It's 11:30 pm, I've brushed my teeth and taken my medication. Lights are out in the bedroom, David is snoring. I lay there with pillows plumped for a half hour and then got up, came in here to write more on the stories I have going. Why? Because nothing but dark thoughts are going through my head. Depressive thoughts. Things I should have done, things I did do that were wrong, regrets, scenarios of what I wish had happened in certain circumstances. Does this happen to you too? I bet it does.
In other days I would write a story in my head. Or think of a Bible verse for every letter of the alphabet, or girl's names, or favorite foods. I usually never got farther than G. But it doesn't work for me anymore. Maybe something about aging when the stories have been written, no new Bible verses to surprise myself, don't care about girls' names and I'm on a strict diet so shouldn't think about food.
So I get up and see if Joel or Joyce are on the religious channels. Or go to my trusty computer and write or blog. I have a memory of long ago. This is the house I grew up in. I was often frightened in the night but terrified to get up and face the monsters that lurked for me in the dark. But when I did, I found comfort in the living room. Mother would be lying on the sofa covered in an afghan that she had made, a radio at her eat tuned to the Family Bible Hour music. She would be murmuring. It wasn't a bad dream, she was praying. An insomniac (is that where I get it?) and often having depressing thoughts (she told me on her death bed) she would go into the living room. Dad would have set up her nest with the blankets and radio. He would make her toast and go back to bed. Mother would lie there in the dark praying.
And then one night, I heard my name. "Bless little Martha..." Little Martha was 13 and wild, rebellious, heedless and thoughtless. Had nothing to do with God. Was scaring my gentle mother to death with my antics. But I heard my name in prayer. My mother, who couldn't stop me, knew who could. I felt so loved.
So in a few minutes I'm going to close up shop here and try again, if David's snoring doesn't keep me up. I'm having a routine blood test in the morning and cannot eat anything until 10 tomorrow morning and if I sit here long enough, I'll eat and that will be the end of my blood test. What will I do to get to sleep? Stay tuned!
Sunday, June 2, 2013
Friday, April 26, 2013
A Sweet Hobby
I remember the day, around 1962, when my mother came into this very living room and sat beside me on the sofa making me turn off the TV. I was not pleased. She had a sampler she had sewn when she was a child. Why she would think I, her wild pre teen would care, I don't know. I still see it - a home made counted cross stitch design that said 'Search the Scriptures'. Of all the lame things to say, mother asked me if I would like to make a sampler too. I think she was in the mood to share something with her daughter and that was what she came up with. In a burst of uncharacteristic cooperation, I said I would like that.
Mother got out a piece of fine muslin from her fabric box. Together we used a pencil to mark Xs in the shape of words. Mine said, 'Love One Another'. I was given a hoop and red thread and set to work. Mother and I had a great afternoon together, laughing and sharing.
And that was the start of one of my favorite hobbies. I loved cross stitch. And it didn't take me long to finish a piece. When I was thirteen my Pioneer Girl leader announced that she had started a business - glory be, a sampler company!! And it was just up the street. My father drove me over and I thought I would faint from the joy of it. A warehouse full of printed cross stitch kits. I chose two and remember that they cost about $3 each. They were finished within two weeks. He took me back. And I picked the biggest, hardest one there - St. Francis of Assisi Prayer, 16x20, half inch letters. It took a year off and on. It hung in my parent's house until I got married and it moved to my house. I have no idea where it is now. Then I did an alphabet sampler with a flower for every letter. My daughter has that one. In my thirties, depressed, overwhelmed, my father knew just what would perk me up. He bought me a crewel kit of a Hummel child thinking it would give me encouragement. That was followed by three more Hummels. In the following years I would take a piece of muslin or lawn and draw a picture or a poem and just free lance it. I carried a 5x7 square of aida cloth with me at all times and would sooth my social anxiety by doing poems and Bible verses. I can see myself, my busy hands on my lap, weaving the needle in and out, while trying to look like I was listening.
And then I stopped. Never picked up the needle again. I think life got too busy and overwhelming for hobbies. When the girls were here last summer and we went through the cedar chest, they exclaimed over the many needlework pieces, almost fifty, that were stored there. When they went home, I couldn't get embroidery out of my mind. So I went out and bought a large length of aida cloth and looked up some counted cross stitch patterns online (something my mother didn't have). And started to stitch. And stitch. And stitch. Pictures and words and alphabets. I have a quilt made of embroidered Bible verses, 14 samplers of all kinds. Just started #15. I love going to Michael's and ruminating over thread colors. So many more than I had in 1965. What am I going to do with them? Nothing. Roll them up in a tube and when I'm dead my girls will find them and say, "What the heck?" Or maybe they'll value them as I did my mother's work.
I know that at some point, like Forrest Gump, I'm going to be done and just stop. I only have one piece of aida left so maybe the time is coming. How sad. But until then, I'm having a ball. Thanks Mom.
Mother got out a piece of fine muslin from her fabric box. Together we used a pencil to mark Xs in the shape of words. Mine said, 'Love One Another'. I was given a hoop and red thread and set to work. Mother and I had a great afternoon together, laughing and sharing.
And that was the start of one of my favorite hobbies. I loved cross stitch. And it didn't take me long to finish a piece. When I was thirteen my Pioneer Girl leader announced that she had started a business - glory be, a sampler company!! And it was just up the street. My father drove me over and I thought I would faint from the joy of it. A warehouse full of printed cross stitch kits. I chose two and remember that they cost about $3 each. They were finished within two weeks. He took me back. And I picked the biggest, hardest one there - St. Francis of Assisi Prayer, 16x20, half inch letters. It took a year off and on. It hung in my parent's house until I got married and it moved to my house. I have no idea where it is now. Then I did an alphabet sampler with a flower for every letter. My daughter has that one. In my thirties, depressed, overwhelmed, my father knew just what would perk me up. He bought me a crewel kit of a Hummel child thinking it would give me encouragement. That was followed by three more Hummels. In the following years I would take a piece of muslin or lawn and draw a picture or a poem and just free lance it. I carried a 5x7 square of aida cloth with me at all times and would sooth my social anxiety by doing poems and Bible verses. I can see myself, my busy hands on my lap, weaving the needle in and out, while trying to look like I was listening.
And then I stopped. Never picked up the needle again. I think life got too busy and overwhelming for hobbies. When the girls were here last summer and we went through the cedar chest, they exclaimed over the many needlework pieces, almost fifty, that were stored there. When they went home, I couldn't get embroidery out of my mind. So I went out and bought a large length of aida cloth and looked up some counted cross stitch patterns online (something my mother didn't have). And started to stitch. And stitch. And stitch. Pictures and words and alphabets. I have a quilt made of embroidered Bible verses, 14 samplers of all kinds. Just started #15. I love going to Michael's and ruminating over thread colors. So many more than I had in 1965. What am I going to do with them? Nothing. Roll them up in a tube and when I'm dead my girls will find them and say, "What the heck?" Or maybe they'll value them as I did my mother's work.
I know that at some point, like Forrest Gump, I'm going to be done and just stop. I only have one piece of aida left so maybe the time is coming. How sad. But until then, I'm having a ball. Thanks Mom.
Sunday, April 21, 2013
The Impossible Hand of Understanding
Corrie Ten Boom was a Dutch christian, an ordinary person, in an ordinary family, strong papa, dear mama, loving sisters. Their lives were flowing by with nothing of any great importance happening. And Corrie had every reason to believe she would reach the end of her life having lived a quiet, humble life. Then World War 2 happened and the Nazis swept into Holland and occupied it, dispatching the Jews and anyone who aided them. The quiet life ended. Corrie joined the underground, at age 45, and her family ended up hiding Jews in a secret space in their home. One of those women became so frightened she left the hiding place and made it known to one of the boy soldiers in their neighborhood. He was their childhood friend. And he gave them up. The family was arrested, thrown into a train with the town's Jews, and landed at Auschwitz. Papa, Mama, sisters, brother, nieces, nephews - all were sent to the ovens upon arrival. Only Corrie and her sister Betsy survived to go through events that even a horror writer's imagination couldn't conceive. Betsy died two years later, and Corrie survived until rescued by the Americans. She went on, for the rest of her life, as a speaker, healer, recounter of the Holocaust from her perspective as a Christian.
This is one of the stories she tells in her book, The Hiding Place. She was speaking at a meeting in America, four years after the war, telling her story. Urging the audience to forgive as God forgives us, not to hold hatred or grudges against the wicked, but to seek to bring them back from their darkness. When she was finished, a handsome young man came up to her and in a German accent told her this - he had been a guard at Auschwitz and had done evil. After the war he had come across some Christians who had ministered to him and he had completely repented and changed his life. He put out his hand and said, "I would like to ask your forgiveness and shake your hand as a brother in Christ." Corrie looked closer. She saw that he was indeed one of the guards who had beaten her sister and taken pleasure in the inmate's pain. Corrie was paralyzed. She felt hatred well up, pictures of the vile things he had done to her and her sister. She had visions of revenge. She most certainly was not going to shake his hand as if nothing had happened. And then, a strange thing happened. She thought, "God I can't shake his hand. If you want to, fine, but I won't." And with that, without any conscious motion on her part, her arm rose, her hand went out, the man took it and burst into tears. "Please, please, forgive me!" he begged. Corrie said everything changed. The coldness broke open and she embraced him as a brother.
This week, two young men, ordinary boys, living ordinary lives, friends, parents, extended family, education, a wife and child came to a boundary. They could choose this way or that way. One way to a constructive life, the other to destruction. For whatever reason, they chose destruction. Six months ago, a young boy, mentally ill, consumed by video games, executed 26 children in a school. He too had a choice at some point in his life, as did his parents, and he too chose the way of death instead of life.
We're supposed to hate them. I know what I think 'they' should do to them. I know what popular knowledge says should happen. But I just can't. Not because they aren't evil, and deadly, because they are and the events they caused are going down in history as holocausts. I don't take that lightly. But I don't want to be the person who hates, or judges. I can't carry that around with me. On a smaller scale, I've been a criminal, making the choice to do the destructive thing, stepping over that boundary with terrible consequences for someone else. And along with the regret I will always carry, I can't also carry the burden of knowing I'm not forgiven even though I've repented.
So I do the motion. I put my hand out. And hope the emotion follows.
This is one of the stories she tells in her book, The Hiding Place. She was speaking at a meeting in America, four years after the war, telling her story. Urging the audience to forgive as God forgives us, not to hold hatred or grudges against the wicked, but to seek to bring them back from their darkness. When she was finished, a handsome young man came up to her and in a German accent told her this - he had been a guard at Auschwitz and had done evil. After the war he had come across some Christians who had ministered to him and he had completely repented and changed his life. He put out his hand and said, "I would like to ask your forgiveness and shake your hand as a brother in Christ." Corrie looked closer. She saw that he was indeed one of the guards who had beaten her sister and taken pleasure in the inmate's pain. Corrie was paralyzed. She felt hatred well up, pictures of the vile things he had done to her and her sister. She had visions of revenge. She most certainly was not going to shake his hand as if nothing had happened. And then, a strange thing happened. She thought, "God I can't shake his hand. If you want to, fine, but I won't." And with that, without any conscious motion on her part, her arm rose, her hand went out, the man took it and burst into tears. "Please, please, forgive me!" he begged. Corrie said everything changed. The coldness broke open and she embraced him as a brother.
This week, two young men, ordinary boys, living ordinary lives, friends, parents, extended family, education, a wife and child came to a boundary. They could choose this way or that way. One way to a constructive life, the other to destruction. For whatever reason, they chose destruction. Six months ago, a young boy, mentally ill, consumed by video games, executed 26 children in a school. He too had a choice at some point in his life, as did his parents, and he too chose the way of death instead of life.
We're supposed to hate them. I know what I think 'they' should do to them. I know what popular knowledge says should happen. But I just can't. Not because they aren't evil, and deadly, because they are and the events they caused are going down in history as holocausts. I don't take that lightly. But I don't want to be the person who hates, or judges. I can't carry that around with me. On a smaller scale, I've been a criminal, making the choice to do the destructive thing, stepping over that boundary with terrible consequences for someone else. And along with the regret I will always carry, I can't also carry the burden of knowing I'm not forgiven even though I've repented.
So I do the motion. I put my hand out. And hope the emotion follows.
Sunday, March 10, 2013
I Like My Church!
I come from a fundamentalist background, ultra conservative, uber evangelical. It's never sat well with me. Even as a child I had questions and doubts but heaven help the kid who expressed them! As an adult in a traditional church I also had doubts that what I was hearing was the whole truth. But by then the church's value to me was confidence building. I was Mistress of the Church - baptism hostess, kitchen worker, bereavement committee, VBS director, banquet head and all around background detail person. It was easy to ignore the restless whispers in my head that were telling me how off base some of the traditional doctrines were.
In the late 90s my life fell apart. A series of misfortunes, including the pastor from hell, pushed me to the edge of suicide. I came to hate God for allowing the pain. "Donald Trump is a better father than God! He takes care of his children!" It was a very dark time in my life. And the church's pastoral counselor didn't help when he insisted on reading me Bible passages and telling me what I should feel.
At that time, my job was falling apart as well. Dear friends/colleagues were jumping ship. Gerri was my angel and before she left she insisted that I come to her church's women's retreat at a christian resort on the Chesapeake. Yeah, yeah... but she was paying so what the heck. Free weekend away from the husband and children.
First, the Chesapeake is gorgeous. I wasn't prepared for the beauty of it. The resort sits right on the bay with all the smells, sounds and colors one would expect from a movie. You get to the place through a tiny town with quaint, tourist shops, and then along a winding dirt road through a forest.
Secondly, our room was really nice, not the typical hotel room, especially not a christian hotel room. The place had a pool, hot tub, snack bar, thrift shop and private chapel.
We were just in time for the first meeting of the afternoon and our clique got on the elevator to the conference floor. As we got off a young blond woman came striding down the hall with the most beatific smile. "Hurry and get there! The worship is fine!" she said as if talking about a day at the shore. And the worship was fine. I thought I knew what worship was - stodgy, staid, boring songs and windbag testimonies. But this was different. The songs were rocking, the women on their feet, shouting all manner of things from Amen, to Yes Lord to WhaaHoo! Arms in the air, dancing, swaying. I was in love. I was absorbed into groups of women like an amoeba. That weekend I became a Calvary girl.
Fifteen years later, I'm still a Calvary girl. And this is why -
- the same people sit in the same places in this cavernous room, so you know a lot of people by sight and that's okay because you talk to them as if you know them but it doesn't involve an investment in people you might or might not want to hang with.
- it's big enough (2500 a service x 3) that if you want to be known you can be, if you don't want to be known you don't have to be.
- it isn't embarrassing. I can safely invite anybody of any class, gender identity, religion or lack of and know they'll probably have a good time.
- the music rocks.
- it has a support group for everyone - new christians, medical, war vets, pornography addicts, regular addicts, gamblers, Russians and Spanish, divorced adults and kids, bereavement and on and on.
- everything they do is done well. The bathrooms are beautiful, original art work on the walls, a bride's section with private changing room, bathroom and make up mirror. All repairs are done immediately so there's no wreckage to look at. Programs are planned for maximum organization.
- there's a bookstore.
- if you liked a song they'll copy the words for you.
- security is highly organized and secret. Children couldn't be safer in the building. I once saw an Adam Code when a child was missing from the room. Men and women rushed to the doors and locked them. Another team swept through the sunday school rooms. She was found in her brother's room. On the anniversary of 9/11 friendly security people were posted on every hallway. I know some of them carry weapons. The pastor has a body guard, very low key and it's sad that Joe needs one but that's life.
- we get to call our pastor Joe because he's just a guy who does his job well, not a demi god.
- if you're upset and cry you get a half dozen people with their hands on you praying.
- if you go out and sit in the lobby during the service, which I like to do, you see and hear the most interesting people! One guy was on drugs and he sat right next to me to talk about it. One guy was telling his friend how he married a young girl and he didn't want children but she deserved at least one so what the heck. One guy was calling his mother to tell her he had gotten engaged. Thanks - over the phone from the church lobby.
So if you want to go and check out Calvary Chapel, call me. I guarantee you'll like it whether or not you agree with the message.
In the late 90s my life fell apart. A series of misfortunes, including the pastor from hell, pushed me to the edge of suicide. I came to hate God for allowing the pain. "Donald Trump is a better father than God! He takes care of his children!" It was a very dark time in my life. And the church's pastoral counselor didn't help when he insisted on reading me Bible passages and telling me what I should feel.
At that time, my job was falling apart as well. Dear friends/colleagues were jumping ship. Gerri was my angel and before she left she insisted that I come to her church's women's retreat at a christian resort on the Chesapeake. Yeah, yeah... but she was paying so what the heck. Free weekend away from the husband and children.
First, the Chesapeake is gorgeous. I wasn't prepared for the beauty of it. The resort sits right on the bay with all the smells, sounds and colors one would expect from a movie. You get to the place through a tiny town with quaint, tourist shops, and then along a winding dirt road through a forest.
Secondly, our room was really nice, not the typical hotel room, especially not a christian hotel room. The place had a pool, hot tub, snack bar, thrift shop and private chapel.
We were just in time for the first meeting of the afternoon and our clique got on the elevator to the conference floor. As we got off a young blond woman came striding down the hall with the most beatific smile. "Hurry and get there! The worship is fine!" she said as if talking about a day at the shore. And the worship was fine. I thought I knew what worship was - stodgy, staid, boring songs and windbag testimonies. But this was different. The songs were rocking, the women on their feet, shouting all manner of things from Amen, to Yes Lord to WhaaHoo! Arms in the air, dancing, swaying. I was in love. I was absorbed into groups of women like an amoeba. That weekend I became a Calvary girl.
Fifteen years later, I'm still a Calvary girl. And this is why -
- the same people sit in the same places in this cavernous room, so you know a lot of people by sight and that's okay because you talk to them as if you know them but it doesn't involve an investment in people you might or might not want to hang with.
- it's big enough (2500 a service x 3) that if you want to be known you can be, if you don't want to be known you don't have to be.
- it isn't embarrassing. I can safely invite anybody of any class, gender identity, religion or lack of and know they'll probably have a good time.
- the music rocks.
- it has a support group for everyone - new christians, medical, war vets, pornography addicts, regular addicts, gamblers, Russians and Spanish, divorced adults and kids, bereavement and on and on.
- everything they do is done well. The bathrooms are beautiful, original art work on the walls, a bride's section with private changing room, bathroom and make up mirror. All repairs are done immediately so there's no wreckage to look at. Programs are planned for maximum organization.
- there's a bookstore.
- if you liked a song they'll copy the words for you.
- security is highly organized and secret. Children couldn't be safer in the building. I once saw an Adam Code when a child was missing from the room. Men and women rushed to the doors and locked them. Another team swept through the sunday school rooms. She was found in her brother's room. On the anniversary of 9/11 friendly security people were posted on every hallway. I know some of them carry weapons. The pastor has a body guard, very low key and it's sad that Joe needs one but that's life.
- we get to call our pastor Joe because he's just a guy who does his job well, not a demi god.
- if you're upset and cry you get a half dozen people with their hands on you praying.
- if you go out and sit in the lobby during the service, which I like to do, you see and hear the most interesting people! One guy was on drugs and he sat right next to me to talk about it. One guy was telling his friend how he married a young girl and he didn't want children but she deserved at least one so what the heck. One guy was calling his mother to tell her he had gotten engaged. Thanks - over the phone from the church lobby.
So if you want to go and check out Calvary Chapel, call me. I guarantee you'll like it whether or not you agree with the message.
Wednesday, December 26, 2012
The Unspeakable
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.
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.
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!
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