody was nice to me. Aunt and Uncle were friendly. Granny and PopPop seemed old to me but couldn't have been but 65-70. My parents were laid back and understood that a kid was a kid. For some unaccountable reason, Aunt gave me a pop gun. Okay, she never had children so I guess Auntie took a wild guess and thought an inquisitive little chipmunk like me would enjoy a pop gun. I was enjoying it and imagine that within five minutes of having it everyone was sorry the thing had come into the house. Hey, I thought, my PopPop likes good fun! I'll pretend to shoot him and he'll laugh. He was, by this time, a little weak with ill health, not always catching on quickly. Granny protected and cared for him stringently. I snuck up behind him, put the gun to his ear and let fly. The cork flew out, hit him above the ear, making a loud POP. He screamed, not knowing what to think, I remember him wobbling, people came rushing. I stepped back to observe the action. "Gee, what's with him?" Aunt grabbed the gun away, Granny helped her husband into a quiet room to recover, my mother took me by the hand to walk around outside while she explained my poor choice. And the memory embedded itself in my brain for the rest of my life.
I remember looong dinners at Granny and PopPop's house in Philadelphia. I only ate bread and turkey, not all that other stuff. Mashed turnips? No thank you, only I wasn't that polite. Then Granny would give me the lecture about how when she was a girl all they had to eat was dirt and they liked it... Then turning upside down on my chair from boredom, trying not to break the fragile china with the heavy silverware.
And this is what I've got to ask mother when I get to heaven - why on earth didn't you bring toys or something for me? I mean, you knew what I was like. A doll for goodness sakes?
Christmas dinners, while presents were piled under the tree and you had to wait through drinks and appetizers, sit through a boring dinner, then sit through after dinner talk which was dumb stuff, finally get released to get to the reason why you came, other than mother making you. Same thing for my girls at Nana's house - wait, wait, wait, blah blah blah. (I brought toys for them however).
Christmas and Easter dinners here in this house when my girls were young? It was my parents house then and it was wonderful. Dad had a way of making everything magic, sometimes literally. He was a magician among other things. There would be art materials and toys bought just for that occasion, and a Swedish angel candle - you know them, you light the four candles, the angels at the top go around from the heat and ring little bells? Highlight of dinner at Granny's - playing with fire. A dinner served that was child friendly. No mashed turnips.
It's Thanksgiving in a few days and Dave and I are planning our meal. It will be just the four of us as usual. The other two families live hours away. We've asked Brianna to help plan the food so we can be sure she'll eat it. Em will make her famous squash soup. Brianna has no way of understanding how important these feast days are, even though its just us, same old kitchen, same old food.
Holiday meals are when memories are shared, we get to listen to old stories, of grandma and grandpa's childhoods, how mommy was when she was young, you see family dynamics with the popular relatives and the ones you had to reluctantly invite (thank God we don't have one of those. We like all our relatives). We see how the old folks are treated, respected or not. You learn table manners, discretion, how to behave in someone else's home. You see china and stem ware, linen tablecloths and cloth napkins.
Who knew so much went in to holidays at Grandma's?
Oh, was that just me?
My earliest memories are of my aunt and uncle's house. It was a beautiful old carriage house, soft lighting, dark wood. I was the baby so everybody was nice to me. Aunt and Uncle were friendly. Granny and PopPop seemed old to me but couldn't have been but 65-70. My parents were laid back and understood that a kid was a kid. For some unaccountable reason, Aunt gave me a pop gun. Okay, she never had children so I guess Auntie took a wild guess and thought an inquisitive little chipmunk like me would enjoy a pop gun. I was enjoying it and imagine that within five minutes of having it everyone was sorry the thing had come into the house. Hey, I thought, my PopPop likes good fun! I'll pretend to shoot him and he'll laugh. He was, by this time, a little weak with ill health, not always catching on quickly. Granny protected and cared for him stringently. I snuck up behind him, put the gun to his ear and let fly. The cork flew out, hit him above the ear, making a loud POP. He screamed, not knowing what to think, I remember him wobbling, people came rushing. I stepped back to observe the action. "Gee, what's with him?" Aunt grabbed the gun away, Granny helped her husband into a quiet room to recover, my mother took me by the hand to walk around outside while she explained my poor choice. And the memory embedded itself in my brain for the rest of my life.
I remember looong dinners at Granny and PopPop's house in Philadelphia. I only ate bread and turkey, not all that other stuff. Mashed turnips? No thank you, only I wasn't that polite. Then Granny would give me the lecture about how when she was a girl all they had to eat was dirt and they liked it... Then turning upside down on my chair from boredom, trying not to break the fragile china with the heavy silverware.
And this is what I've got to ask mother when I get to heaven - why on earth didn't you bring toys or something for me? I mean, you knew what I was like. A doll for goodness sakes?
Christmas dinners, while presents were piled under the tree and you had to wait through drinks and appetizers, sit through a boring dinner, then sit through after dinner talk which was dumb stuff, finally get released to get to the reason why you came, other than mother making you. Same thing for my girls at Nana's house - wait, wait, wait, blah blah blah. (I brought toys for them however).
Christmas and Easter dinners here in this house when my girls were young? It was my parents house then and it was wonderful. Dad had a way of making everything magic, sometimes literally. He was a magician among other things. There would be art materials and toys bought just for that occasion, and a Swedish angel candle - you know them, you light the four candles, the angels at the top go around from the heat and ring little bells? Highlight of dinner at Granny's - playing with fire. A dinner served that was child friendly. No mashed turnips.
It's Thanksgiving in a few days and Dave and I are planning our meal. It will be just the four of us as usual. The other two families live hours away. We've asked Brianna to help plan the food so we can be sure she'll eat it. Em will make her famous squash soup. Brianna has no way of understanding how important these feast days are, even though its just us, same old kitchen, same old food.
Holiday meals are when memories are shared, we get to listen to old stories, of grandma and grandpa's childhoods, how mommy was when she was young, you see family dynamics with the popular relatives and the ones you had to reluctantly invite (thank God we don't have one of those. We like all our relatives). We see how the old folks are treated, respected or not. You learn table manners, discretion, how to behave in someone else's home. You see china and stem ware, linen tablecloths and cloth napkins.
Who knew so much went in to holidays at Grandma's?
Sunday, November 18, 2012
Christmas Letters
Holiday time again! Shopping for gifts nobody really needs, stressing over whether you got an even number of presents for everyone, trying to find parking, and Christmas cards!
(Okay, that was a mean rant. I'm not a Scrooge. Really, Christmas is one of my favorite holidays).
Sending Christmas cards is always a dilemma for me. When I was a kid and more concerned with presents, I do remember receiving dozens of cards and they weren't the ones that are mass printed. My parents picked out each and every one, as did our friends. They meant something. Mother would tie a string of yarn across the fireplace and display our cards all season. Every time I looked at that display I remembered how many people thought of us all year.
As a young married, we received and sent the mass printed, boxed cards. They came from everybody in our sphere of knowledge - the doctor, Acme store, pastor, our government Representative, plus friends and family. I continued my mother's idea of a display over the living room archway. By this time mom and dad were in this apartment and they put theirs in a decorated Christmas basket. (David made me a copy when we moved in here).
In the 90s we began to receive this new phenomenon - the Christmas letter. I'm sure they were around before that, but no one in our circle, except missionaries, sent them. We weren't so busy up until then and we communicated with people. Didn't need a run down of their lives since last we met. I liked them. TV shows made fun of them and Dear Abby was full of dismissive letters about them. How the writers probably lied to make themselves look better. My question was this - if they didn't have a good year, or if nothing happened, why would they go to the trouble to make up, print and mail a fake letter? I still don't believe that one.
The formula was the same for everyone we knew - Dear ________ (fill in the name). Followed by some well crafted religious statement to set the tone - "Greetings in the name of Jesus Christ, the Savior who came as a babe but grew up to die on the cross so we could have our sins forgiven ...." The letter would go on to list each and every possible detail of that person's life. And I mean every one. Two pages of things I would never think to ask or ever want to know. "John has been suffering from bloating for weeks but we found out it was an allergy to nuts the dog has been limping and we've given him antacids Mary Sue has had a real struggle with math this year and her legs itch Grandma's hearing has really gone downhill our beloved dog Alice died this year Ray tried basketball but was so bad at it he got thrown off the team..." Last paragraph, another super religious statement and maybe the words to a hymn. I scratch my head and wonder, why would they think anyone would want to know this insider information? Filters, anyone?
Okay, I'm being judgemental. Forgive me. I can, because I wrote a lot of those letters myself. In those days it was important to follow the straight and narrow and not make waves. I cringe when I remember. Oh Martha Jeanne, where was your good sense and creativity?
These days, I simple adore Christmas letters! They've become as original as their families of origin. One dear friend who is with the Lord this year sent photo cards every year. Her children have children and we still got those cards. One year a family we knew had a horrendous year and their letter spelled it out in painful, intimate detail. We got a letter written in round labyrinth shape, and a poem letter. One written from the perspective of the family cat. One with a photo included of a grandchild seconds from the birth canal.
I love them all. I love to know what's been going on in every body's life. I hope I do a good job and they like to get ours.
Now, about Christmas cards. They're expensive. And stamps - out of sight. We've gone through some very difficult financial years (haven't come too far since then, sadly) but we always found money for cards. I would promise myself that this year, no. Can't afford it. Then cards would come to me. "Oh, I have to send this one a card, and she would wonder what happened if we didn't send her one, and it would be an insult to forget so and so." We once sent a card to a friend who never replied and we never got the cards back. Turns out he had been dead for 10 years and his son, in whose home he had lived, just never bothered to tell us.
I agonize over the right cards. Not paintings of the Christmas story, not trite little sayings, not secular images - after all, it is my religious holiday. Something sacred but still creative. And we always manage. I take my choices very seriously.
So you'll probably get a card from Dave and Martha, and a letter. I hope it suits and you find it interesting but not cloying. We'll try to keep the intimate details to a minimum.
(Okay, that was a mean rant. I'm not a Scrooge. Really, Christmas is one of my favorite holidays).
Sending Christmas cards is always a dilemma for me. When I was a kid and more concerned with presents, I do remember receiving dozens of cards and they weren't the ones that are mass printed. My parents picked out each and every one, as did our friends. They meant something. Mother would tie a string of yarn across the fireplace and display our cards all season. Every time I looked at that display I remembered how many people thought of us all year.
As a young married, we received and sent the mass printed, boxed cards. They came from everybody in our sphere of knowledge - the doctor, Acme store, pastor, our government Representative, plus friends and family. I continued my mother's idea of a display over the living room archway. By this time mom and dad were in this apartment and they put theirs in a decorated Christmas basket. (David made me a copy when we moved in here).
In the 90s we began to receive this new phenomenon - the Christmas letter. I'm sure they were around before that, but no one in our circle, except missionaries, sent them. We weren't so busy up until then and we communicated with people. Didn't need a run down of their lives since last we met. I liked them. TV shows made fun of them and Dear Abby was full of dismissive letters about them. How the writers probably lied to make themselves look better. My question was this - if they didn't have a good year, or if nothing happened, why would they go to the trouble to make up, print and mail a fake letter? I still don't believe that one.
The formula was the same for everyone we knew - Dear ________ (fill in the name). Followed by some well crafted religious statement to set the tone - "Greetings in the name of Jesus Christ, the Savior who came as a babe but grew up to die on the cross so we could have our sins forgiven ...." The letter would go on to list each and every possible detail of that person's life. And I mean every one. Two pages of things I would never think to ask or ever want to know. "John has been suffering from bloating for weeks but we found out it was an allergy to nuts the dog has been limping and we've given him antacids Mary Sue has had a real struggle with math this year and her legs itch Grandma's hearing has really gone downhill our beloved dog Alice died this year Ray tried basketball but was so bad at it he got thrown off the team..." Last paragraph, another super religious statement and maybe the words to a hymn. I scratch my head and wonder, why would they think anyone would want to know this insider information? Filters, anyone?
Okay, I'm being judgemental. Forgive me. I can, because I wrote a lot of those letters myself. In those days it was important to follow the straight and narrow and not make waves. I cringe when I remember. Oh Martha Jeanne, where was your good sense and creativity?
These days, I simple adore Christmas letters! They've become as original as their families of origin. One dear friend who is with the Lord this year sent photo cards every year. Her children have children and we still got those cards. One year a family we knew had a horrendous year and their letter spelled it out in painful, intimate detail. We got a letter written in round labyrinth shape, and a poem letter. One written from the perspective of the family cat. One with a photo included of a grandchild seconds from the birth canal.
I love them all. I love to know what's been going on in every body's life. I hope I do a good job and they like to get ours.
Now, about Christmas cards. They're expensive. And stamps - out of sight. We've gone through some very difficult financial years (haven't come too far since then, sadly) but we always found money for cards. I would promise myself that this year, no. Can't afford it. Then cards would come to me. "Oh, I have to send this one a card, and she would wonder what happened if we didn't send her one, and it would be an insult to forget so and so." We once sent a card to a friend who never replied and we never got the cards back. Turns out he had been dead for 10 years and his son, in whose home he had lived, just never bothered to tell us.
I agonize over the right cards. Not paintings of the Christmas story, not trite little sayings, not secular images - after all, it is my religious holiday. Something sacred but still creative. And we always manage. I take my choices very seriously.
So you'll probably get a card from Dave and Martha, and a letter. I hope it suits and you find it interesting but not cloying. We'll try to keep the intimate details to a minimum.
Sunday, November 11, 2012
Christ Returning
I'm not putting anyone else down. This is my perspective and everyone else has a right to theirs. So my blog - indulge me.
No, I don't want Jesus to return because I don't like the president. I don't want Him to return because of 'the gays' or Ellen 'Degeneret'. I don't want Him to come back to punish the pro choice advocates.
My pastor preaches about His imminent return. "Be ready!" Humm.. how be ready and why? If He comes to take me out of this world, this world and all it's sin and despair will drop away. Why would I need to pray more, behave better or read more scripture?
I have friends who won't send their daughters to college because there's no point. Jesus is just going to come back and women won't need jobs. They should raise children to look forward to Jesus' return. (head scratch).
There are end times conferences, books by the million (Left Behind series), endless classes - 'Are We in The End Times?' Plotting the clues like an astrologer. Divisions and even age old arguments over how He'll come, when He'll come, who will go when He comes. Secretly rejoicing in the misfortune of those who will be left. (Come on, even though it's de rigour to add 'of course it's so sad' you know you're wiping your brow and saying, 'whew! Got in!)
Personally, I'm not 'ready'. I can live with gay marriage, abortion, Rosie O'Donnell, women having the vote and working, people behaving badly. In my worst times of depression I wanted to be out of pain, but not out of the world. I know my parents wanted to "see Jesus face to face!' but in my mind, He doesn't really have a face, I'm going to be essence as will God, Jesus and my loved ones, and with the world gone, am I going to have human emotions of eagerness?
I'd rather work to make my corner of the world a better place. To work on myself to be a light to the hopeless. And when He comes, He comes. And I hope the idea of only 'true' Christians going up is wrong and we all go up.
No, I don't want Jesus to return because I don't like the president. I don't want Him to return because of 'the gays' or Ellen 'Degeneret'. I don't want Him to come back to punish the pro choice advocates.
My pastor preaches about His imminent return. "Be ready!" Humm.. how be ready and why? If He comes to take me out of this world, this world and all it's sin and despair will drop away. Why would I need to pray more, behave better or read more scripture?
I have friends who won't send their daughters to college because there's no point. Jesus is just going to come back and women won't need jobs. They should raise children to look forward to Jesus' return. (head scratch).
There are end times conferences, books by the million (Left Behind series), endless classes - 'Are We in The End Times?' Plotting the clues like an astrologer. Divisions and even age old arguments over how He'll come, when He'll come, who will go when He comes. Secretly rejoicing in the misfortune of those who will be left. (Come on, even though it's de rigour to add 'of course it's so sad' you know you're wiping your brow and saying, 'whew! Got in!)
Personally, I'm not 'ready'. I can live with gay marriage, abortion, Rosie O'Donnell, women having the vote and working, people behaving badly. In my worst times of depression I wanted to be out of pain, but not out of the world. I know my parents wanted to "see Jesus face to face!' but in my mind, He doesn't really have a face, I'm going to be essence as will God, Jesus and my loved ones, and with the world gone, am I going to have human emotions of eagerness?
I'd rather work to make my corner of the world a better place. To work on myself to be a light to the hopeless. And when He comes, He comes. And I hope the idea of only 'true' Christians going up is wrong and we all go up.
The Yoga Mama
I did my first yoga yesterday. I am so glad there were no cameras there. "Put your hands up, squat, twist your arms around, bend one leg over the other, hold..." Yikes! The only thing that saved me were the other women in the room who were hopping on one foot and letting out "oofs" and "ouches".
I was attending a lecture by a young lady who had come through a terrible life circumstance and, finding her way out, found relief through the practice of yoga. She was sharing her journey with us. Her early life was my story, of feeling the odd child out, low self esteem, afraid of social situations. Yes, my old friends, I was, although I hid it by helping the hostess or jumping into the caterer's kitchen. Tears came to my eyes as I listened to this woman and wouldn't you know it, I had cleaned out my purse and had no tissues. Our life situations eventually diverged, she into some dark stuff, mine into quiet desperation. Both of us found healing by different paths, but healing none the less.
She talked about energy coming from the sun above, and up from the earth below. Sun and earth are life. Without them we do not live. We straightened our spines and aliened our bodies so the 'chi' could flow unimpeded from head to toe. We raised our arms and looked upwards to receive the light that was flowing down. We squatted down (ow ow ow), closed our eyes and breathed deeply fixing a wish in our minds that we would like accomplished in our lives. She spoke about getting rid of life distractions like TV and self medicating substances.
One thought that went through my head was, "This is the thing my church has warned against. Giving entrance to evil spirits. A useless practice that hippies and hippies do instead of knowing the living God."
And then I thought, wait, everything I've done so far has a correlation to my faith practice.
Could it possibly be that we're talking about the same thing from different viewpoints using different words?
As a Christian I do believe life comes from 'above', from God. I do believe His Holy Spirit flows through me if I open myself up to Its power. Aliening my spine is a health practice, not mumbo jumbo. When I pray I can't help raising my arms and touching my heart, it makes me breath deeply (which is also a health practice). I kneel to pray and through prayer I lift my needs to God, fixing them in my mind, expecting my needs to be met. Is cutting down my TV time a bad thing? Is my Christian faith the stuff of hippies and evil spirits?
I think that in a lot of life we're speaking the same language, using different motions. Its the blind men and the elephant, each touching a different part and thinking that part was the whole. If I believe God is all, over us, around us, through us (like the chi) then I have to believe people are more alike than different and their ways of expressing God their part of the whole.
I liked the yoga. Felt good when I got home. More energy. So we'll see.
I was attending a lecture by a young lady who had come through a terrible life circumstance and, finding her way out, found relief through the practice of yoga. She was sharing her journey with us. Her early life was my story, of feeling the odd child out, low self esteem, afraid of social situations. Yes, my old friends, I was, although I hid it by helping the hostess or jumping into the caterer's kitchen. Tears came to my eyes as I listened to this woman and wouldn't you know it, I had cleaned out my purse and had no tissues. Our life situations eventually diverged, she into some dark stuff, mine into quiet desperation. Both of us found healing by different paths, but healing none the less.
She talked about energy coming from the sun above, and up from the earth below. Sun and earth are life. Without them we do not live. We straightened our spines and aliened our bodies so the 'chi' could flow unimpeded from head to toe. We raised our arms and looked upwards to receive the light that was flowing down. We squatted down (ow ow ow), closed our eyes and breathed deeply fixing a wish in our minds that we would like accomplished in our lives. She spoke about getting rid of life distractions like TV and self medicating substances.
One thought that went through my head was, "This is the thing my church has warned against. Giving entrance to evil spirits. A useless practice that hippies and hippies do instead of knowing the living God."
And then I thought, wait, everything I've done so far has a correlation to my faith practice.
Could it possibly be that we're talking about the same thing from different viewpoints using different words?
As a Christian I do believe life comes from 'above', from God. I do believe His Holy Spirit flows through me if I open myself up to Its power. Aliening my spine is a health practice, not mumbo jumbo. When I pray I can't help raising my arms and touching my heart, it makes me breath deeply (which is also a health practice). I kneel to pray and through prayer I lift my needs to God, fixing them in my mind, expecting my needs to be met. Is cutting down my TV time a bad thing? Is my Christian faith the stuff of hippies and evil spirits?
I think that in a lot of life we're speaking the same language, using different motions. Its the blind men and the elephant, each touching a different part and thinking that part was the whole. If I believe God is all, over us, around us, through us (like the chi) then I have to believe people are more alike than different and their ways of expressing God their part of the whole.
I liked the yoga. Felt good when I got home. More energy. So we'll see.
The Election
Whew! It's finally over. President Obama has won a second term by popular acclaim. But it's been a terrible road getting to election day. I can't think of another situation that brings out such rancor in people who are normally of such good will.
I've had difficulty these 4 years of Obama's tenure trying to respect the man and office but not liking some of the policies that were coming out of the white house. I love his style, I love his wry approach, he is a disciplined man, his wife is strong and he has raised two lovely daughters. I sense, however, that his inexperience has gotten in his way big time. He didn't come to the office through business, political family or wealth. There's no training to be the leader of the free world. You get noticed, you are approached with an offer, you are groomed for a few years and you do what your party handlers tell you to do. They don't run a person for office unless he's able to do the job as they want it done.
- Nixon couldn't get elected if he had a nomination from God Himself, yet, he was. (Humm, maybe it was God Himself who nominated him?)
-John Kennedy didn't want the job, but his father was in too deep and forced his sons to comply. If Kennedy had continued to retirement we have no guarantee that he would have been a great president. It was only his death that catapulted him into political sainthood.
-Ronald Regan was an actor, not a politician. He was chosen and groomed for the job because of his acting and PR skills. And despite claims of sainthood by conservatives, he did a fair but not great job. He did what his party paid him to do.
-Poor George Bush was a failed businessman who was selected precisely because he knew nothing and would accept a shadow president to run things. (his brother Jeb was approached first and he turned them down).He was a christian, which the party needed for their conservative base. So a whole legend was written about his converstion at a Billy Graham crusade, witnessing to soldiers, praying over a sick bed. Then he got feisty and thought he could really do the job and a campaign to slap him down was started in the name of the dreaded liberals. His second term was bought for him and he was warned to behave, and he did. Good old folksy George.
-Barach was smooth, smart and the right ethnic configuration for the agenda and so was brought along for just this period in history.
It's no accident of fate that these men who had no experience were run for president. The powers that be want an obedient servant, not a thinker.
And here we are in 2012, electing a president. I can't begin to understand the viciousness that's been spewed out about Barach Obama. Accusations of being a muslim (why would he keep it a secret? It's no crime to be one, and why would he affiliate with the Baptist church way before thinking of public office?), of being an illegal alien, of redecorating the white house in muslim colors, wearing a ring inscribed with arabic prayers... and much much more.
Over and over, we've been told that 'true' Christians shouldn't vote for him because he sanctions abortion and gay marriage. I was told that by voting for him I was putting myself in serious jeopardy with God. And no amount of reasonable discussion made a dent in those people's minds. They want someone to hang their discontent on and the president seems like a good hook.
I have a theory. I think that when a person has emotional or mental issues, it's so painful that they'll look for somewhere else to hang their depression and anger. Can't do that to a person they know, but can do it to a celebrity or petty cause that won't face them every day. Its called 'transference'. Hating a president is an emotional tool to let off steam. It happened to George Bush. And I haven't got a single doubt that had Romney been chosen to win (predetermined?) there would have been something that these disgruntled, unbalanced people would fasten onto. Probably his faith. Or his wealth.
And something I've noticed is that when a person gets so over reactive to a political figure or a cause it's not just politics. This extreme need to control comes out in every other area of life - marriage, parenthood, friendships and work.
So it occurs to me that I have to get ahold of myself and not be too hard on those who hold these rabid reactions toward political and religious figures. There's more at work than politics. And as God has forgiven me my screeds and over reactions I need to be patient with others.
I've had difficulty these 4 years of Obama's tenure trying to respect the man and office but not liking some of the policies that were coming out of the white house. I love his style, I love his wry approach, he is a disciplined man, his wife is strong and he has raised two lovely daughters. I sense, however, that his inexperience has gotten in his way big time. He didn't come to the office through business, political family or wealth. There's no training to be the leader of the free world. You get noticed, you are approached with an offer, you are groomed for a few years and you do what your party handlers tell you to do. They don't run a person for office unless he's able to do the job as they want it done.
- Nixon couldn't get elected if he had a nomination from God Himself, yet, he was. (Humm, maybe it was God Himself who nominated him?)
-John Kennedy didn't want the job, but his father was in too deep and forced his sons to comply. If Kennedy had continued to retirement we have no guarantee that he would have been a great president. It was only his death that catapulted him into political sainthood.
-Ronald Regan was an actor, not a politician. He was chosen and groomed for the job because of his acting and PR skills. And despite claims of sainthood by conservatives, he did a fair but not great job. He did what his party paid him to do.
-Poor George Bush was a failed businessman who was selected precisely because he knew nothing and would accept a shadow president to run things. (his brother Jeb was approached first and he turned them down).He was a christian, which the party needed for their conservative base. So a whole legend was written about his converstion at a Billy Graham crusade, witnessing to soldiers, praying over a sick bed. Then he got feisty and thought he could really do the job and a campaign to slap him down was started in the name of the dreaded liberals. His second term was bought for him and he was warned to behave, and he did. Good old folksy George.
-Barach was smooth, smart and the right ethnic configuration for the agenda and so was brought along for just this period in history.
It's no accident of fate that these men who had no experience were run for president. The powers that be want an obedient servant, not a thinker.
And here we are in 2012, electing a president. I can't begin to understand the viciousness that's been spewed out about Barach Obama. Accusations of being a muslim (why would he keep it a secret? It's no crime to be one, and why would he affiliate with the Baptist church way before thinking of public office?), of being an illegal alien, of redecorating the white house in muslim colors, wearing a ring inscribed with arabic prayers... and much much more.
Over and over, we've been told that 'true' Christians shouldn't vote for him because he sanctions abortion and gay marriage. I was told that by voting for him I was putting myself in serious jeopardy with God. And no amount of reasonable discussion made a dent in those people's minds. They want someone to hang their discontent on and the president seems like a good hook.
I have a theory. I think that when a person has emotional or mental issues, it's so painful that they'll look for somewhere else to hang their depression and anger. Can't do that to a person they know, but can do it to a celebrity or petty cause that won't face them every day. Its called 'transference'. Hating a president is an emotional tool to let off steam. It happened to George Bush. And I haven't got a single doubt that had Romney been chosen to win (predetermined?) there would have been something that these disgruntled, unbalanced people would fasten onto. Probably his faith. Or his wealth.
And something I've noticed is that when a person gets so over reactive to a political figure or a cause it's not just politics. This extreme need to control comes out in every other area of life - marriage, parenthood, friendships and work.
So it occurs to me that I have to get ahold of myself and not be too hard on those who hold these rabid reactions toward political and religious figures. There's more at work than politics. And as God has forgiven me my screeds and over reactions I need to be patient with others.
Wednesday, October 10, 2012
Pontius Pilate
I like how our pastor does chapter by chapter Bible studies rather than subject sermons. We've been in Luke for months and today was Jesus' trial before Pilate. It got me to thinking - (of course it did...) - about the knee jerk reactions to Bible characters that christians seem to have. They're either GOOD or BAD, nothing in between, no understanding of what made them take the path they did, how God would view their lives. So often we force God to respond like we would respond.
So, Pilate. He came from an equestrian military family who got him well placed in his youth. He caught the eye of Tiberius and advanced straight up the ladder, hoping to reach the top. Tiberius knew he could trust his prefect, Pilate, and so, in 26 BC he sent Pilate to, basically, the armpit of Judea. There was a lot of unrest in the area because of the long standing, hated Roman occupation. Rebellion was bubbling just under the surface, about to explode. So the emperor sent the meanest, cruelest, most dangerous man he knew to keep the peace. Pilate of the Pontii family of Rome. And he lived up to his promise. He planted his heel on the Jewish neck and squeezed. He was hated by Roman and Jew alike but the Jews had no choice but to work with him if they wanted to maintain their religious and political standing.
Jesus. An wandering messiah, one of many, from a tiny village in Judea. So how did he come to be such a threat that the Jews wanted him dead? The Judeans wanted freedom from their Roman oppressors. There was a vast underground of rebels, growing stronger every day. This prophet, Jesus, was speaking about freedom as well, but from a different perspective. He meant freedom from religion, a personal God, personal spiritual responsibility and he claimed that his authority to teach such a novel idea came from his 'father' God. This is what made him dangerous to the Jewish authorities - Theirs was a highly political religion. This man could quite possibly gather enough support that political rebels would ride his religious wake into an uprising against the Romans. And if that happened, the whole religious and political structure would come down For the sake of the nation, Jesus couldn't be allowed to continue.
Jesus and Pilate cross paths. The Jewish authorities had to kill Jesus in some spectacular, horrendous way to send a very clear message to any who would come against Rome and the established religion. But the religious court couldn't do that, only the Roman court had that authority. The plan for a public execution was put into place. Jesus and Pilate were swiftly coming toward one another.
Jesus was arrested in the garden and taken to the priests to be tried. But he wouldn't cooperate and give them a secular reason for the Romans to execute him. Next step, bring him before the Roman prefect and accuse him of insighting riot. I can see Pilate being awakened from his sleep. The Jews that he hated were yammering again, demanding that he give his consent to some stupid religious matter. He threw his clothes on and stroke angrly into the court. And there was this beaten, half unconscious filthy beggar, the priests babbling on about his claiming to be God, saying he was forming a kingdom and he their king. Pilate was furious. Perhaps he decided in that moment to be oppositional to get back at the priests?
And then he heard the name of the man - Jesus of Nazareth. Pilate had heard of him. Miracle worker, preaching peace and obedience to the powers that be. He had been wanting to meet the prophet. And now was his chance. He ordered Jesus taken inside. They spoke. Pilate was impressed. Why would he want to have this man killed? "No," he said. "This man has done nothing to warrant death." But the priests shouted louder. So Pilate had an idea - he would send this Jesus to his enemy Herod who was the next highest in authority. There was no love lost between them and if shuffling Jesus off would get Pilate back to bed and off the hook it was worth a shot. Within the hour, the crowd was back. Herod didn't want the job either so he had Jesus beaten severely and returned to Pilate.
Now Pilate was really mad, but not at Jesus. He sensed that the prophet wasn't any danger to Rome but the priests were. He tried to reason with them - "I see nothing over which to condemn him. I'll have him beaten again to teach him a lesson." No, the priests shouted. "Execute him!" Still trying to get out of a bad situation that was growing worse, Pilate remembered that these people had a custom, to release one prisoner as a good deed for their Passover. He asked the head of the prison who they had down there and the name Barabas came up. A minor criminal, perhaps on the fringes of rebellion. Barabas was dragged out of his cell, sure that this was it, his execution had come. He was thrust out into the prefect's court beside another poor soul. "I will release Jesus, as is your custom!" The shouting became more frenzied - Release Barabas! Crucify Jesus!" And they wouldn't stop, their voices become louder and louder. By this time a crowd had gathered. The priests sent men through the crowd to whisper lies about Jesus until the innocent onlookers thought the calls for execution were their own idea.
Pilate's wife, Claudia, whom many scholars believe was a secret follower, called her husband aside and warned him of the danger he was facing. She knew the man Jesus and she knew he wasn't an ordinary criminal of any kind. She knew that condemning him would be her husband's downfall and so she warned Pilate not to listen to the priests but to quickly release Jesus. Pilate strode back out and the crowd went wild, screaming that they were going to report him to Tiberious and have him recalled if he didn't do what they wanted him to do.
And right then, Pilate made a decision that changed the course of history, a misjudgement that, on another night he might have made differently if he hadn't been tired, mad and harried. He caved in to pressure. What was one more wandering Jew more or less? But he got his last licks in - the death warrant was always written and nailed to the cross. He ordered the death warrant to say "He is the King of the Jews". No, said the priests, not he IS the king of the Jews, he SAYS he's the king of the Jews. Pilate snapped. "I've written what I've written!" and he ordered his soldiers to clear the court, which they did with all the hardness of the Roman guard.
We know what happened after that. Jesus was executed, he rose the third day. When word came to Pilate, what did he think? What did his wife say? He knew in that moment what a terrible mistake he had made. But what was done was done and he went back to his terrible and cruel reign, wiping out men, women and children, whole villages, crucifying hundreds of innocent people.
Five years later, Tiberious died. By this time, Roman and Jew alike had had their fill of his cruelites and Pilate was recalled. Emporer Caligula was crowned. And Pilate was in severe disfavor along with his family. He was stationed in a worse place, Gaul, which became France in later centuries, where he commited suicide rather than face the rest of his life in disgrace. The people threw the body into the river where he was eaten by fishes. (How ironic - eaten by fish, the christian fish symbol).
And now, ta da, the thought I had in church on Sunday about Pilate. We're supposed to hate him, righteously of course. He condemned the son of God! He didn't choose to do the right thing! But you know, on this side of heaven, how many of us have a perfect record? How many of us make right decisions all the time? Do we make misjudgements that change the world in their own small ways? This was one small man in his speck of time, who uncharacteristically tried to do a good thing, but who, in the end, made a choice he lived to regret.
I can see myself doing exactly the same thing. He didn't know this man was the Son of God. How would he? All these prophets claimed divine right, this one was perhaps more popular than most, more compelling. Pilate acted according to his life pattern -
Just like most of us do, just like I do all the time. And I think that if my misjudgements were written down and somebody published my story two thousand years from now, I might be viewed in a terrible light as well.
And beside all that, he, like Judas, was part of a plan - the role of the bad guy who advanced the plot. Without them, the whole story fell apart.
Mother Theresa said, "I can't judge you because of the Hitler in me." And I'm thinking, I can't judge any of these historical figures because the same capacity for horrible choices is in me.
So, Pilate. He came from an equestrian military family who got him well placed in his youth. He caught the eye of Tiberius and advanced straight up the ladder, hoping to reach the top. Tiberius knew he could trust his prefect, Pilate, and so, in 26 BC he sent Pilate to, basically, the armpit of Judea. There was a lot of unrest in the area because of the long standing, hated Roman occupation. Rebellion was bubbling just under the surface, about to explode. So the emperor sent the meanest, cruelest, most dangerous man he knew to keep the peace. Pilate of the Pontii family of Rome. And he lived up to his promise. He planted his heel on the Jewish neck and squeezed. He was hated by Roman and Jew alike but the Jews had no choice but to work with him if they wanted to maintain their religious and political standing.
Jesus. An wandering messiah, one of many, from a tiny village in Judea. So how did he come to be such a threat that the Jews wanted him dead? The Judeans wanted freedom from their Roman oppressors. There was a vast underground of rebels, growing stronger every day. This prophet, Jesus, was speaking about freedom as well, but from a different perspective. He meant freedom from religion, a personal God, personal spiritual responsibility and he claimed that his authority to teach such a novel idea came from his 'father' God. This is what made him dangerous to the Jewish authorities - Theirs was a highly political religion. This man could quite possibly gather enough support that political rebels would ride his religious wake into an uprising against the Romans. And if that happened, the whole religious and political structure would come down For the sake of the nation, Jesus couldn't be allowed to continue.
Jesus and Pilate cross paths. The Jewish authorities had to kill Jesus in some spectacular, horrendous way to send a very clear message to any who would come against Rome and the established religion. But the religious court couldn't do that, only the Roman court had that authority. The plan for a public execution was put into place. Jesus and Pilate were swiftly coming toward one another.
Jesus was arrested in the garden and taken to the priests to be tried. But he wouldn't cooperate and give them a secular reason for the Romans to execute him. Next step, bring him before the Roman prefect and accuse him of insighting riot. I can see Pilate being awakened from his sleep. The Jews that he hated were yammering again, demanding that he give his consent to some stupid religious matter. He threw his clothes on and stroke angrly into the court. And there was this beaten, half unconscious filthy beggar, the priests babbling on about his claiming to be God, saying he was forming a kingdom and he their king. Pilate was furious. Perhaps he decided in that moment to be oppositional to get back at the priests?
And then he heard the name of the man - Jesus of Nazareth. Pilate had heard of him. Miracle worker, preaching peace and obedience to the powers that be. He had been wanting to meet the prophet. And now was his chance. He ordered Jesus taken inside. They spoke. Pilate was impressed. Why would he want to have this man killed? "No," he said. "This man has done nothing to warrant death." But the priests shouted louder. So Pilate had an idea - he would send this Jesus to his enemy Herod who was the next highest in authority. There was no love lost between them and if shuffling Jesus off would get Pilate back to bed and off the hook it was worth a shot. Within the hour, the crowd was back. Herod didn't want the job either so he had Jesus beaten severely and returned to Pilate.
Now Pilate was really mad, but not at Jesus. He sensed that the prophet wasn't any danger to Rome but the priests were. He tried to reason with them - "I see nothing over which to condemn him. I'll have him beaten again to teach him a lesson." No, the priests shouted. "Execute him!" Still trying to get out of a bad situation that was growing worse, Pilate remembered that these people had a custom, to release one prisoner as a good deed for their Passover. He asked the head of the prison who they had down there and the name Barabas came up. A minor criminal, perhaps on the fringes of rebellion. Barabas was dragged out of his cell, sure that this was it, his execution had come. He was thrust out into the prefect's court beside another poor soul. "I will release Jesus, as is your custom!" The shouting became more frenzied - Release Barabas! Crucify Jesus!" And they wouldn't stop, their voices become louder and louder. By this time a crowd had gathered. The priests sent men through the crowd to whisper lies about Jesus until the innocent onlookers thought the calls for execution were their own idea.
Pilate's wife, Claudia, whom many scholars believe was a secret follower, called her husband aside and warned him of the danger he was facing. She knew the man Jesus and she knew he wasn't an ordinary criminal of any kind. She knew that condemning him would be her husband's downfall and so she warned Pilate not to listen to the priests but to quickly release Jesus. Pilate strode back out and the crowd went wild, screaming that they were going to report him to Tiberious and have him recalled if he didn't do what they wanted him to do.
And right then, Pilate made a decision that changed the course of history, a misjudgement that, on another night he might have made differently if he hadn't been tired, mad and harried. He caved in to pressure. What was one more wandering Jew more or less? But he got his last licks in - the death warrant was always written and nailed to the cross. He ordered the death warrant to say "He is the King of the Jews". No, said the priests, not he IS the king of the Jews, he SAYS he's the king of the Jews. Pilate snapped. "I've written what I've written!" and he ordered his soldiers to clear the court, which they did with all the hardness of the Roman guard.
We know what happened after that. Jesus was executed, he rose the third day. When word came to Pilate, what did he think? What did his wife say? He knew in that moment what a terrible mistake he had made. But what was done was done and he went back to his terrible and cruel reign, wiping out men, women and children, whole villages, crucifying hundreds of innocent people.
Five years later, Tiberious died. By this time, Roman and Jew alike had had their fill of his cruelites and Pilate was recalled. Emporer Caligula was crowned. And Pilate was in severe disfavor along with his family. He was stationed in a worse place, Gaul, which became France in later centuries, where he commited suicide rather than face the rest of his life in disgrace. The people threw the body into the river where he was eaten by fishes. (How ironic - eaten by fish, the christian fish symbol).
And now, ta da, the thought I had in church on Sunday about Pilate. We're supposed to hate him, righteously of course. He condemned the son of God! He didn't choose to do the right thing! But you know, on this side of heaven, how many of us have a perfect record? How many of us make right decisions all the time? Do we make misjudgements that change the world in their own small ways? This was one small man in his speck of time, who uncharacteristically tried to do a good thing, but who, in the end, made a choice he lived to regret.
I can see myself doing exactly the same thing. He didn't know this man was the Son of God. How would he? All these prophets claimed divine right, this one was perhaps more popular than most, more compelling. Pilate acted according to his life pattern -
Just like most of us do, just like I do all the time. And I think that if my misjudgements were written down and somebody published my story two thousand years from now, I might be viewed in a terrible light as well.
And beside all that, he, like Judas, was part of a plan - the role of the bad guy who advanced the plot. Without them, the whole story fell apart.
Mother Theresa said, "I can't judge you because of the Hitler in me." And I'm thinking, I can't judge any of these historical figures because the same capacity for horrible choices is in me.
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
Remembering 9-11
Named by it's date, it's our generation's national horror story. All through history the world has had them. Eve endured the sadness of her first son carrying on the family legacy; Noah's family endured the deluge; the Black Plague; Mongol hoards; Burning of Catholics then Protestants back and forth for a century; World War 1, the Holocaust, Pearl Harbor, the deaths of the Kennedys and now 9-11. We all remember where we were when we heard the news and we sat transfixed in front of the TV unable to look away.
We had just moved into our new home in Willow Grove. Baby Brianna and I were the only ones home and I had taken her to nursery school. A friend called and I couldn't understand what she was saying, she was crying so hard. She made me understand to turn on my TV, America was under attack! I ran to look and got there just in time for the second plane plowing into the tower. My mind covered up what I couldn't believe. A plane - flew into a skyscraper - full of people - and it wasn't an accident. Nah, of course it was an accident. Some poor pilot got way out of control.
Except it wasn't. It really was an intentional act of foreign mad men. I drove frantically to the daycare to get Brianna. I called my family who were out on the road and couldn't come home. I was sure, like the rest of America, that this was war and we were going to die today. I wanted to die with my family around me. But it was not possible for them to get home and so I watched, tears pouring down my face, horrified, all day, with Brianna sitting in her playpen, burbling and playing, in her innocence, not knowing what life changing event was unfolding before our eyes. I don't make fun of George Bush's expression when the secret service man walked into that classroom and whispered in his ear. I felt the same way he did. You can't take it in.
She's twelve now and studies history in school. Yes, the kids think 9-11 is terrible. But they can't possibly understand the real horror behind the story. My husband is a Civil War buff. It's his hobby to read about the battles and go to re-enactments. But for those men, it was hell come to life. I read about Pearl Harbor and watched the movie with Ben Affleck but I'm not as moved as was my father in law who lived through it. I'm interested in World War 2 from a historical viewpoint and it does horrify me, but not like it did my parents, or my uncle who was an army private who liberated one of the death camps or my friend Mary who missed being gassed by days. I'm sure the people of the seventeenth century looked back with unbelief at the burnings of religious people who didn't fit the current mold but went on with life where all could worship as they wished.
I know that the real gut wrenching, visceral reaction to 9-11 will fade with each year that passes. I know it will still make future generations shake their heads, not believing that terrorists were allowed to get that close. I know people will specialize in this era in history and play it out over and over like a Civil War enactment.
But for today, for us, it's good to feel the horror and to watch the pictures. It's good to have remembrance services and make the kids sit through lessons or videos. As has been said of World War 2, "Never forget, never forget."
We had just moved into our new home in Willow Grove. Baby Brianna and I were the only ones home and I had taken her to nursery school. A friend called and I couldn't understand what she was saying, she was crying so hard. She made me understand to turn on my TV, America was under attack! I ran to look and got there just in time for the second plane plowing into the tower. My mind covered up what I couldn't believe. A plane - flew into a skyscraper - full of people - and it wasn't an accident. Nah, of course it was an accident. Some poor pilot got way out of control.
Except it wasn't. It really was an intentional act of foreign mad men. I drove frantically to the daycare to get Brianna. I called my family who were out on the road and couldn't come home. I was sure, like the rest of America, that this was war and we were going to die today. I wanted to die with my family around me. But it was not possible for them to get home and so I watched, tears pouring down my face, horrified, all day, with Brianna sitting in her playpen, burbling and playing, in her innocence, not knowing what life changing event was unfolding before our eyes. I don't make fun of George Bush's expression when the secret service man walked into that classroom and whispered in his ear. I felt the same way he did. You can't take it in.
She's twelve now and studies history in school. Yes, the kids think 9-11 is terrible. But they can't possibly understand the real horror behind the story. My husband is a Civil War buff. It's his hobby to read about the battles and go to re-enactments. But for those men, it was hell come to life. I read about Pearl Harbor and watched the movie with Ben Affleck but I'm not as moved as was my father in law who lived through it. I'm interested in World War 2 from a historical viewpoint and it does horrify me, but not like it did my parents, or my uncle who was an army private who liberated one of the death camps or my friend Mary who missed being gassed by days. I'm sure the people of the seventeenth century looked back with unbelief at the burnings of religious people who didn't fit the current mold but went on with life where all could worship as they wished.
I know that the real gut wrenching, visceral reaction to 9-11 will fade with each year that passes. I know it will still make future generations shake their heads, not believing that terrorists were allowed to get that close. I know people will specialize in this era in history and play it out over and over like a Civil War enactment.
But for today, for us, it's good to feel the horror and to watch the pictures. It's good to have remembrance services and make the kids sit through lessons or videos. As has been said of World War 2, "Never forget, never forget."
Tuesday, September 4, 2012
Party Politics
I'm frustrated, angry and sometimes bemused about the party conventions! I want to watch my regular shows but feel a responsibility to know what's going on in my own country's politics.
I'm an Independent and usually an Undecided. My vote is a paradox - I realize that the man (or hopefully one day, woman) can only do what his party tells him, and I know the basic party lines don't change. And yet, I come down on the side of the man and not the party! I guess I'm more group think that I think I am.
Their platform "planks" don't move me. Promises made don't move me. Republicans have to be pro-life although the president has no authority to do anything about abortion and even if he could, wouldn't touch that hot potato. Democrats have to be for social programs although it costs citizens dearly in taxes to pay for them. Year after year each party candidate shouts about being for or against abortion, gay marriage, gays in general, government spending, immigration and then does nothing when they finally get in. I remember George Bush at his convention, speaking Spanish to his Hispanic voters, promising all kinds of perks to their communities. Yeah, that happened. And Obama promising a change and hope - not so much.
Some of my friends vote along moral lines. The Christian (from the right denomination); the one who champions pro-life; the one who is anti "gay agenda". Drives me up a wall. How does a man's moral compass make him a credible CEO of the company known as USA? Some people I know go for the man who looks good, who represents to foreign governments, who is conciliatory. Again, how does a nice guy apply to global finance and war? Reagan was everybody's grandfather, Kennedy was a handsome playboy wink wink, Bush was the quintessential cowboy, Clinton was cool, Palin was 'just like us' soccer mom, Obama is, well, ethnic and a nice family man. None of which fits them for the job!!
And yet, they did a credible job with what they were allowed to do by handlers and the opposition. They had their hits and they had their misses, like the rest of we unwashed masses.
So the RNC just ended, the DNC is tonight. There will be comparisons, we'll like and hate some of what we hear from both. Party faithful will cheer for their guy no matter what he says and criticize the opposition. Both will accuse the other of telling lies. Both will trot out some sentimental character who steals the show with a goofy speech meant to make the candidate look human. Their wives will tell us all what a loving husband she has. We'll be told that he wants to return us to the Real America... uh, and that is??? 50s? 20s? Beaver Cleaver? Thomas Jefferson???
But basically, who doesn't already know who they're voting for? Between now and November gobs of money will be spent and miles clocked for last minute campaigning - when 9 out of 10 of us have already made up our minds.
Based on.......???? Promises are empty, it's all a show... In the end, we continue to vote for the man, not the party platform. Hopefully not for his religion, or because of ridiculous smears (put out by the candidate himself to garner hype), or because he plays the sax, reminds of of the good old days or has either an assertive or 'purty' little wife.
I hope the vote is based on experience, integrity and balance.
I'm an Independent and usually an Undecided. My vote is a paradox - I realize that the man (or hopefully one day, woman) can only do what his party tells him, and I know the basic party lines don't change. And yet, I come down on the side of the man and not the party! I guess I'm more group think that I think I am.
Their platform "planks" don't move me. Promises made don't move me. Republicans have to be pro-life although the president has no authority to do anything about abortion and even if he could, wouldn't touch that hot potato. Democrats have to be for social programs although it costs citizens dearly in taxes to pay for them. Year after year each party candidate shouts about being for or against abortion, gay marriage, gays in general, government spending, immigration and then does nothing when they finally get in. I remember George Bush at his convention, speaking Spanish to his Hispanic voters, promising all kinds of perks to their communities. Yeah, that happened. And Obama promising a change and hope - not so much.
Some of my friends vote along moral lines. The Christian (from the right denomination); the one who champions pro-life; the one who is anti "gay agenda". Drives me up a wall. How does a man's moral compass make him a credible CEO of the company known as USA? Some people I know go for the man who looks good, who represents to foreign governments, who is conciliatory. Again, how does a nice guy apply to global finance and war? Reagan was everybody's grandfather, Kennedy was a handsome playboy wink wink, Bush was the quintessential cowboy, Clinton was cool, Palin was 'just like us' soccer mom, Obama is, well, ethnic and a nice family man. None of which fits them for the job!!
And yet, they did a credible job with what they were allowed to do by handlers and the opposition. They had their hits and they had their misses, like the rest of we unwashed masses.
So the RNC just ended, the DNC is tonight. There will be comparisons, we'll like and hate some of what we hear from both. Party faithful will cheer for their guy no matter what he says and criticize the opposition. Both will accuse the other of telling lies. Both will trot out some sentimental character who steals the show with a goofy speech meant to make the candidate look human. Their wives will tell us all what a loving husband she has. We'll be told that he wants to return us to the Real America... uh, and that is??? 50s? 20s? Beaver Cleaver? Thomas Jefferson???
But basically, who doesn't already know who they're voting for? Between now and November gobs of money will be spent and miles clocked for last minute campaigning - when 9 out of 10 of us have already made up our minds.
Based on.......???? Promises are empty, it's all a show... In the end, we continue to vote for the man, not the party platform. Hopefully not for his religion, or because of ridiculous smears (put out by the candidate himself to garner hype), or because he plays the sax, reminds of of the good old days or has either an assertive or 'purty' little wife.
I hope the vote is based on experience, integrity and balance.
Monday, July 30, 2012
The Little Boo Boos of Life
I clearly remember taking a skid on the pavement outside my home in Mayfair and scraping both knees. It couldn't even be classified as an injury - just a little skin missing and a trace of blood. But I went crying to my mother as if both legs had been broken off at the stems! First she hugged me, then she sat me on the kitchen table, washed the scrape and drew a Mercurochrome dog on my knees. Sent me back out with a kiss and that was the end of it.
What if my mother had assessed the "injury" as nothing and told me to stop making a big thing out of nothing? As I grew up with many more scrapes and insults to my childish dignity I knew where to come for help. In my teen years the problems were a good bit worse than a papercut or sore finger. But I knew where to go with them. My parents set the foundation early as the ones who would always have my back no matter what. Even as a wife, mother and grandmother, I still knew where to come for some tea and sympathy. Giving attention to the insignificant problems of life sets the stage for asking for help with the significant ones.
I've heard it said that giving attention to cuts and bruises only perpetuates negativity and promotes hypochondria. Actually, it's the opposite. An injury is a question that asks for resolution. If a person doesn't find resolution they'll repeat and repeat, searching for a different outcome, sometimes for the rest of their lives. Completing the cycle by answering the question ends it.
You don't want a child completing the cycle or looking for that resolution outside of the safety of their parents' home. Many a parent has wept over a lost child - "Why did they go with that person? We raised her better than this!" Unfortunately, a roof over her head and 3 squares a day don't fill in the place that longs for someone to care. Have we adults been overlooked so often that we forget what it feels like to need that caring touch?
Caring about the small hurts of life also teaches the child some important things they need to know about God. 'Is He really a God who cares about little me? Or am I on my own in the cosmos unless the need is of epic importance, and even then...'
My message to young mothers and fathers is - Have patience, keep your eye on the goal. You're building something here that needs a stable foundation. Be that foundation for your child.
What if my mother had assessed the "injury" as nothing and told me to stop making a big thing out of nothing? As I grew up with many more scrapes and insults to my childish dignity I knew where to come for help. In my teen years the problems were a good bit worse than a papercut or sore finger. But I knew where to go with them. My parents set the foundation early as the ones who would always have my back no matter what. Even as a wife, mother and grandmother, I still knew where to come for some tea and sympathy. Giving attention to the insignificant problems of life sets the stage for asking for help with the significant ones.
I've heard it said that giving attention to cuts and bruises only perpetuates negativity and promotes hypochondria. Actually, it's the opposite. An injury is a question that asks for resolution. If a person doesn't find resolution they'll repeat and repeat, searching for a different outcome, sometimes for the rest of their lives. Completing the cycle by answering the question ends it.
You don't want a child completing the cycle or looking for that resolution outside of the safety of their parents' home. Many a parent has wept over a lost child - "Why did they go with that person? We raised her better than this!" Unfortunately, a roof over her head and 3 squares a day don't fill in the place that longs for someone to care. Have we adults been overlooked so often that we forget what it feels like to need that caring touch?
Caring about the small hurts of life also teaches the child some important things they need to know about God. 'Is He really a God who cares about little me? Or am I on my own in the cosmos unless the need is of epic importance, and even then...'
My message to young mothers and fathers is - Have patience, keep your eye on the goal. You're building something here that needs a stable foundation. Be that foundation for your child.
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