The other day, I was going through my mom's desk, and I found a small box. When I opened it, I found all sorts of little figures made out of clothespins, dressed in costumes. It was a nativity scene that Mom had made with Lucy a couple of years ago. She would take care of the girls while I was at work, and one December, she and Lucy crafted a different figure or two each day that she came over.
We've also been listening to the music for the school Christmas program in the car, and I keep remembering last year--how my dad drove my mom over early in the morning, and she went to Elaine's program, though she had a hard time sitting up for very long. Then she came back to our house and laid on the couch the rest of the day until it was time to go to Lucy's program in the evening. Her face looked gray and ill, but I know she knew these were the last Christmas programs she'd see. It must have cost her every bit of strength she had to make it through that day.
There's a verse in 2 Kings that to me is one of the hardest verses in the Bible: "Your servant my husband is dead, and you know that he revered the Lord." As in, "He loved God, and he died."
There's a phrase that is not allowed at our house (well, besides "shut up"), and it's: "That's not fair." I don't let my kids say that, ever. But in my own heart lately, I've been thinking about how Elaine's 5th birthday is coming up and the Christmas programs at church and school are coming and a little voice (mine) is saying, "She should be here. I wanted her to see them grow up. She loved God, and she died. It's not fair."
When I was growing up, my parents had this wonderful group of friends, mostly from their Sunday School class. I remember so many gatherings in each other's homes--Sunday nights after church, New Year's Day, 4th of July--seeing my mom and dad and their friends love each other and their families and love God. They would pray together and sit around the table and sing together, lots of laughing mixed in. When someone got sick, they would all rally around and bring meals for the family.
Two years before my mom died, I had a gathering of her old friends, just the women, to celebrate her 75th birthday. At the end, they all sat in a big circle and talked about old times--good times and hard times--and one of the ladies, Alice Dauchy, said, "Sometimes I didn't know how we were going to make it through. But Jesus led us all the way." And all the other ladies assented.
Mrs. Dauchy's in heaven now; she died of cancer six months before my mom.
Another friend, Muriel Holsteen, talked about how her son had met a girl in Germany and they came back here to get married. The girl didn't know a soul, and my mom threw her a wedding shower. My mom said, "Oh Muriel, I don't even remember that!" and Mrs. Holsteen said through her tears, "We have never forgotten it."
Mrs. Holsteen's husband, who was one of the ushers at our church for years and years, died a couple months after my mom.
Another good friend of my parents, Mr. Jim Stone, was our Sunday School superintendent when I was a little girl. Even in his 80s, he still taught Sunday School and took classes at a nearby seminary. He died of cancer a few weeks ago.
Last night I saw on the Moody Alumni Association that another of my parents' friends, who was also our church organist--Dr. Gil Mead--died over Thanksgiving weekend. Darren and I actually met in his Intro to Music class. A few years later, when we were planning our wedding, we asked Mr. Mead to play the organ for the ceremony. He said he didn't normally do weddings but, in his words, "I had a hand in this one!" so he made an exception.
Now, two more of my family's close friends, Annette Anderson and Larry Brown, are nearing the end of their life--cancer again. My mom and Mrs. Anderson were always on the phone and in and out of each other's houses, raising their kids together. Mrs. Anderson's son Dave works at my brother's company and is one of his best friends.
The Browns have been part of the fabric of our life for as long as I can remember. Their son Bill is a good friend of both my brother and me. My parents had a party years ago where everyone brought whatever white elephant items were lying around their house, my mom passed out Monopoly money, and she appointed Mr. Brown the auctioneer because he is the funniest--and they auctioned off their junk to each other. Yet besides his great sense of humor, something I'll remember always about him was the first time my mom had cancer, he came to the pre-op room to pray with her before she went in.
So many good friends and good memories.
"Your servant my husband is dead, and you know that he revered the Lord."
My heart is aching for Bill and Dave, all the kids--my contemporaries--because I know now what it feels like. Nobody loves you like your parent. Nobody takes care of you like your mom. Nobody has got your back like your dad. Nobody can give you wise counsel or pray for you or love your kids like your parents can. I'm praying for them through the hurt I know they're feeling.
But I also keep thinking about all these awesome, godly people I've had the privilege to know. Alice Dauchy. Darrell Holsteen. Jim Stone. Gil Mead. Annette Anderson. Larry Brown. Lois Nichols. And lots more, too. What a treasure they have been and leave for the rest of us.
As my mom's best friend Nita wrote to me, "Heaven can't come soon enough now that Lois is there," or as another friend, Gordy, says, "The receiving line there looks a lot better than the send-off line here."
Our pastor is big on Scripture memory or as he says, "Rinsing your mind with Scripture." It's an area I haven't done well in in a long time, so it's been a good thing for me. Rinsing your mind with Scripture helps rewrite the soundtrack from "It's not fair." I write verses on 3x5 cards and either keep them on my kitchen counter or carry them around in my purse, continuing to go over them throughout the day. Get this--Mr. Holsteen did this throughout his life, and at his memorial service, his grandchildren got up and read the verses off his 3x5 cards.
So, in honor of these righteous people I love and am so honored to have known, these are the verses I've been carrying around with me lately.
Numbers 23:10
"Who can count Jacob's descendants, as numerous as dust? Who can count even a fourth of Israel's people? Let me die like the righteous; let my life end like theirs."
2 Peter 3:11-13
"Since everything here today might well be gone tomorrow, do you see how essential it is to live a holy life? Daily expect the day of God, eager for its arrival. The galaxies will burn up and the elements melt down that day--but we'll hardly notice. We'll be looking the other way, ready for the promised new heavens and promised new earth, all landscaped with righteousness."
Lather, rinse, repeat!
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Monday, November 29, 2010
With Thankful Heart
It's officially the Christmas season! The following piece is part of the November/December issue of Significant Living. However, because this is a value-added blog, while you read it, you can listen to the song that inspired it here. It's pretty much the most beautiful Christmas carol I've ever heard.
The trifecta of awesomeness performing it--Alison Krauss, Natalie McMaster, and Yo-Yo (the cellist, not the cat)--of course, helps. So here's the carol, and below it, the article.
---
With Thankful Heart
When the only verse of the Christmas story you identify with is “They came with haste,” it’s time to reevaluate the season.
My youngest daughter has the dubious pleasure of a December birthday. She’ll be turning 5 this year, so she is certainly at the age where it’s all about the presents. Whenever we are out somewhere and she sees something that catches her eye, she asks, “Can I have that for my birthday?” or “Can I have that for Christmas?” I have heard about either her birthday or Christmas every single day since last December 12 and December 25, respectively.
One recent Sunday on the way to church, she piped up and said, “Mom? You know how Jesus was all growed up but first He was a baby? Well, how did He get here?” A friend of ours had just recently had a baby, so I think she was trying to piece this together, since she knows Jesus is God, and wondering if He arrived in the same fashion. I gave her a suitably simple reply, she seemed satisfied with, and we went on.
With all her talk of Christmas and Jesus’ birth, though, I’m reminded of the celebrations from my childhood. We had, what seems to me, idyllic Christmases. We baked Christmas cookies with my mom; picked out the tree with my dad; decorated the house with ornaments and treasured mementos; opened our home for neighborhood and church parties; and sat around the fire, listening to my dad read us Dickens’ A Christmas Carol. We prepared certain holiday foods and recipes, listened to non-stop Christmas music—Handel’s Messiah and carols performed by the Percy Faith orchestra—and, every Christmas Eve we went to church at midnight for a candlelight service.
I know when many people think of Christmas, they think “family,” “joy,” “togetherness,” or “peace,” and, with that kind of past, I should, too. But now that I am an adult, when I think of Christmas, the first thing that comes to mind is stress.
As the season approaches, I sit at my kitchen island and begin to make lists. I have my calendar on one side to coordinate our schedule of cookie exchanges, my daughters’ Christmas programs and practices, parties, and family events (with that December birthday in the mix). On my other side, there are stacks of recipes for goodies I need to make and bring to neighbors and friends. The dining-room table is piled with my address book, cards to be written and addressed, and a stack of mail from wonderful organizations, reminding me that Christmas is the time to give and remember those in need. When I look at those, I fret about whether I’m emphasizing the importance of this enough to my children.
I’m also making lists of presents—ideas for my immediate family, our extended family, and for gift exchanges. I’m writing this list right next to our bank statement, which produces more stress! I feel trapped wanting to recreate for my children the wonderful Christmases of my youth. I want to give them the gifts they long for and the memories they will treasure. I want to go back to that place, too, where everything seemed bathed in candlelight, joy, security, and love. I can identify with F. Scott Fitzgerald’s comment about revisiting where he lived as a boy: “I realized it wasn’t the town I was longing for; it was the boyhood.”
I’ve got Christmas music playing in the background to put me in the holiday spirit, but I am feeling a bit overwhelmed. Then, suddenly, I register the lyrics of the song that is on:
Good people all, this Christmas time,
Consider well and bear in mind
What our good God for us has done,
In sending His beloved Son.
I am lost in the haunting melody and beauty of the words. When was the last time I simply sat and considered “what our good God for us has done”? When was the last time I pondered that God wrapped Himself in frail, human flesh, and entered our cosmos in order to rescue us and reconcile us to Him?
“Take your son, your one and only son, the son whom you love...”
He didn’t send a military general, great warrior, or political leader. Rather, one heretofore unremarkable night, God Himself rent space and time, tearing a giant hole in the fabric of the universe while all fell silent except for the cry of an infant’s voice—the same voice that cried out “It is finished!” years later, rending the curtain that separated us and God.
God arrived in person.
The carol ends with the words, “. . .with thankful heart and joyful mind.” And, as I sit here, looking around at the lists, the recipes, the calendar, the bank statement, and the responsibilities, I picture God looking down at a pitiful world with kindness and love, a mother looking down at her newborn baby with adoration, and myself looking at my own children with tenderness of all that I want to give them. As their mother, the greatest gift I can give them is this precious truth—what God has done for us—the Gospel.
Oh, my sweet little girls—I can tell you how He got here!
The trifecta of awesomeness performing it--Alison Krauss, Natalie McMaster, and Yo-Yo (the cellist, not the cat)--of course, helps. So here's the carol, and below it, the article.
---
With Thankful Heart
When the only verse of the Christmas story you identify with is “They came with haste,” it’s time to reevaluate the season.
My youngest daughter has the dubious pleasure of a December birthday. She’ll be turning 5 this year, so she is certainly at the age where it’s all about the presents. Whenever we are out somewhere and she sees something that catches her eye, she asks, “Can I have that for my birthday?” or “Can I have that for Christmas?” I have heard about either her birthday or Christmas every single day since last December 12 and December 25, respectively.
One recent Sunday on the way to church, she piped up and said, “Mom? You know how Jesus was all growed up but first He was a baby? Well, how did He get here?” A friend of ours had just recently had a baby, so I think she was trying to piece this together, since she knows Jesus is God, and wondering if He arrived in the same fashion. I gave her a suitably simple reply, she seemed satisfied with, and we went on.
With all her talk of Christmas and Jesus’ birth, though, I’m reminded of the celebrations from my childhood. We had, what seems to me, idyllic Christmases. We baked Christmas cookies with my mom; picked out the tree with my dad; decorated the house with ornaments and treasured mementos; opened our home for neighborhood and church parties; and sat around the fire, listening to my dad read us Dickens’ A Christmas Carol. We prepared certain holiday foods and recipes, listened to non-stop Christmas music—Handel’s Messiah and carols performed by the Percy Faith orchestra—and, every Christmas Eve we went to church at midnight for a candlelight service.
I know when many people think of Christmas, they think “family,” “joy,” “togetherness,” or “peace,” and, with that kind of past, I should, too. But now that I am an adult, when I think of Christmas, the first thing that comes to mind is stress.
As the season approaches, I sit at my kitchen island and begin to make lists. I have my calendar on one side to coordinate our schedule of cookie exchanges, my daughters’ Christmas programs and practices, parties, and family events (with that December birthday in the mix). On my other side, there are stacks of recipes for goodies I need to make and bring to neighbors and friends. The dining-room table is piled with my address book, cards to be written and addressed, and a stack of mail from wonderful organizations, reminding me that Christmas is the time to give and remember those in need. When I look at those, I fret about whether I’m emphasizing the importance of this enough to my children.
I’m also making lists of presents—ideas for my immediate family, our extended family, and for gift exchanges. I’m writing this list right next to our bank statement, which produces more stress! I feel trapped wanting to recreate for my children the wonderful Christmases of my youth. I want to give them the gifts they long for and the memories they will treasure. I want to go back to that place, too, where everything seemed bathed in candlelight, joy, security, and love. I can identify with F. Scott Fitzgerald’s comment about revisiting where he lived as a boy: “I realized it wasn’t the town I was longing for; it was the boyhood.”
I’ve got Christmas music playing in the background to put me in the holiday spirit, but I am feeling a bit overwhelmed. Then, suddenly, I register the lyrics of the song that is on:
Good people all, this Christmas time,
Consider well and bear in mind
What our good God for us has done,
In sending His beloved Son.
I am lost in the haunting melody and beauty of the words. When was the last time I simply sat and considered “what our good God for us has done”? When was the last time I pondered that God wrapped Himself in frail, human flesh, and entered our cosmos in order to rescue us and reconcile us to Him?
“Take your son, your one and only son, the son whom you love...”
He didn’t send a military general, great warrior, or political leader. Rather, one heretofore unremarkable night, God Himself rent space and time, tearing a giant hole in the fabric of the universe while all fell silent except for the cry of an infant’s voice—the same voice that cried out “It is finished!” years later, rending the curtain that separated us and God.
God arrived in person.
The carol ends with the words, “. . .with thankful heart and joyful mind.” And, as I sit here, looking around at the lists, the recipes, the calendar, the bank statement, and the responsibilities, I picture God looking down at a pitiful world with kindness and love, a mother looking down at her newborn baby with adoration, and myself looking at my own children with tenderness of all that I want to give them. As their mother, the greatest gift I can give them is this precious truth—what God has done for us—the Gospel.
Oh, my sweet little girls—I can tell you how He got here!
Monday, November 22, 2010
Of Weddings and Feasts and Cats
I've been a bad blogger lately, so this post will be an amalgamation of a bunch of stuff we've been doing.
First off, I've been out getting a job(s) as it were. My career keeps taking new turns and new directions and reinventing itself, and that's good. 2010 is the year I took to be completely engaged with my family and especially my mom; I'll never forget it. It shaped me like no other year has. 2011 will look different (not that I'm taking off from my family or anything) with regard to work. I'll be moving more into the higher education field--both teaching and coaching writing at a community college as well as developing and teaching Media Writing courses at a university. I'll be gone either in the mornings while the girls are at school or at night while they're asleep. And I'll still keep my freelance writing and editing contracts, too.
Then, there's this, that we are so, so excited about (sorry, Laura!)
When I met with Lucy's teacher at the end of October, she gave Lucy a new reading goal for the quarter. By week two, Lucy had completed 215% of her reading goal. Oh-kay. Her teacher said that she should get to read whatever she wants for fun, but we need higher level books and non-fiction. So imagine our excitement when a royal wedding is announced, and she and I can do an entire reading project together on royal weddings and CLOTHES and customs and jewelry and SHOES and traditions and CLOTHES and history and SHOES. Not to mention, I can now retrieve from my attic my exhaustive library on Princess Diana (see! Kate has her ring! Excited squeal!) Then we will both get up at some ridiculously early hour the day of the wedding and watch coverage of it for hours and hours, just like I did in July, 1981.
I'm not positive that's what her teacher had in mind when she said non-fiction, but it works for us.
Then there's more cat news. Bear with me. Remember Miss Cleo Marple, our unsocial Siamese who hated us? Alas, she is with us no more. Don't worry--she's in a good home, not a cage, where there are no children or other cats. Her behavior just got too awful, and I started referring to her as Mrs. Rochester, since she was like our insane first wife who stayed locked in an upper room. Lucy didn't even object to her leaving, since we have Yo-Yo. Darren was sad (keep remembering this is the person who never wanted a cat in the first place) and wanted me to contact the shelter where Yo-Yo came from to see if they had another nice cat we could get to replace her. So now in addition to Yo-Yo, whom we adore, we have a little stripey tiger tabby named Tuppence (after another of Agatha Christie's girl detectives, natch). I would post a picture of her if I could ever get her to sit still long enough. She zooms around and plays hide-and-seek with Yo-Yo and washes his face for him and stands at the top of the stairs and mews until he comes up, just like a domineering little sister.
Lastly, there's Elaine who had a pow-wow at school and a Thanksgiving feast. Her class all dressed as Indians and invited the other junior kindergarten class who dressed like pilgrims. My friend Kay Lynn and I went to the pow-wow to see them play their tom-toms and sing their harvest songs. Each child had an Indian name they picked themselves, and they were then introduced to the audience. All the little girls had names like, "Princess Sparkle Rainbow" and "Princess Blooming Flower."
But here is MY girl:
Here is Princess Fuzzy Cat with her best buddy Kay Lynn, aka "Miss Kittie." See how they are wearing matching leopard print, too. (And isn't Miss Kittie a dead ringer for Beth Moore? Just saying.)
Those have been a few of our doings lately. Tomorrow Joseph flies in from Tennessee, and I made the mistake of telling the girls last week that he was coming. Now I get to hear every few hours of every day, "Is it today that Uncle Joseph is coming?"
I have written about three different endings to this post, and nothing works. Obviously I better brush up on my cyclical writing skills before I start teaching them to others in January. But our household is a little more stream-of-consciousness than cyclical, so there you go, not to mention I need to ditch my computer and get going on the holiday/guest-arriving-imminently cleaning. I'll just end this with: The End (for now).
First off, I've been out getting a job(s) as it were. My career keeps taking new turns and new directions and reinventing itself, and that's good. 2010 is the year I took to be completely engaged with my family and especially my mom; I'll never forget it. It shaped me like no other year has. 2011 will look different (not that I'm taking off from my family or anything) with regard to work. I'll be moving more into the higher education field--both teaching and coaching writing at a community college as well as developing and teaching Media Writing courses at a university. I'll be gone either in the mornings while the girls are at school or at night while they're asleep. And I'll still keep my freelance writing and editing contracts, too.
Then, there's this, that we are so, so excited about (sorry, Laura!)
When I met with Lucy's teacher at the end of October, she gave Lucy a new reading goal for the quarter. By week two, Lucy had completed 215% of her reading goal. Oh-kay. Her teacher said that she should get to read whatever she wants for fun, but we need higher level books and non-fiction. So imagine our excitement when a royal wedding is announced, and she and I can do an entire reading project together on royal weddings and CLOTHES and customs and jewelry and SHOES and traditions and CLOTHES and history and SHOES. Not to mention, I can now retrieve from my attic my exhaustive library on Princess Diana (see! Kate has her ring! Excited squeal!) Then we will both get up at some ridiculously early hour the day of the wedding and watch coverage of it for hours and hours, just like I did in July, 1981.I'm not positive that's what her teacher had in mind when she said non-fiction, but it works for us.
Then there's more cat news. Bear with me. Remember Miss Cleo Marple, our unsocial Siamese who hated us? Alas, she is with us no more. Don't worry--she's in a good home, not a cage, where there are no children or other cats. Her behavior just got too awful, and I started referring to her as Mrs. Rochester, since she was like our insane first wife who stayed locked in an upper room. Lucy didn't even object to her leaving, since we have Yo-Yo. Darren was sad (keep remembering this is the person who never wanted a cat in the first place) and wanted me to contact the shelter where Yo-Yo came from to see if they had another nice cat we could get to replace her. So now in addition to Yo-Yo, whom we adore, we have a little stripey tiger tabby named Tuppence (after another of Agatha Christie's girl detectives, natch). I would post a picture of her if I could ever get her to sit still long enough. She zooms around and plays hide-and-seek with Yo-Yo and washes his face for him and stands at the top of the stairs and mews until he comes up, just like a domineering little sister.
Lastly, there's Elaine who had a pow-wow at school and a Thanksgiving feast. Her class all dressed as Indians and invited the other junior kindergarten class who dressed like pilgrims. My friend Kay Lynn and I went to the pow-wow to see them play their tom-toms and sing their harvest songs. Each child had an Indian name they picked themselves, and they were then introduced to the audience. All the little girls had names like, "Princess Sparkle Rainbow" and "Princess Blooming Flower."
But here is MY girl:
Here is Princess Fuzzy Cat with her best buddy Kay Lynn, aka "Miss Kittie." See how they are wearing matching leopard print, too. (And isn't Miss Kittie a dead ringer for Beth Moore? Just saying.)
Those have been a few of our doings lately. Tomorrow Joseph flies in from Tennessee, and I made the mistake of telling the girls last week that he was coming. Now I get to hear every few hours of every day, "Is it today that Uncle Joseph is coming?"I have written about three different endings to this post, and nothing works. Obviously I better brush up on my cyclical writing skills before I start teaching them to others in January. But our household is a little more stream-of-consciousness than cyclical, so there you go, not to mention I need to ditch my computer and get going on the holiday/guest-arriving-imminently cleaning. I'll just end this with: The End (for now).
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Happiness Is...
...a warm cat and the funny papers. (And yes. That cat is at my breakfast table. At least he is not ON my breakfast table.)Saturday, November 06, 2010
Rich
I think, at least I am hoping this is true, that when I have some distance from this particular season of our lives I'll look back and think, "Wow. That was really hard." I mean, I hope I don't look back and think, "I had no idea how easy that was in comparison to now." Because things have been difficult lately. This has been a rough year on a lot of fronts. One of the things about a blog is that, while you share stuff about your life, if you're smart and wise and value privacy, you actually won't share all that much. So when I tell you about some hard things we've had, maybe you're thinking, "That's IT? That's what you're groaning about? What a panty-waist. You've never seen trouble," but rest assured, I'm probably giving you only the tip of the iceberg.
Here are just a few things. I'm struggling a bit emotionally with the whole issue of my parents. I consider it a joy and a privilege to do anything I can to help them as they get older, and in my mom's case of course, die. But when you have great parents like mine, it's frightening to watch and daunting because they're my security. They take care of me, not the other way around. As I said to my brother, "I don't think I'm ready for this elder care stuff. You may not realize it, but I'm actually only 22 years old." He just laughed at me and said something along the lines of, "Suck it up," which is a good word for me to hear.
Here's another thing--the huge financial crash our country has gone through has not left our family unscathed. Did you ever read that short story by D.H. Lawrence called "The Rocking Horse Winner" about the house that kept whispering, "There must be more money, there must be more money"? Yeah. Sometimes I just stand and think, "You know what will be great about heaven? No money worries."
Another problem we've been having is Elaine. She's been having both emotional and physical difficulties, and I kind of think that one's causing the other but I don't know which, and it's all just a vicious cycle. Her latest issue that took us to urgent care this week is a UTI. I looked up some of the symptoms in children, and it said, "Irrational, uncontrollable behavior and a refusal to listen." And that's different from every other recent day how...?
I know part of her problem too was that she was scared about my dad. One morning on the way to church, she asked, out of nowhere, "Is Packa going to die?"
"I'm pretty sure he's not going to die right now, hon," I told her. "He's in the hospital, getting better."
"But we took Manga to the hospital, and then she died," she said softly.
All these things and more have been pressing down on us as a family. Our tempers are frayed, our patience is thin, our graciousness toward each other is non-existent at times. We find ourselves yelling at our kids and having gritted-teeth conversations with each other. It's all so discouraging.
I was in the basement recently and came across some CDs I haven't played in awhile--by Rich Mullins. I don't have words for how much I've been impacted by that man's life and music (but you know I'll try to find some, don't you?) I don't know how many times I've read An Arrow Pointing to Heaven. Rich Mullins, if you're not familiar with him, was a poet/songwriter and musician. At one point, he was one of the most commercially successful Christian musicians in Nashville, along with people such as Amy Grant and Michael W. Smith. His album, "A Liturgy, A Legacy, and a Ragamuffin Band," was listed #3 in The 100 Greatest Albums in Christian Music.
Despite this, Rich Mullins chose to live in financial poverty. An accountant handled all of Rich's money, giving him a stipend to live on (in the '90s he was living on 23,000 a year). He lived in a hogan (yup, with a dirt floor) in Kansas where he taught music to Native American kids. He would run across someone who needed help, call up his accountant, tell him about the situation, and ask, "Do I have $3,000 I can give?" upon which his accountant would say, "Yes. Yes, you do have $3,000!"
I got the CDs out and began playing them again because it's been awhile, and his music has always helped me during times of trouble and here's another time of trouble so let's give it a whirl. When most people think of Rich, they think of "Awesome God," but that was actually one of his lesser favorite songs. In an interview, someone asked him which of his songs he thought was good, and he said "Bound to Come Some Trouble," one of my personal favorites.
But Darren and I have been listening to one in particular about which Darren said, "We should just start every single morning by listening to this song." Here are a few of the words:
"Everybody I know says they need just one thing
And what they really mean is that they need just one thing more
And everybody seems to think they've got it coming
Well I know that I don't deserve You
Still I want to love and serve You more and more
You're my one thing.
Who have I in Heaven but You, Jesus?
And what better could I hope to find down here on earth?
I could cross the most distant reaches
Of this world, but I'd just be wasting my time
'Cause I'm certain already, I'm sure I'd find
You're my one thing."
Listening to that song makes me ashamed. Ashamed of how I've been acting and thinking lately. Ashamed of how ungrateful and grasping for a better life I've been. Ashamed of how I've continually just wanted that one more thing that I think will make me happy and content.
Elaine and I were in the car, listening to the music the other day, and she asked me, "When I die, do I get to come back to Rockford?" She's been praying lately that God will help my mom to get better soon and send her back from heaven so she can live with us again.
We're used to having these kinds of conversations with Lucy. She's been wondering about death and God and heaven since before she was two. Elaine's never seem particularly interested until lately and is much more inclined to break in at any serious moment with, "CAN'T WE HAVE POPSICLES NOW?"
"No," I told her. "You won't come back to Rockford. You won't even want to. Heaven is the most wonderful place there is. It's so beautiful and fun and happy. Jesus is there, and Manga's there, too. She's not going to come back to us, Elaine, she's not. We're going to go to her. We don't know when, but we do know it's true."
We talked for a little bit about what heaven might be like--if there will be animals and candy there. If we can touch Jesus when we get there. And if Manga will be waiting for us to arrive.
"She is waiting for you," I promised her. "She can't wait to see her Sweet Pea again."
"I'm gonna wear my shirt that says, 'Sweet Pea' on it so I'm all ready for her!" Elaine told me.
She was quiet for a little bit, and then she said, "Mom?"
I caught her eye in the mirror and saw her little face, that's been so frustrated and frightened and irrational and angry lately--wreathed with smiles. Then she said something that even when I'm an old, old lady I'll always remember, and it's something I'm going to hang on to throughout all these days here now.
"What?" I replied.
"Mom, when I die, I don't want Rockford," she said. "I want Jesus."
Here are just a few things. I'm struggling a bit emotionally with the whole issue of my parents. I consider it a joy and a privilege to do anything I can to help them as they get older, and in my mom's case of course, die. But when you have great parents like mine, it's frightening to watch and daunting because they're my security. They take care of me, not the other way around. As I said to my brother, "I don't think I'm ready for this elder care stuff. You may not realize it, but I'm actually only 22 years old." He just laughed at me and said something along the lines of, "Suck it up," which is a good word for me to hear.
Here's another thing--the huge financial crash our country has gone through has not left our family unscathed. Did you ever read that short story by D.H. Lawrence called "The Rocking Horse Winner" about the house that kept whispering, "There must be more money, there must be more money"? Yeah. Sometimes I just stand and think, "You know what will be great about heaven? No money worries."
Another problem we've been having is Elaine. She's been having both emotional and physical difficulties, and I kind of think that one's causing the other but I don't know which, and it's all just a vicious cycle. Her latest issue that took us to urgent care this week is a UTI. I looked up some of the symptoms in children, and it said, "Irrational, uncontrollable behavior and a refusal to listen." And that's different from every other recent day how...?
I know part of her problem too was that she was scared about my dad. One morning on the way to church, she asked, out of nowhere, "Is Packa going to die?"
"I'm pretty sure he's not going to die right now, hon," I told her. "He's in the hospital, getting better."
"But we took Manga to the hospital, and then she died," she said softly.
All these things and more have been pressing down on us as a family. Our tempers are frayed, our patience is thin, our graciousness toward each other is non-existent at times. We find ourselves yelling at our kids and having gritted-teeth conversations with each other. It's all so discouraging.
I was in the basement recently and came across some CDs I haven't played in awhile--by Rich Mullins. I don't have words for how much I've been impacted by that man's life and music (but you know I'll try to find some, don't you?) I don't know how many times I've read An Arrow Pointing to Heaven. Rich Mullins, if you're not familiar with him, was a poet/songwriter and musician. At one point, he was one of the most commercially successful Christian musicians in Nashville, along with people such as Amy Grant and Michael W. Smith. His album, "A Liturgy, A Legacy, and a Ragamuffin Band," was listed #3 in The 100 Greatest Albums in Christian Music.
Despite this, Rich Mullins chose to live in financial poverty. An accountant handled all of Rich's money, giving him a stipend to live on (in the '90s he was living on 23,000 a year). He lived in a hogan (yup, with a dirt floor) in Kansas where he taught music to Native American kids. He would run across someone who needed help, call up his accountant, tell him about the situation, and ask, "Do I have $3,000 I can give?" upon which his accountant would say, "Yes. Yes, you do have $3,000!"
I got the CDs out and began playing them again because it's been awhile, and his music has always helped me during times of trouble and here's another time of trouble so let's give it a whirl. When most people think of Rich, they think of "Awesome God," but that was actually one of his lesser favorite songs. In an interview, someone asked him which of his songs he thought was good, and he said "Bound to Come Some Trouble," one of my personal favorites.
But Darren and I have been listening to one in particular about which Darren said, "We should just start every single morning by listening to this song." Here are a few of the words:
"Everybody I know says they need just one thing
And what they really mean is that they need just one thing more
And everybody seems to think they've got it coming
Well I know that I don't deserve You
Still I want to love and serve You more and more
You're my one thing.
Who have I in Heaven but You, Jesus?
And what better could I hope to find down here on earth?
I could cross the most distant reaches
Of this world, but I'd just be wasting my time
'Cause I'm certain already, I'm sure I'd find
You're my one thing."
Listening to that song makes me ashamed. Ashamed of how I've been acting and thinking lately. Ashamed of how ungrateful and grasping for a better life I've been. Ashamed of how I've continually just wanted that one more thing that I think will make me happy and content.
Elaine and I were in the car, listening to the music the other day, and she asked me, "When I die, do I get to come back to Rockford?" She's been praying lately that God will help my mom to get better soon and send her back from heaven so she can live with us again.
We're used to having these kinds of conversations with Lucy. She's been wondering about death and God and heaven since before she was two. Elaine's never seem particularly interested until lately and is much more inclined to break in at any serious moment with, "CAN'T WE HAVE POPSICLES NOW?"
"No," I told her. "You won't come back to Rockford. You won't even want to. Heaven is the most wonderful place there is. It's so beautiful and fun and happy. Jesus is there, and Manga's there, too. She's not going to come back to us, Elaine, she's not. We're going to go to her. We don't know when, but we do know it's true."
We talked for a little bit about what heaven might be like--if there will be animals and candy there. If we can touch Jesus when we get there. And if Manga will be waiting for us to arrive.
"She is waiting for you," I promised her. "She can't wait to see her Sweet Pea again."
"I'm gonna wear my shirt that says, 'Sweet Pea' on it so I'm all ready for her!" Elaine told me.
She was quiet for a little bit, and then she said, "Mom?"
I caught her eye in the mirror and saw her little face, that's been so frustrated and frightened and irrational and angry lately--wreathed with smiles. Then she said something that even when I'm an old, old lady I'll always remember, and it's something I'm going to hang on to throughout all these days here now.
"What?" I replied.
"Mom, when I die, I don't want Rockford," she said. "I want Jesus."
Tuesday, November 02, 2010
Halloween Weekend, Part II: Oh, For Pete's Sake
OK, I promised I'd tell you about the biggest thing that happened this week. But first you need a little background information. Really. You do.
Remember this post, where I told you about our new addition to the family, a Siamese cat named Miss (Cleo) Marple? Well, we've had her now for three months and have come to the following conclusion:
She hates us.
Specifically, she hates Lucy and Elaine and doesn't like me much either. She allows Darren to pick her up and pet her. That's about it. She runs away when we come into a room where she is. She slinks around low to the floor and hopes we won't notice her. She hisses. She bites. In short, she's the snootiest, rudest cat ever and is completely ungrateful that we rescued her from certain demise.
A few weeks ago, I had had it.
"We're giving this cat back," I told Darren (before you freak out, her foster home said they would accept her back at any time). "She's obviously not the right cat for us. She needs to be in a quiet, one-person home with no kids."
He said, "Can't we give her some more time? I bet she'll get better; just give her a few more months."
"I want instant gratification," I told him. "I just want a nice, decent cat who likes us. Is that too much to ask?"
I broached the subject with the girls. "We really need to give Miss Cleo Marple back," I told them gently. "She's frightened of us, and she's not nice to you girls. I promise we'll find you a gentle cat who loves little kids."
Lucy fell to the floor, weeping. To the floor, Readers, to the FLOOR. "Moooooommmmmm," she wailed. "You can't! You can't give Miss Cleo Marple away! It's soooooo crrrruuuuueeelll! We promise we love her even if she doesn't like us! Don't give her awaaaaayyyyy! She's had a hard life, and she neeeeeeeds us!" Sobbing ensued.
Elaine, on the other hand, marched up to Cleo. "We're giving you back to Ms Hillery," she informed her. Then she bounced into our room where Darren was. "Dad, we're giving your cat back. And we're getting a nice cat who doesn't bite me and I'm naming her Dolly Bantry." (Dolly Bantry is Miss Marple's best friend, dontcha know.)
Sigh. The drama in our house. It was ratcheted up even more than usual, and yours truly was in the Cruella DeVille role.
Finally, Darren said, "What about...if we had two cats?" Oh, for Pete's sake.
Now when we first got Miss Marple, Joseph told me, "What you really need is Hercule Poirot to keep her company," and I told him to bite his tongue.
But...I live to please these people, so I got back to work with petfinder.com, trying to find another cat whose qualifications basically were now: declawed, housebroken, and adores children and doesn't mind being loved to death and dressed up in doll clothes.
Numerous shelters told me the same thing: have you ever considered a male cat? They all said that neutered male cats were much sweeter, friendlier, and laid-back than female cats. One woman said, "Boy cats are the most loving by far. You know how needy men are."
So, a boy cat it is, though I had to do a little convincing to the girls. Meet the newest member of our family, just arrived Saturday night:
Remember this post, where I told you about our new addition to the family, a Siamese cat named Miss (Cleo) Marple? Well, we've had her now for three months and have come to the following conclusion:
She hates us.
Specifically, she hates Lucy and Elaine and doesn't like me much either. She allows Darren to pick her up and pet her. That's about it. She runs away when we come into a room where she is. She slinks around low to the floor and hopes we won't notice her. She hisses. She bites. In short, she's the snootiest, rudest cat ever and is completely ungrateful that we rescued her from certain demise.
A few weeks ago, I had had it.
"We're giving this cat back," I told Darren (before you freak out, her foster home said they would accept her back at any time). "She's obviously not the right cat for us. She needs to be in a quiet, one-person home with no kids."
He said, "Can't we give her some more time? I bet she'll get better; just give her a few more months."
"I want instant gratification," I told him. "I just want a nice, decent cat who likes us. Is that too much to ask?"
I broached the subject with the girls. "We really need to give Miss Cleo Marple back," I told them gently. "She's frightened of us, and she's not nice to you girls. I promise we'll find you a gentle cat who loves little kids."
Lucy fell to the floor, weeping. To the floor, Readers, to the FLOOR. "Moooooommmmmm," she wailed. "You can't! You can't give Miss Cleo Marple away! It's soooooo crrrruuuuueeelll! We promise we love her even if she doesn't like us! Don't give her awaaaaayyyyy! She's had a hard life, and she neeeeeeeds us!" Sobbing ensued.
Elaine, on the other hand, marched up to Cleo. "We're giving you back to Ms Hillery," she informed her. Then she bounced into our room where Darren was. "Dad, we're giving your cat back. And we're getting a nice cat who doesn't bite me and I'm naming her Dolly Bantry." (Dolly Bantry is Miss Marple's best friend, dontcha know.)
Sigh. The drama in our house. It was ratcheted up even more than usual, and yours truly was in the Cruella DeVille role.
Finally, Darren said, "What about...if we had two cats?" Oh, for Pete's sake.
Now when we first got Miss Marple, Joseph told me, "What you really need is Hercule Poirot to keep her company," and I told him to bite his tongue.
But...I live to please these people, so I got back to work with petfinder.com, trying to find another cat whose qualifications basically were now: declawed, housebroken, and adores children and doesn't mind being loved to death and dressed up in doll clothes.
Numerous shelters told me the same thing: have you ever considered a male cat? They all said that neutered male cats were much sweeter, friendlier, and laid-back than female cats. One woman said, "Boy cats are the most loving by far. You know how needy men are."
So, a boy cat it is, though I had to do a little convincing to the girls. Meet the newest member of our family, just arrived Saturday night:
He's 7 months old. Isn't he sweet?
The girls decided to name him Yo-Yo. After the cellist, not the toy, because they love Yo-Yo Ma and also, his hair is black, just like this cat. Please insert all "Yo-Yo Meow" jokes here and get it out of your system.
Since his arrival, he's made himself at home. When you get a new cat, you're supposed to keep them confined to one room for about three days in order for them to get used to the sounds and smells of a new environment. Miss Marple took about 14 days. Well, 14 days and 3 months and still counting. Yo-Yo took about 3 minutes.
He now confidently roams the house. He jumps up on our laps and takes his naps in a chair with us. He allows himself to be utterly manhandled and carted about and hugged and kissed by two spirited little girls. Of course, he is sometimes the cause of bitter custody battles between them, and I have to intervene because at least once he was in danger of being pulled in half. When they get too much for him, he retreats to his covered litter box, which I think is the equivalent of a man taking his newspaper and hiding out in the bathroom.
He scampers around, leaping on windowsills and furniture (OK, we're gonna put a stop to that). He purrs and rubs against your legs, wanting to be picked up, and head butts you if you've stopped petting him.
In short, he's a total love monkey and ideal for us. In fact, here he is as I sit, blogging:
He also loves to sit in the kitchen, looking out the patio door because we have birdfeeders set up on the patio. His tail twitches back and forth as all the birds come. I think it's like some awesome plasma Bird TV for him.
I figure we've done enough good deeds to last us for awhile. First, did you know that of all cats, black cats are the least likely to get adopted? In fact, they have a 50% less chance of being adopted than any other cat. I guess people a) are superstitious and b) don't think they're cute enough. Yo-Yo begs to differ. (I just can't stop saying "Yo-Yo." It's too fun.) Second, we've still got Miss Snooty Marple and allow her to co-exist with us.
So there was our entire Halloween weekend, complete with the adoption of a little black Halloween cat. Named Yo-Yo.
See? Can't stop saying it.
Monday, November 01, 2010
Halloween Weekend, Part I
November 1st is here, so this morning I replaced the ceramic pumpkin and ghost on the kitchen table with the ceramic turkey, and later today I'll get out our little pilgrim figures. More importantly, I scooped up most of the Halloween leftovers and put them in the freezer. This is a little mental trick I like to play on myself. They're out of sight and hopefully out of my mind, then I'll stumble across them in February or March when cleaning out the freezer (optimistically) and think, "Halloween leftovers...goodbye!"
We do what we have to do.
We had one of those weekends that was jam-packed with activities and every sentence ended with, "...and then we had candy." Elaine woke me up at 6:00 one of these mornings and asked if she could have candy. [Picture a 4-year-old tapping on my cheek relentlessly.]
On Saturday, the girls had a birthday party to go to. It was a fancy tea party at a country club, which went from 11 until 2. I had to go to the rehab hospital to pick up my dad and bring him home, but I got them as ready as possible before I left. I helped them with their showers and did their hair and told them wear their robes until it was time to get dressed. Darren said, "I don't think I can handle dressing them. Can't you put their dresses on before you go? Then they can just sit on the couch for an hour."
"Have you met our girls?" I asked him. I then reiterated to them that, for all of Daddy's wonderful qualities, he doesn't do hair, so to please not run around until it was time to leave.
Here they are--didn't he do a great job? The man had to navigate tights and shoe buckles as well as dresses.
Here is Lucy, looking so grown up and poised it takes my breath away. Where did that chubby-cheeked baby go?
When we all got home, they told me all about the tea party. I wish you could hear it in Lucy's voice, which sounds like an odd cross between mine and a Valley Girl, complete with dramatic facial expressions and hand gestures.
"MOM. It was sooooo fun. We decorated our treat bags and played a sugar cube relay and played musical chairs and I met this really nice girl named Alex but I bet her real name is Alexandra," she said, all in one breath.
"AND WE HAD A PINATA THAT LOOKED LIKE AN ICE CREAM CONE," broke in Elaine, at top volume.
"Then, GET THIS," Lucy added, "You would just DIE, Mom. We had this fancy tea with little sandwiches and blueberry scones that were sooooo yummy and cake and ice cream and the cake was pink with flowers and the ice cream was golden and looked kind of like pumpkin ice cream but it didn't taste like pumpkin ice cream and we had THREE drinks--I had all three--water, lemonade and tea but at first the tea wasn't sweet but then they passed around sugar and I took one of those little blue packets and added then and then it was sooooo sweet and tasted really good." Also all in one breath.
The next day was Halloween, and I tried to get them to settle down in the afternoon but you know that was a completely lost cause. At 5:30 (we had weird hours this year: 5:30 to 7:30), they were dressed and ready to go. Since the day after Halloween last year, Lucy has been saying she wanted to be an American Indian. Elaine wanted to be Fancy Nancy until a few weeks ago when she adamantly changed her mind and decided to be Raggedy Ann. She adores Raggedy Ann. I ordered her costume, and it just got here on Friday.
On Thursday, Katie and I took all the kids in their costumes to visit my dad in rehab, so I threw together a Fancy Nancy outfit for her then. But she was relieved that her Raggedy costume arrived in time for trick-or-treat.
Here is the back view so you can see the papoose tied to Lucy's back. (We don't have an Native American dolls. How negligent of us. So, we just used her Bitty Baby.)
And here is my dear little Raggedy Ann.
They ran around in the cold to all our neighbors and got more candy to add to their Trunk-or-Treat stash from Wednesday and the pinata stash from Saturday.
However, the most exciting part of the weekend happened Saturday night, but I'll leave you hanging until tomorrow.
I'll give you a hint though: Meow.
We do what we have to do.
We had one of those weekends that was jam-packed with activities and every sentence ended with, "...and then we had candy." Elaine woke me up at 6:00 one of these mornings and asked if she could have candy. [Picture a 4-year-old tapping on my cheek relentlessly.]
On Saturday, the girls had a birthday party to go to. It was a fancy tea party at a country club, which went from 11 until 2. I had to go to the rehab hospital to pick up my dad and bring him home, but I got them as ready as possible before I left. I helped them with their showers and did their hair and told them wear their robes until it was time to get dressed. Darren said, "I don't think I can handle dressing them. Can't you put their dresses on before you go? Then they can just sit on the couch for an hour."
"Have you met our girls?" I asked him. I then reiterated to them that, for all of Daddy's wonderful qualities, he doesn't do hair, so to please not run around until it was time to leave.
Here they are--didn't he do a great job? The man had to navigate tights and shoe buckles as well as dresses.
Here is Lucy, looking so grown up and poised it takes my breath away. Where did that chubby-cheeked baby go?
When we all got home, they told me all about the tea party. I wish you could hear it in Lucy's voice, which sounds like an odd cross between mine and a Valley Girl, complete with dramatic facial expressions and hand gestures.
"MOM. It was sooooo fun. We decorated our treat bags and played a sugar cube relay and played musical chairs and I met this really nice girl named Alex but I bet her real name is Alexandra," she said, all in one breath.
"AND WE HAD A PINATA THAT LOOKED LIKE AN ICE CREAM CONE," broke in Elaine, at top volume.
"Then, GET THIS," Lucy added, "You would just DIE, Mom. We had this fancy tea with little sandwiches and blueberry scones that were sooooo yummy and cake and ice cream and the cake was pink with flowers and the ice cream was golden and looked kind of like pumpkin ice cream but it didn't taste like pumpkin ice cream and we had THREE drinks--I had all three--water, lemonade and tea but at first the tea wasn't sweet but then they passed around sugar and I took one of those little blue packets and added then and then it was sooooo sweet and tasted really good." Also all in one breath.
The next day was Halloween, and I tried to get them to settle down in the afternoon but you know that was a completely lost cause. At 5:30 (we had weird hours this year: 5:30 to 7:30), they were dressed and ready to go. Since the day after Halloween last year, Lucy has been saying she wanted to be an American Indian. Elaine wanted to be Fancy Nancy until a few weeks ago when she adamantly changed her mind and decided to be Raggedy Ann. She adores Raggedy Ann. I ordered her costume, and it just got here on Friday.
On Thursday, Katie and I took all the kids in their costumes to visit my dad in rehab, so I threw together a Fancy Nancy outfit for her then. But she was relieved that her Raggedy costume arrived in time for trick-or-treat.
Here is the back view so you can see the papoose tied to Lucy's back. (We don't have an Native American dolls. How negligent of us. So, we just used her Bitty Baby.)
And here is my dear little Raggedy Ann.
They ran around in the cold to all our neighbors and got more candy to add to their Trunk-or-Treat stash from Wednesday and the pinata stash from Saturday.
However, the most exciting part of the weekend happened Saturday night, but I'll leave you hanging until tomorrow.
I'll give you a hint though: Meow.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Scraps of Things
First, I'll tell you about a new tween series I just stumbled upon at the library: The Mother-Daughter Book Club series by Heather Vogel Frederick. Currently, there are four books, the most recent just came out last month--about a group of mothers and daughters in Concord, Massachusetts, who, against the daughters' will, are forced into a book club together. Among the daughters we have Emma, the chubby bookworm; Jess, the introverted farm girl; Megan, the snobby fashionista; and Cassidy, the hockey player.
The first book runs in tandem with Little Women; the second, Much Ado About Anne, with Anne of Green Gables; the third, Dear Pen Pal, with Daddy Long-Legs; and the latest, Pies and Prejudice, with...well, I'm sure you can figure that one out. The books deal with all sorts of contemporary pre-teen issues: bullying, trying to fit in at school, loss of a parent, getting a step-parent, getting a new sibling, being embarrassed of your mom, trying to balance different types of friendship, romance, etc. vis a vis the heroines of literature and seeing how they had to deal with the same situations.
Here is a Library Journal Review of Pies and Prejudice:
The first book runs in tandem with Little Women; the second, Much Ado About Anne, with Anne of Green Gables; the third, Dear Pen Pal, with Daddy Long-Legs; and the latest, Pies and Prejudice, with...well, I'm sure you can figure that one out. The books deal with all sorts of contemporary pre-teen issues: bullying, trying to fit in at school, loss of a parent, getting a step-parent, getting a new sibling, being embarrassed of your mom, trying to balance different types of friendship, romance, etc. vis a vis the heroines of literature and seeing how they had to deal with the same situations.
Here is a Library Journal Review of Pies and Prejudice:
"With four effervescent heroines, several budding romances, an ambitious cooking venture, and a hefty pinch of drama, Pies has instant teen appeal, even more so if readers are Anglophiles. When Emma's family announces they are moving to England for a year, the book club selects Pride & Prejudice in honor of their adventure and keeps up regular meetings via webcam. Austen fans will appreciate the character nods: Emma deflects the advances of a Mr. Collins-like oaf, Megan falls for the amiable Simon Berkeley (aka Mr. Bingley), and Cassidy spends much energy detesting Tristan Berkeley, the obvious but nonetheless enjoyable Mr. Darcy character. For teens who may not recognize these parallels, the author makes them clear with quotes at the head of each chapter, as well as pointed comparisons made by the characters themselves. With interesting facts about Austen interspersed throughout, and a visit to relevant sites in England incorporated, this book makes an excellent introduction to one of the most masterful–and popular–writers of all time. Don't be surprised if 12-year-olds start checking out Pride & Prejudice after reading this teen-tailored adaptation."
In short, the books are sweet and funny (and clean) and I wish I had written them, but my hat's off to Heather, who also has a really fun blog. I would say the books are perfect for 9 to 12-year-olds, but I bet 13- and 14-year-olds would enjoy them, too. Also 41-year-olds.
In other news, today is the last day of school for this week because tomorrow are Parent-Teacher conferences, and Friday is a teacher in-service, which is the brilliant way our school escapes the drama of Halloween every year.
I got Lucy's first quarter report card the other day, which is what we'll be discussing at the P/T conference. This is my girl who every day, when I ask, "How was second grade today?" without fail answers, "AWESOME!" I'm not worried. At the beginning of the year at the parents' open house, her teacher told us that at least in the first report card, she does not give grades above "3" (Consistently achieves the standard) or "S" (Satisfactorily meets expectations). The highest grades are 4 and E. Lucy got one 4, for her independent reading goal, and one E--in art. The rest were mostly 3s and S's.
Here was her teacher's comment: "Lucy has adjusted well to 2nd grade. She is a fun-loving and creative child. Her skills are solid at this time. She loves chatting--often at inappropriate times, which I hope to help her curb. She is delightful!"
I dunno--does this lady get my daughter, or what? I think we will have fun, "chatting" together tomorrow.
Oh and just to add--the other day, Lucy came home and said, "Mom! We rearranged our seats at school and now I'm next to Lily and Tomas so we can chat as much as we want to!" I put that as my status on facebook, and my friend Tom said, "Somehow I'm seeing Lily as Ethel and Tomas as Ricky."
Lastly, tonight is Trunk or Treat at AWANA, and the girls are supposed to come dressed as their favorite Bible character. This was their conversation coming home from church last week:
Lucy: I want to dress up as either Queen Esther or that Egyptian princess who got Moses out of the water.
Elaine: I'm gonna dress up as Eve.
Lucy: ELAINE! That means you would go to AWANA without any clothes on. Not even your UNDERWEAR.
Elaine: Oh. I do not get that at all.
I told them that I had already bought the Halloween costumes they wanted (that have nothing to do with the Bible) and I don't know how to sew, so unless they want to wrap themselves in my pashminas and be Mary and Martha, they can just wear their playclothes like always since it will be dark out in the parking lot and no one will notice anyway.
There's only so much a mom can do, can I get an amen? To go along with that, I'll leave you with this great post by my friend Alysa. Now, knowing her, she probably would whip up Bible costumes on a moment's notice...but she'd never make you feel bad that you didn't! Love you, girl!
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Somebody's Knocking at Your Door
A couple weeks ago, the doorbell rang. Usually when that happens, the UPS man has dropped off a box from amazon, so I went to the door to get it. Instead, it was a lady from the Jehovah Witnesses. I opened the door and listened to her talk; she read me some verses out of the Bible and gave me some literature…and promised she would come back again soon to talk with me.
When I closed the door and went back to the living room, I felt ashamed that I hadn’t said anything about what I believe. I just listened and nodded my head. I just remember growing up, whenever we saw the JWs or the Mormons canvassing the street, my mom would say, “Quick! Lie down on the floor until they go away!” I wasn’t prepared for that lady—I thought she was an amazon box. I would have lain down on the floor and waited until she went away if I had known.
Recently, a friend of mine posted something on facebook about Christopher Hitchens. I commented on his post because, wait for it, I kind of like Christopher Hitchens. If you’re unfamiliar with him, he’s one of the most famous atheists in the world today. While I disagree with many of his premises and his life philosophy, I don’t disagree with him on everything, and frankly, he’s a great writer and I enjoy reading him.
My comment on my friend’s post led to a small interchange, which led to an extensive correspondence that we took to email—because my friend is a dedicated atheist as well. Hitchens is one of his heroes.
My friend and I ended up discussing and examining each other’s viewpoints on God. We've been asking each other questions and listening to the answers. We've been having what Os Guiness calls, “civil discourse in the public square,” except it's not that public.
During our correspondence, which has been pretty extensive, my friend has been nothing but gracious and courteous, genuinely interested in what I have to say. Also—he is far better read, more intelligent, and much better at asserting his views than I am. I’m thinking if you were on the fence and you read our letters, you’d probably end up siding with him.
He has read the Bible from cover to cover. He’s also read Lewis, Chesterton, Augustine, Aquinas, Tillich, Buber, and more. Kierkegaard is one of his favorites. During the course of our letters, I felt utterly inadequate. I don’t say that for people to come around and pat me on the back and say I did a good job. I kept thinking of the verse from I Peter: “Always be prepared to give an answer to everyone who asks you to give the reason for the hope that you have. But do this with gentleness and respect.” I tried to do that, but as I said, my friend could give a much better defense for his viewpoints and beliefs than I could for mine. Honestly, I was still metaphorically lying on the floor, waiting for the doorbell to stop ringing.
At one point, he asked me this question, in lieu of my acknowledging my own occasional doubts: “But if you've had an intimate relationship with Creator of the universe, why would you ever again have reason to doubt His reality? (I know that once I've met someone, I no longer question whether that person exists.)”
Here is my reply:
-----
Yes, I do doubt sometimes. Because I am just a weak human being with an average intellect. I look around at people and think, "Am I the only person here who believes this stuff? What if I am totally deluded? Other people seem to be doing just fine without God."
Even though I have felt and known God's presence and love and goodness, I get exhausted with life and tired and wonder if it's all just some big cosmic joke.
You mentioned that you don't think the world is an awful place. I agree that this world is beautiful and is filled with wondrous things and places and people and relationships. Watching the leaves change, hearing my kids laugh, enjoying a great meal with friends...it is good, and I try to be conscious of all the good things and be thankful for them.
But two hours ago, I stood at the curb in a small town and watched as a motorcade went down the street, followed by a hearse, carrying a 19-year-old Marine who was just killed in Afghanistan. He had been there only 3 weeks. Someone handed me an American flag to hold, but I had a hard time thinking about duty and honor and freedom, when all I could think about was that young boy’s—because really that's all he was—that young boy's mom. I kept having that Kipling poem run through my head:
Have you news of my boy Jack?”
Not this tide.
“When d’you think that he’ll come back?”
Not with this wind blowing, and this tide.
“Has any one else had word of him?”
Not this tide.
For what is sunk will hardly swim,
Not with this wind blowing, and this tide.
“Oh, dear, what comfort can I find?”
None this tide,
Nor any tide,
Except he did not shame his kind —
Not even with that wind blowing, and that tide.
Then hold your head up all the more,
This tide,
And every tide;
Because he was the son you bore,
And gave to that wind blowing and that tide!
Yes. I do think this world is an awful place and though I know and love God, sometimes I wonder where He is and what He's doing and why. Also, I can't see Him.
But when I doubt, I go back to what His Word has said, as in Hebrews 4:16 "Let us therefore come boldly to the throne of grace that we may obtain mercy and find grace to help in time of need."
Or I go to one of my favorite statements, written by St. Paul "Nevertheless, I am not ashamed, for I know whom I have believed and am persuaded that He is able to keep that which I've committed unto him against that day."
For me, the reassuring reality is not in the strength of my grip on God. It's the strength of His grip on me.”
-----
This conversation has been challenging me to think a lot this past week. I have taken numerous courses in evangelism, systematic theology, hermeneutics, and apologetics. I don’t know if they’ve helped me much at all—not because they weren’t good classes, they were—but because they were a long time ago; I’ve forgotten a lot; and in the meantime, life has taken over, I’ve had two little kids, and I read a lot of Kipper the Dog books these days, instead of philosophy and theology to sharpen my mind and defend my faith.
But the whole interchange with my friend has brought to my mind the great 20th-century theologian, Karl Barth, who spoke and taught and wrote so eloquently and at such length, particularly on the transcendence of God. Yet when someone asked him to sum up his theology and the millions of words he had written, he answered simply this:
“Jesus loves me, this I know, for the Bible tells me so.”
I don’t know how to say it any better than that.
When I closed the door and went back to the living room, I felt ashamed that I hadn’t said anything about what I believe. I just listened and nodded my head. I just remember growing up, whenever we saw the JWs or the Mormons canvassing the street, my mom would say, “Quick! Lie down on the floor until they go away!” I wasn’t prepared for that lady—I thought she was an amazon box. I would have lain down on the floor and waited until she went away if I had known.
Recently, a friend of mine posted something on facebook about Christopher Hitchens. I commented on his post because, wait for it, I kind of like Christopher Hitchens. If you’re unfamiliar with him, he’s one of the most famous atheists in the world today. While I disagree with many of his premises and his life philosophy, I don’t disagree with him on everything, and frankly, he’s a great writer and I enjoy reading him.
My comment on my friend’s post led to a small interchange, which led to an extensive correspondence that we took to email—because my friend is a dedicated atheist as well. Hitchens is one of his heroes.
My friend and I ended up discussing and examining each other’s viewpoints on God. We've been asking each other questions and listening to the answers. We've been having what Os Guiness calls, “civil discourse in the public square,” except it's not that public.
During our correspondence, which has been pretty extensive, my friend has been nothing but gracious and courteous, genuinely interested in what I have to say. Also—he is far better read, more intelligent, and much better at asserting his views than I am. I’m thinking if you were on the fence and you read our letters, you’d probably end up siding with him.
He has read the Bible from cover to cover. He’s also read Lewis, Chesterton, Augustine, Aquinas, Tillich, Buber, and more. Kierkegaard is one of his favorites. During the course of our letters, I felt utterly inadequate. I don’t say that for people to come around and pat me on the back and say I did a good job. I kept thinking of the verse from I Peter: “Always be prepared to give an answer to everyone who asks you to give the reason for the hope that you have. But do this with gentleness and respect.” I tried to do that, but as I said, my friend could give a much better defense for his viewpoints and beliefs than I could for mine. Honestly, I was still metaphorically lying on the floor, waiting for the doorbell to stop ringing.
At one point, he asked me this question, in lieu of my acknowledging my own occasional doubts: “But if you've had an intimate relationship with Creator of the universe, why would you ever again have reason to doubt His reality? (I know that once I've met someone, I no longer question whether that person exists.)”
Here is my reply:
-----
Yes, I do doubt sometimes. Because I am just a weak human being with an average intellect. I look around at people and think, "Am I the only person here who believes this stuff? What if I am totally deluded? Other people seem to be doing just fine without God."
Even though I have felt and known God's presence and love and goodness, I get exhausted with life and tired and wonder if it's all just some big cosmic joke.
You mentioned that you don't think the world is an awful place. I agree that this world is beautiful and is filled with wondrous things and places and people and relationships. Watching the leaves change, hearing my kids laugh, enjoying a great meal with friends...it is good, and I try to be conscious of all the good things and be thankful for them.
But two hours ago, I stood at the curb in a small town and watched as a motorcade went down the street, followed by a hearse, carrying a 19-year-old Marine who was just killed in Afghanistan. He had been there only 3 weeks. Someone handed me an American flag to hold, but I had a hard time thinking about duty and honor and freedom, when all I could think about was that young boy’s—because really that's all he was—that young boy's mom. I kept having that Kipling poem run through my head:
Have you news of my boy Jack?”
Not this tide.
“When d’you think that he’ll come back?”
Not with this wind blowing, and this tide.
“Has any one else had word of him?”
Not this tide.
For what is sunk will hardly swim,
Not with this wind blowing, and this tide.
“Oh, dear, what comfort can I find?”
None this tide,
Nor any tide,
Except he did not shame his kind —
Not even with that wind blowing, and that tide.
Then hold your head up all the more,
This tide,
And every tide;
Because he was the son you bore,
And gave to that wind blowing and that tide!
Yes. I do think this world is an awful place and though I know and love God, sometimes I wonder where He is and what He's doing and why. Also, I can't see Him.
But when I doubt, I go back to what His Word has said, as in Hebrews 4:16 "Let us therefore come boldly to the throne of grace that we may obtain mercy and find grace to help in time of need."
Or I go to one of my favorite statements, written by St. Paul "Nevertheless, I am not ashamed, for I know whom I have believed and am persuaded that He is able to keep that which I've committed unto him against that day."
For me, the reassuring reality is not in the strength of my grip on God. It's the strength of His grip on me.”
-----
This conversation has been challenging me to think a lot this past week. I have taken numerous courses in evangelism, systematic theology, hermeneutics, and apologetics. I don’t know if they’ve helped me much at all—not because they weren’t good classes, they were—but because they were a long time ago; I’ve forgotten a lot; and in the meantime, life has taken over, I’ve had two little kids, and I read a lot of Kipper the Dog books these days, instead of philosophy and theology to sharpen my mind and defend my faith.
But the whole interchange with my friend has brought to my mind the great 20th-century theologian, Karl Barth, who spoke and taught and wrote so eloquently and at such length, particularly on the transcendence of God. Yet when someone asked him to sum up his theology and the millions of words he had written, he answered simply this:
“Jesus loves me, this I know, for the Bible tells me so.”
I don’t know how to say it any better than that.
Friday, October 22, 2010
Questions
I had this blog post written in my head, all about the stress of life, and then I realized, why would you want to read about the stress of our life? I'm sure you have enough of your own. Then I saw on Anne-Marie's blog that she did some fun question thing that she was tagged for, so I'm just going to lift that idea, without being tagged. And maybe I'll change some of the questions too. So, here you go:
Given a plane ticket to anywhere in the world, where would you go?
I would go either to Cornwall, England, or to Japan. I've always been fascinated with Japan, ever since I did my country report on it in 6th grade. I'd want to tour a lot of Japanese gardens and check out lots of Japanese dolls.
Besides the Bible, what is your favorite book and why?
My favorite book (say it with me now) is Stepping Heavenward by Elizabeth Prentiss. I go to it for comfort or advice or inspiration. If I ever write a book, I keep thinking of it as a modern Stepping Heavenward, then I get intimidated since that's like saying writing a modern Pilgrim's Progress or something. It has so many favorite quotes of mine, but one I think of on a near-daily basis is this: "Suppose, then, you content yourself for the present with doing in a faithful, quiet, persistent way all the little, homely tasks that return with each returning day, each one as unto God, and perhaps by and by you will thus have gained strength for a more heroic life."
My other favorite book (among many of course) is L.M. Montgomery's The Blue Castle. Just because I love it. But someone needs to design a new cover for it.
Do you re-read favorite books? If so, which ones?
I'm a huge re-reader because if you have books, you have friends, and who wouldn't want to hang out with your friends over and over again? Basically, if I enjoy a book, I'll reread it again at some point. There are some I make a point to re-read every year, such as Little Women and Jane Eyre. I recently reread The Great Gatsby (pure brilliance). Some I haven't read for awhile and want to read again soon: Graham Greene's The Quiet American. Evelyn Waugh's Brideshead Revisited.
What is the biggest difference (other than gender) between you and your husband?
We're very different from each other, but probably the biggest difference is that he's an extrovert and I'm an introvert. We've both come each other's way somewhat over the last 15 years, but it still is interesting sometimes.
What is your favorite soup?
Definitely my mom's minestrone in first place, but in second place is Italian wedding soup. I have a great recipe for it that I got from my cousin's husband, Yang. I always say I learned how to make great Italian soup from a Korean guy.
If calories, weight gain or health were no object, what food would you eat all you wanted of?
Oh, you know, flax. Or alfalfa sprouts.
Actually, cake. Chocolate eclair cake. Carrot cake with that cream cheese frosting. Yellow cake with chocolate frosting. Poppyseed cake with caramel frosting. Cake in almost any form.
I think that's all for now, and that was much less stressful than my original post, so aren't we all thankful? I won't tag anyone to do this, but feel free to steal if you're running dry on blog topics!
Given a plane ticket to anywhere in the world, where would you go?
I would go either to Cornwall, England, or to Japan. I've always been fascinated with Japan, ever since I did my country report on it in 6th grade. I'd want to tour a lot of Japanese gardens and check out lots of Japanese dolls.
Besides the Bible, what is your favorite book and why?
My favorite book (say it with me now) is Stepping Heavenward by Elizabeth Prentiss. I go to it for comfort or advice or inspiration. If I ever write a book, I keep thinking of it as a modern Stepping Heavenward, then I get intimidated since that's like saying writing a modern Pilgrim's Progress or something. It has so many favorite quotes of mine, but one I think of on a near-daily basis is this: "Suppose, then, you content yourself for the present with doing in a faithful, quiet, persistent way all the little, homely tasks that return with each returning day, each one as unto God, and perhaps by and by you will thus have gained strength for a more heroic life."
My other favorite book (among many of course) is L.M. Montgomery's The Blue Castle. Just because I love it. But someone needs to design a new cover for it.
Do you re-read favorite books? If so, which ones?
I'm a huge re-reader because if you have books, you have friends, and who wouldn't want to hang out with your friends over and over again? Basically, if I enjoy a book, I'll reread it again at some point. There are some I make a point to re-read every year, such as Little Women and Jane Eyre. I recently reread The Great Gatsby (pure brilliance). Some I haven't read for awhile and want to read again soon: Graham Greene's The Quiet American. Evelyn Waugh's Brideshead Revisited.
What is the biggest difference (other than gender) between you and your husband?
We're very different from each other, but probably the biggest difference is that he's an extrovert and I'm an introvert. We've both come each other's way somewhat over the last 15 years, but it still is interesting sometimes.
What is your favorite soup?
Definitely my mom's minestrone in first place, but in second place is Italian wedding soup. I have a great recipe for it that I got from my cousin's husband, Yang. I always say I learned how to make great Italian soup from a Korean guy.
If calories, weight gain or health were no object, what food would you eat all you wanted of?
Oh, you know, flax. Or alfalfa sprouts.
Actually, cake. Chocolate eclair cake. Carrot cake with that cream cheese frosting. Yellow cake with chocolate frosting. Poppyseed cake with caramel frosting. Cake in almost any form.
I think that's all for now, and that was much less stressful than my original post, so aren't we all thankful? I won't tag anyone to do this, but feel free to steal if you're running dry on blog topics!
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
School Pictures
First, an update about my dad: The surgery went very well. He was in the OR from 1:30 until around 6:00, the doctor came to talk to us. He was pleased with how it went, though it will be a fairly long road to recovery. We finally got to see Dad around 8:30 at night, but of course he was completely out of it. I'll see him later today; he'll be in the hospital for a week and then in a rehab facility.
Next, here are the girls' school pictures. Forgive the poor quality--I took a picture of a picture, and not very well. I haven't figured out how to work our scanner yet, so pictures of pictures it is.
Here is Lucy Nan, 2nd grader:
And here's Elaine Frances, Jr. Kindergartner:
Next, here are the girls' school pictures. Forgive the poor quality--I took a picture of a picture, and not very well. I haven't figured out how to work our scanner yet, so pictures of pictures it is.
Here is Lucy Nan, 2nd grader:
And here's Elaine Frances, Jr. Kindergartner:
Monday, October 18, 2010
Belated Birthday
Last Monday was Darren's birthday, but we were on our way back from Door County so we didn't make a big deal of it. And let's face it, he is not like me. He doesn't really want anyone to make a big deal for his birthday anyway. But I think he should still succumb to our ministrations and let us sing to him and buy him presents and make him a birthday dinner.
So, that's what we did yesterday evening. We all decided to meet at my dad's house because today he'll be going into the hospital for a reconstruction of his spine. I packed up the food--Italian beef, pasta salad, Mrs. Fischer's potato chips (evil, evil, addictive food item)--and the cake: orange crunch cake decorated with salted pecans to look like Miss Cleo Marple the cat, who hates all of us except Darren. More on that later. Oh, so much more.
Chuck and Rome came too, and Rome brought cinnamon rolls like my mom always made for birthdays and also apple-parsnip soup, which was made on her show this week.
We all gathered around that table for the first time since my mom has been gone. While I was setting it, I wasn't sure what to do with her place. Should I sit there? Should I leave it empty? I ended up rearranging everything so that it just wasn't there anymore. But it was OK.
After dinner, the girls were so excited for Darren to open his presents. Before we left this afternoon, Lucy had written poems on typing paper and taped them all over the patio door for him. At dinner she had a card she picked out herself at Target and written her own message. The girls and my dad all gave Darren different types of bird feeders and bird food, because that's what he wanted--basically, my dad has turned us all into bird-watcher nuts.
Elaine was doing a little dance of impatience beside him because she couldn't contain the secret of her card any longer. First, she had actually written "Daddy" on the envelop and "Elaine" on the inside all by herself. But the real reason was that when Daddy opened the card (which she did for him) it played, "Who Let the Dogs Out?" This was also something she picked out at Target. Actually, she first picked out a cat in a tutu that when you opened it, it played "Dancing Queen," but I convinced her that she probably liked that a lot more than Dad would. So, "Who Let the Dogs Out?" it is.
The rest of the evening, she would sneak up on Chuck with the card and play it because he couldn't stop singing it either. While we were doing the dishes he said, "Now I'll have that stupid song in my head forever. I just got rid of 'The Entertainer.'"
I said, "The Scott Joplin song? How did you get that stuck there?" and he said, "No, Billy Joel's 'The Entertainer,'" which called for us to belt out together:
I am the entertainer,
I come to do my show.
You've heard my latest record,
It's been on the radio.
Ah, it took me years to write it,
They were the best years of my life.
It was a beautiful song.
But it ran too long.
If you're gonna have a hit,
You gotta make it fit--
So they cut it down to 3:05.
Then we took some turns playing on the piano, and the girls begged Darren to play "Heart and Soul" with me, which he's supposed to play the plain, boring bottom part, but he always showboats and tries to steal the limelight from my showy top part.
When we got home and I tucked the girls in bed, Lucy said, "Mom, I have to tell you something I just want you to hear. You know, I think people are like llamas."
I wanted to burst out laughing because it was so random, but she was very serious so I kept it in check.
She went on, "You know how when llamas get married and one llama dies, the other one is so sad. People are like that, too. We're just better together, aren't we?"
"Yup, Luce," I told her. "People are better together."
Then Elaine piped up from her bed, "Mom, why is Packa going in the hospital tomorrow?" and I explained to her, "You know how Packa took such good care of Manga while she was sick? Well, now his back is all worn out, and he needs to get it fixed. Like when you make a tall, straight tower out of blocks, but then you knock it over? That's what Packa's back is like. And the doctors are going to make a nice, straight tower out of it again for him."
"Do we get to keep any of the pieces?" she asked.
So today, Chuck and Rome and I will be at the hospital with my dad while Darren holds down the fort here. The surgery will take about four and a half hours they say, so if you think of it, prayers are appreciated.
At least we'll all be together--we know we're better that way. And if you hear anyone singing "Who Let the Dogs Out?" you'll know why.
So, that's what we did yesterday evening. We all decided to meet at my dad's house because today he'll be going into the hospital for a reconstruction of his spine. I packed up the food--Italian beef, pasta salad, Mrs. Fischer's potato chips (evil, evil, addictive food item)--and the cake: orange crunch cake decorated with salted pecans to look like Miss Cleo Marple the cat, who hates all of us except Darren. More on that later. Oh, so much more.
Chuck and Rome came too, and Rome brought cinnamon rolls like my mom always made for birthdays and also apple-parsnip soup, which was made on her show this week.
We all gathered around that table for the first time since my mom has been gone. While I was setting it, I wasn't sure what to do with her place. Should I sit there? Should I leave it empty? I ended up rearranging everything so that it just wasn't there anymore. But it was OK.
After dinner, the girls were so excited for Darren to open his presents. Before we left this afternoon, Lucy had written poems on typing paper and taped them all over the patio door for him. At dinner she had a card she picked out herself at Target and written her own message. The girls and my dad all gave Darren different types of bird feeders and bird food, because that's what he wanted--basically, my dad has turned us all into bird-watcher nuts.
Elaine was doing a little dance of impatience beside him because she couldn't contain the secret of her card any longer. First, she had actually written "Daddy" on the envelop and "Elaine" on the inside all by herself. But the real reason was that when Daddy opened the card (which she did for him) it played, "Who Let the Dogs Out?" This was also something she picked out at Target. Actually, she first picked out a cat in a tutu that when you opened it, it played "Dancing Queen," but I convinced her that she probably liked that a lot more than Dad would. So, "Who Let the Dogs Out?" it is.
The rest of the evening, she would sneak up on Chuck with the card and play it because he couldn't stop singing it either. While we were doing the dishes he said, "Now I'll have that stupid song in my head forever. I just got rid of 'The Entertainer.'"
I said, "The Scott Joplin song? How did you get that stuck there?" and he said, "No, Billy Joel's 'The Entertainer,'" which called for us to belt out together:
I am the entertainer,
I come to do my show.
You've heard my latest record,
It's been on the radio.
Ah, it took me years to write it,
They were the best years of my life.
It was a beautiful song.
But it ran too long.
If you're gonna have a hit,
You gotta make it fit--
So they cut it down to 3:05.
Then we took some turns playing on the piano, and the girls begged Darren to play "Heart and Soul" with me, which he's supposed to play the plain, boring bottom part, but he always showboats and tries to steal the limelight from my showy top part.
When we got home and I tucked the girls in bed, Lucy said, "Mom, I have to tell you something I just want you to hear. You know, I think people are like llamas."
I wanted to burst out laughing because it was so random, but she was very serious so I kept it in check.
She went on, "You know how when llamas get married and one llama dies, the other one is so sad. People are like that, too. We're just better together, aren't we?"
"Yup, Luce," I told her. "People are better together."
Then Elaine piped up from her bed, "Mom, why is Packa going in the hospital tomorrow?" and I explained to her, "You know how Packa took such good care of Manga while she was sick? Well, now his back is all worn out, and he needs to get it fixed. Like when you make a tall, straight tower out of blocks, but then you knock it over? That's what Packa's back is like. And the doctors are going to make a nice, straight tower out of it again for him."
"Do we get to keep any of the pieces?" she asked.
So today, Chuck and Rome and I will be at the hospital with my dad while Darren holds down the fort here. The surgery will take about four and a half hours they say, so if you think of it, prayers are appreciated.
At least we'll all be together--we know we're better that way. And if you hear anyone singing "Who Let the Dogs Out?" you'll know why.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Pie and Pandora
Now that fall is here, it's time to turn the stove back on and start some baking. Over the summer if you ask me what's for dinner on any given day, it's probably a) sandwiches, b) pasta salad, or c) sandwiches and pasta salad. But now it's back to regular food and extra baking with ingredients such as cinnamon and nutmeg.
My friend Mary, and she really is my friend even though we've not officially met, recently posted about pie. I don't know why, but after I got my new laptop in August, I cannot comment on anyone's blog except my pastor's. That sounds oddly rigged, but I'm sure it's not. So I was dying to comment on Mary's about pie, but I just emailed her instead. This turned into three or four back-and-forth emails, all about PIE. And we still haven't exhausted that discussion. Then she posted again about pie, but it doesn't have a title so I can't link to it. Then I figured I better post about pie, so here I am.
We talked about our favorites, and it made me think about all these pies my mom would make: rhubarb, lemon meringue, strawberry (a slice of spring in pie form), my ultimate favorite--her Swiss apple (Mary wanted to know what Swiss apple is, and it's what other people call Dutch apple or French apple. But my mom was Swiss, so it's Swiss apple), and pumpkin--which is my dad's favorite but not mine. Something about the texture is weird to me. But my dad will eat it for breakfast.
I make a caramel apple upside down pie that my family seems to like, judging by the fact that it's never around for very long. I'll give you the recipe if you want.
In the midst of all these pie thoughts, I ran into my friend Toby at the library and we started talking about pandora. If you don't know what pandora is, it's a site where you can create your own radio stations, as many as you want. If they play a song you don't like, you can thumbs down it and they'll never play it again. When I first told my brother about it several years ago, his comment was "Finally. The Internet's starting to pull its weight," and ran off to create his Lyle Lovett station. Toby and I were comparing our stations, and here's what I've got (some I ran home and created after talking to her):
Choral Music
W.G. Snuffy Walden--acoustic guitar music
Carl Davis/Thomas Newman--guys who write soundtracks, such as "Cranford," "Pride & Prejudice," "Little Women," "Shawshank Redemption," etc. etc.
Wynton Marsalis--classical, you can also have a Wynton Marsalis jazz station, which I'll probably add
Harry Connick, Jr.
Judy Garland--holiday station; you can have a Judy Garland non-holiday station, too
Yo-Yo Ma
Travis Cottrell/Robin Mark--worship music
Keith Green/Larry Norman--old school Jesus music
Van Halen
Dave Grusin
Frank Sinatra
Chris Botti
Der Kommissar (80s)
Bruce Hornsby
Natalie McMaster (Irish)
Liz Story (piano)
I'm telling you, the best way to spend an afternoon is to turn one of your pandora stations on, get your pie ingredients out, and start baking.
Right now this is my personal favorite to bake to. I think it automatically infuses food and makes it taste better.
OK, so what's your favorite pie and pandora station?
My friend Mary, and she really is my friend even though we've not officially met, recently posted about pie. I don't know why, but after I got my new laptop in August, I cannot comment on anyone's blog except my pastor's. That sounds oddly rigged, but I'm sure it's not. So I was dying to comment on Mary's about pie, but I just emailed her instead. This turned into three or four back-and-forth emails, all about PIE. And we still haven't exhausted that discussion. Then she posted again about pie, but it doesn't have a title so I can't link to it. Then I figured I better post about pie, so here I am.
We talked about our favorites, and it made me think about all these pies my mom would make: rhubarb, lemon meringue, strawberry (a slice of spring in pie form), my ultimate favorite--her Swiss apple (Mary wanted to know what Swiss apple is, and it's what other people call Dutch apple or French apple. But my mom was Swiss, so it's Swiss apple), and pumpkin--which is my dad's favorite but not mine. Something about the texture is weird to me. But my dad will eat it for breakfast.
I make a caramel apple upside down pie that my family seems to like, judging by the fact that it's never around for very long. I'll give you the recipe if you want.
In the midst of all these pie thoughts, I ran into my friend Toby at the library and we started talking about pandora. If you don't know what pandora is, it's a site where you can create your own radio stations, as many as you want. If they play a song you don't like, you can thumbs down it and they'll never play it again. When I first told my brother about it several years ago, his comment was "Finally. The Internet's starting to pull its weight," and ran off to create his Lyle Lovett station. Toby and I were comparing our stations, and here's what I've got (some I ran home and created after talking to her):
Choral Music
W.G. Snuffy Walden--acoustic guitar music
Carl Davis/Thomas Newman--guys who write soundtracks, such as "Cranford," "Pride & Prejudice," "Little Women," "Shawshank Redemption," etc. etc.
Wynton Marsalis--classical, you can also have a Wynton Marsalis jazz station, which I'll probably add
Harry Connick, Jr.
Judy Garland--holiday station; you can have a Judy Garland non-holiday station, too
Yo-Yo Ma
Travis Cottrell/Robin Mark--worship music
Keith Green/Larry Norman--old school Jesus music
Van Halen
Dave Grusin
Frank Sinatra
Chris Botti
Der Kommissar (80s)
Bruce Hornsby
Natalie McMaster (Irish)
Liz Story (piano)
I'm telling you, the best way to spend an afternoon is to turn one of your pandora stations on, get your pie ingredients out, and start baking.
Right now this is my personal favorite to bake to. I think it automatically infuses food and makes it taste better.
OK, so what's your favorite pie and pandora station?
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Picture This
It's been an interesting week or so. A week ago last Friday, I went to the women's Bible study I go to, and Elaine came with me since she doesn't go to school on Fridays (there's childcare provided). About halfway into it, they brought her in to me, and she was trying not to cry. Very unusual. I picked her up and she whispered, "I want to go home. My ear is hurting." So, we went home and, wherever you were that morning, if you heard earth-shattering screams for about 25 minutes, it was Elaine.
By the time we got home though, she was half-crying, half-asleep, so I gave her some Motrin, put her nightgown on her, and popped her in my bed--where she spent most of the rest of the day sleeping, off and on and drinking ginger ale.
The next morning she popped out of bed and said, "My ear's feeling better," so we went on our full day of errands, the four of us. On the way home in the afternoon, Darren looked back at her in her carseat and saw her--white as a ghost, sleeping, and with some unidentifiable yellowish goo trickling out of her ear and down her neck.
Yikes.
He called a friend right away who fortuitously happened to be working urgent care at the clinic by our house, and he said to bring her right in. Diagnosis? Her eardrum had ruptured. And the other ear was infected, too.
The next day, all of us except Darren stayed home from church because our throats and ears hurt and we were coughing like barking dogs. And I'm just thinking, "We're supposed to leave for Door County in 4 days."
But, leave in four days we did, and it was glorious. You'll have to take my word for it because I packed everything and asked Darren to bring one thing, ONE I tell you, the camera--and he forgot it. That's two trips to Door County in a row that we haven't brought the camera.
So, you'll have to just try and picture it all in your mind: turquoise blue water and sky, maple leaves such a bright red it almost hurt your eyes, evergreen mixed in to soothe, and showers of aspen leaves, sprinkling down like handfuls of gold coins.
The weather was some of the nicest we've had too--it can be dicey in October there, but it was so warm and sunny we didn't even need jackets and could eat outside (at the Cookery, natch). Somewhere along the line, I picked up Elaine's ear infection, so I felt kind of cruddy all while we were there, but it almost didn't matter.
We still went to Peninsula Park every day to walk in the woods; we went to the harbor in Rowley's Bay to walk on the beach; we drove the country roads with the fall trees making an arch above us.
I read one pretty good book and one not that great one and one awful one. Darren and I finished watching all the episodes in our latest TV addiction, Doc Martin. We ate cinnamon rolls and cherry/almond scones and thin crust pizza and other Door County specialties, until we both declared that we are 100% back on the healthy eating program from now until Thanksgiving.
We got back late yesterday afternoon, and I have a garbage bag full of laundry to do and things to catch up on, and I grocery-shopped this morning since all that was in the refrigerator was a carton of moldy strawberries and some milk that was well past its sell-by date.
I wish so much that we had had our camera with us since there were a lot of moments I wanted to capture. But I know that I'll always remember some of the little moments--Lucy going out in her nightgown with Darren to look at the stars; Elaine running down the beach, yelling, "Daddy, Daddy, look at the big shell I found!"; both girls, giggling, bent over a game of Sorry.
They're all titled the same thing in my mind: "This is now--when the girls were little."
By the time we got home though, she was half-crying, half-asleep, so I gave her some Motrin, put her nightgown on her, and popped her in my bed--where she spent most of the rest of the day sleeping, off and on and drinking ginger ale.
The next morning she popped out of bed and said, "My ear's feeling better," so we went on our full day of errands, the four of us. On the way home in the afternoon, Darren looked back at her in her carseat and saw her--white as a ghost, sleeping, and with some unidentifiable yellowish goo trickling out of her ear and down her neck.
Yikes.
He called a friend right away who fortuitously happened to be working urgent care at the clinic by our house, and he said to bring her right in. Diagnosis? Her eardrum had ruptured. And the other ear was infected, too.
The next day, all of us except Darren stayed home from church because our throats and ears hurt and we were coughing like barking dogs. And I'm just thinking, "We're supposed to leave for Door County in 4 days."
But, leave in four days we did, and it was glorious. You'll have to take my word for it because I packed everything and asked Darren to bring one thing, ONE I tell you, the camera--and he forgot it. That's two trips to Door County in a row that we haven't brought the camera.
So, you'll have to just try and picture it all in your mind: turquoise blue water and sky, maple leaves such a bright red it almost hurt your eyes, evergreen mixed in to soothe, and showers of aspen leaves, sprinkling down like handfuls of gold coins.
The weather was some of the nicest we've had too--it can be dicey in October there, but it was so warm and sunny we didn't even need jackets and could eat outside (at the Cookery, natch). Somewhere along the line, I picked up Elaine's ear infection, so I felt kind of cruddy all while we were there, but it almost didn't matter.
We still went to Peninsula Park every day to walk in the woods; we went to the harbor in Rowley's Bay to walk on the beach; we drove the country roads with the fall trees making an arch above us.
I read one pretty good book and one not that great one and one awful one. Darren and I finished watching all the episodes in our latest TV addiction, Doc Martin. We ate cinnamon rolls and cherry/almond scones and thin crust pizza and other Door County specialties, until we both declared that we are 100% back on the healthy eating program from now until Thanksgiving.
We got back late yesterday afternoon, and I have a garbage bag full of laundry to do and things to catch up on, and I grocery-shopped this morning since all that was in the refrigerator was a carton of moldy strawberries and some milk that was well past its sell-by date.
I wish so much that we had had our camera with us since there were a lot of moments I wanted to capture. But I know that I'll always remember some of the little moments--Lucy going out in her nightgown with Darren to look at the stars; Elaine running down the beach, yelling, "Daddy, Daddy, look at the big shell I found!"; both girls, giggling, bent over a game of Sorry.
They're all titled the same thing in my mind: "This is now--when the girls were little."
Saturday, October 02, 2010
Looking at the World Through Pink-Colored Glasses
We didn't find out before our girls were born that they were, indeed girls (I figured they were because that's what I'd asked for, but that's another story). At my shower for Lucy, I got a lot of little sleepers in white, green, and yellow. So it was a big thrill for me when she was finally born, and Jennie and her mom, Mary, came to the hospital with a pink bag containing a pink ruffled outfit, pink hat, and pink shoes.
It's been non-stop pink at our house ever since. As you can see from our blog tagline, "You never have to pray about pink."
Now October has rolled around, and I don't know what it looks like for my international friends, but here in the U.S., it's officially Pinktober--the month where many of the products in the stores are pink, there are pink ribbons everywhere, and even when you open yahoo or Google, there is pink. Pink, for Breast Cancer Awareness.
The title is a little ironic to me because if there's one thing I actually am aware of, it's breast cancer. Not long ago when I was over at my dad's house--and do I call it that now? my dad's house, instead of my parents' house?--and he had gotten my mom's death certificate in the mail. It was one of those things where you don't want to look at it but you're compelled to, so I opened it. There was her name, her birth date, her death date and location, and under "Cause of Death"--Breast Cancer.
I remember the first time my mom got breast cancer--10 years ago. One of her sisters had died from it, but it was a shock nonetheless. She went through surgery, radiation, and two courses of chemo until they could pronounce her "cancer free." But the doctors told her, "Your cancer was not estrogen-based [as much breast cancer is]. It was an aggressive, genetic cancer, so there is at least an 80% chance it will come back."
When it did come back, I remember sitting in Mom's living room with her and her saying, "I'm at peace. I know it's time. People keep wanting me to join things, to join the fight against cancer. I'm so tired. I just want to be around someone who doesn't have any plans or goals."
"Like ME!" I told her.
"Yes," she laughed. "Like my dear daughter."
And of course if you read this blog, you know our whole journey: through more and more pain and some treatment and hospitalization and saying goodbyes and hospice and always that cancer, over taking everything, until one day, when it had invaded her brain and distorted the world so terribly for her, my mom--who never murmured or complained--held her head and cried, "Oh, this cancer, it's tormenting me!"
A couple of days before her death, a friend of hers came to visit the hospice and we stood together over Mom's bed, crying, and her friend said, "Isn't cancer so evil?"
One of my great struggles has always been fear. I have gone through the wilderness any number of times on that issue, my mind running the worst possible scenarios, my heart racing, waking up in the night, heart pounding and sweating with anxiety. I have memorized verses and hymns, so that any given time I might be saying or singing (usually in my mind so I don't wake anyone else up!) things like, "I will lie down and sleep in peace, for you alone oh Lord, make me dwell in safety" (Ps. 4:8) or "Surely God is my salvation; I will trust and not be afraid" (Isaiah 12:2) or "When through fiery trials your pathway shall lie, my grace all-sufficient will be your supply" (How Firm a Foundation).
It helps and it calms and reassures me so I can go on again.
And now that Pinktober is here, and everything from Campbell's soup to Swiffers are pink (I have a pink Swiffer, of course!), I will not lie. I am afraid. I've been to a breast cancer specialist at Northwestern who told me, "Most women have a 1 in 300 chance of getting breast cancer. You have a 1 in 21 chance. But you knew that already, right?" Well, I guess I feared it, but I didn't know it until you told me (thanks!). Aggressive genetic cancer.
I'm afraid to get a checkup. I'm afraid to get that phone call. I'm afraid of chemotherapy and tumors and dying in agony and leaving my girls without a mother. I told my internist at my checkup this summer--you know, the normal kind: breathe in, breathe out, open your mouth and say "ahh," the harmless kind of checkup--"It probably sounds silly, but I'm a little afraid to go get a mammogram. Not because of the procedure, but what if they find something?" He said, not unkindly, "I'm going to tell you what I tell my wife: 'I don't care. Get yourself over there now and get it done.'"
I'm so thankful for everything the Susan G. Komen foundation has done with regard to furthering the fight against breast cancer. Did you know that in at least the last 10 years, maybe more, not one grant, piece of research, advancement, anything having to do with breast cancer has not been touched by the "pink" foundation? The fact that we now set aside this entire month, draped in pink, is amazing to me.
I do my part in donating when I can and buying pink products, but I'm not out there raising funds or going on the walks or being visible in this fight. It's all too mixed up in my mind for me right now. It's too scary, honestly.
I listen to the song "In Christ Alone," that we closed my mom's memorial service with over and over, and right now, the line I keep repeating to myself is this: "From life's first cry to final breath, Jesus commands my destiny."
He commanded my mom's and He commands mine. I'm going to try and trust and not be afraid.
But this month, and every month, I am praying about pink.
It's been non-stop pink at our house ever since. As you can see from our blog tagline, "You never have to pray about pink."
Now October has rolled around, and I don't know what it looks like for my international friends, but here in the U.S., it's officially Pinktober--the month where many of the products in the stores are pink, there are pink ribbons everywhere, and even when you open yahoo or Google, there is pink. Pink, for Breast Cancer Awareness.
The title is a little ironic to me because if there's one thing I actually am aware of, it's breast cancer. Not long ago when I was over at my dad's house--and do I call it that now? my dad's house, instead of my parents' house?--and he had gotten my mom's death certificate in the mail. It was one of those things where you don't want to look at it but you're compelled to, so I opened it. There was her name, her birth date, her death date and location, and under "Cause of Death"--Breast Cancer.
I remember the first time my mom got breast cancer--10 years ago. One of her sisters had died from it, but it was a shock nonetheless. She went through surgery, radiation, and two courses of chemo until they could pronounce her "cancer free." But the doctors told her, "Your cancer was not estrogen-based [as much breast cancer is]. It was an aggressive, genetic cancer, so there is at least an 80% chance it will come back."
When it did come back, I remember sitting in Mom's living room with her and her saying, "I'm at peace. I know it's time. People keep wanting me to join things, to join the fight against cancer. I'm so tired. I just want to be around someone who doesn't have any plans or goals."
"Like ME!" I told her.
"Yes," she laughed. "Like my dear daughter."
And of course if you read this blog, you know our whole journey: through more and more pain and some treatment and hospitalization and saying goodbyes and hospice and always that cancer, over taking everything, until one day, when it had invaded her brain and distorted the world so terribly for her, my mom--who never murmured or complained--held her head and cried, "Oh, this cancer, it's tormenting me!"
A couple of days before her death, a friend of hers came to visit the hospice and we stood together over Mom's bed, crying, and her friend said, "Isn't cancer so evil?"
One of my great struggles has always been fear. I have gone through the wilderness any number of times on that issue, my mind running the worst possible scenarios, my heart racing, waking up in the night, heart pounding and sweating with anxiety. I have memorized verses and hymns, so that any given time I might be saying or singing (usually in my mind so I don't wake anyone else up!) things like, "I will lie down and sleep in peace, for you alone oh Lord, make me dwell in safety" (Ps. 4:8) or "Surely God is my salvation; I will trust and not be afraid" (Isaiah 12:2) or "When through fiery trials your pathway shall lie, my grace all-sufficient will be your supply" (How Firm a Foundation).
It helps and it calms and reassures me so I can go on again.
And now that Pinktober is here, and everything from Campbell's soup to Swiffers are pink (I have a pink Swiffer, of course!), I will not lie. I am afraid. I've been to a breast cancer specialist at Northwestern who told me, "Most women have a 1 in 300 chance of getting breast cancer. You have a 1 in 21 chance. But you knew that already, right?" Well, I guess I feared it, but I didn't know it until you told me (thanks!). Aggressive genetic cancer.
I'm afraid to get a checkup. I'm afraid to get that phone call. I'm afraid of chemotherapy and tumors and dying in agony and leaving my girls without a mother. I told my internist at my checkup this summer--you know, the normal kind: breathe in, breathe out, open your mouth and say "ahh," the harmless kind of checkup--"It probably sounds silly, but I'm a little afraid to go get a mammogram. Not because of the procedure, but what if they find something?" He said, not unkindly, "I'm going to tell you what I tell my wife: 'I don't care. Get yourself over there now and get it done.'"
I'm so thankful for everything the Susan G. Komen foundation has done with regard to furthering the fight against breast cancer. Did you know that in at least the last 10 years, maybe more, not one grant, piece of research, advancement, anything having to do with breast cancer has not been touched by the "pink" foundation? The fact that we now set aside this entire month, draped in pink, is amazing to me.
I do my part in donating when I can and buying pink products, but I'm not out there raising funds or going on the walks or being visible in this fight. It's all too mixed up in my mind for me right now. It's too scary, honestly.
I listen to the song "In Christ Alone," that we closed my mom's memorial service with over and over, and right now, the line I keep repeating to myself is this: "From life's first cry to final breath, Jesus commands my destiny."
He commanded my mom's and He commands mine. I'm going to try and trust and not be afraid.
But this month, and every month, I am praying about pink.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
This is something I didn't know I'd ever discuss here
When we were in Tennessee, Joseph--my-cousin-who-is-my-extra-brother--and I exchanged a stack of books. We do this occasionally since we're both voracious readers and have overlapping interests. He lent me two Lawrence Blocks, The Perfect Storm, LA Confidential, and the book I'm gonna tell you about now: Salvation on Sand Mountain, a memoir by Dennis Covington.
That was the one I picked up first, and I can't really figure out why, because it has a picture, not a drawing mind you, but a photograph, of a woman holding a ginormous rattlesnake on the cover.
Yup, it's a memoir about snake handling. Why I was drawn t0 it, I don't know because I am utterly terrified of snakes. Once we went to a family camp. Darren and Lucy went on a boat ride, and I took Elaine, who was a baby at the time, on a walk. We were on a steep hill, so I was carrying her up it instead of using the stroller. As I walked up the path, I heard a soft rattling sound in the grass nearby. To this day I don't know what that rattle was, but as I held my darling baby oh-so-close and pressed my face to her downy little head, I whispered, "Sister, if a snake comes across this path, it's every girl for herself."
I don't even want to think about snakes, let alone read about them--nevertheless, I was compelled to pick up Salvation on Sand Mountain: Snake Handling and Redemption in Southern Appalachia.
Dennis Covington was sent, as a journalist, to cover an attempted murder trial of a pastor who tried to kill his wife with rattlesnakes. I thought the book would mainly cover the trial and its details, but it only spent a brief amount of time on that and honestly, that is a good thing because I don't mean to be rude, I really don't, but those were some insane, trashy people and the less time spent on their antics the better. Trust me. You can hardly believe what happened. As my dad says, "There's no such thing as fiction."
The book is really about what happened after--how Dennis Covington became friends with the people at the snake handling church up on Sand Mountain after their pastor got put in jail. He and two photographers spent two years, attending services until eventually one night, Covington took up the snakes himself and handled them.
He tells how he and one of the photographers, a man, spent much of their time discussing the "how" of snake handling. He talked about how the church goers would just reach their hands down into a box of rattlers, how they would walk on copperheads, drape snakes around their shoulders, or shake the snakes and let them lick them with their forked tongues. (I know. Did a shiver just go up your spine or what?)
Finally he stopped thinking about the how and asked the question we really care about: Why?
If you're unfamiliar with the reasoning behind religious snake handling, the practice is based on two verses in the New Testament:
Mark 16:18 They shall take up serpents; and if they drink any deadly thing, it shall not hurt them; they shall lay hands on the sick, and they shall recover.
Luke 10:19 Behold, I give unto you power to tread on serpents and scorpions, and over all the power of the enemy: and nothing shall by any means hurt you.
Why would a group of people gather up to three nights a week, sing mountain gospel music, listen to some bad preaching, and then pick up poisonous snakes? The book explores some of the reasons--the main one being that this is the most power these people will ever know--and also how the author himself got caught up in it, which was less understandable to me. He's an adrenaline junkie, ok, I get that, but he also discovered that he had snake-handling ancestors and this was a way to connect with his roots. Now, I've got bootlegging-on-the-Illinois/Iowa-border ancestors, and I don't have any need to connect with them by taking up bootlegging myself. (I know that point is moot. But you know what I mean.) Honestly, if some of my ancestors handled rattlers and drank strychnine out of Mason jars, I would do everything I could to cover that up instead of celebrate it.
I have to say though, this is a fascinating book despite its bizarre subject. For one thing, Covington's a great writer. It's so much more than "How I Spent Time With Snake Handlers." He somehow manages to turn it all inward and examine his life and relationships through this experience. The whole thing's chock full of Southern pathos, (a fancy Nancy term for alcoholism and craziness, really). It reads like a novel. He's also funny. For example, here's a brief snippet between him and one of the snake-handling elders:
"'The Bible says you're gonna suffer for your faith,' he said in his soft Georgia accent, which differed only in degree from my own. 'Look what happened to Stephen. I'd rather die of snakebite than get stoned to death. And what about Peter? Didn't they crucify him upside down on a cross? I'd rather die of a snakebite.' He glanced over the top of his glasses to gauge my reaction. It sounded like a toss-up to me."
Covington even brought his little girls to a New Year's Eve service at the snake church. One of the little girls ran back out of the church and sat in the car the rest of the service. He said it was because she's an artist and wanted to draw pictures of the people and snakes. I think she was an "it's every girl for herself" kind of person, and I applaud her for it.
All in all, I'm glad I read the book, and I highly recommend it. Besides taking away some new knowledge of a sub-culture, the book made me think about some things I can actually use outside of a Trivial Pursuit game (hey, are there questions on snake handling? I can answer them now!)
1) Beware of doing Bible balloon animals with verses and twisting them to mean something they don't.
2) Beware of having to have experiences that you think will put you in touch with God. Having spiritual experiences is wonderful. Having to have them is only going to lead you to a bad place.
I wanted my dad to read the book, but when I told him about it he said, "Why in the world are you and Joseph reading about rattlesnakes? Don't even bring that snake book in my house." See? The apple doesn't fall far from the tree.
But YOU should read it, and tell me what you think!
That was the one I picked up first, and I can't really figure out why, because it has a picture, not a drawing mind you, but a photograph, of a woman holding a ginormous rattlesnake on the cover.
Yup, it's a memoir about snake handling. Why I was drawn t0 it, I don't know because I am utterly terrified of snakes. Once we went to a family camp. Darren and Lucy went on a boat ride, and I took Elaine, who was a baby at the time, on a walk. We were on a steep hill, so I was carrying her up it instead of using the stroller. As I walked up the path, I heard a soft rattling sound in the grass nearby. To this day I don't know what that rattle was, but as I held my darling baby oh-so-close and pressed my face to her downy little head, I whispered, "Sister, if a snake comes across this path, it's every girl for herself."
I don't even want to think about snakes, let alone read about them--nevertheless, I was compelled to pick up Salvation on Sand Mountain: Snake Handling and Redemption in Southern Appalachia.
Dennis Covington was sent, as a journalist, to cover an attempted murder trial of a pastor who tried to kill his wife with rattlesnakes. I thought the book would mainly cover the trial and its details, but it only spent a brief amount of time on that and honestly, that is a good thing because I don't mean to be rude, I really don't, but those were some insane, trashy people and the less time spent on their antics the better. Trust me. You can hardly believe what happened. As my dad says, "There's no such thing as fiction."
The book is really about what happened after--how Dennis Covington became friends with the people at the snake handling church up on Sand Mountain after their pastor got put in jail. He and two photographers spent two years, attending services until eventually one night, Covington took up the snakes himself and handled them.
He tells how he and one of the photographers, a man, spent much of their time discussing the "how" of snake handling. He talked about how the church goers would just reach their hands down into a box of rattlers, how they would walk on copperheads, drape snakes around their shoulders, or shake the snakes and let them lick them with their forked tongues. (I know. Did a shiver just go up your spine or what?)
Finally he stopped thinking about the how and asked the question we really care about: Why?
If you're unfamiliar with the reasoning behind religious snake handling, the practice is based on two verses in the New Testament:
Mark 16:18 They shall take up serpents; and if they drink any deadly thing, it shall not hurt them; they shall lay hands on the sick, and they shall recover.
Luke 10:19 Behold, I give unto you power to tread on serpents and scorpions, and over all the power of the enemy: and nothing shall by any means hurt you.
Why would a group of people gather up to three nights a week, sing mountain gospel music, listen to some bad preaching, and then pick up poisonous snakes? The book explores some of the reasons--the main one being that this is the most power these people will ever know--and also how the author himself got caught up in it, which was less understandable to me. He's an adrenaline junkie, ok, I get that, but he also discovered that he had snake-handling ancestors and this was a way to connect with his roots. Now, I've got bootlegging-on-the-Illinois/Iowa-border ancestors, and I don't have any need to connect with them by taking up bootlegging myself. (I know that point is moot. But you know what I mean.) Honestly, if some of my ancestors handled rattlers and drank strychnine out of Mason jars, I would do everything I could to cover that up instead of celebrate it.
I have to say though, this is a fascinating book despite its bizarre subject. For one thing, Covington's a great writer. It's so much more than "How I Spent Time With Snake Handlers." He somehow manages to turn it all inward and examine his life and relationships through this experience. The whole thing's chock full of Southern pathos, (a fancy Nancy term for alcoholism and craziness, really). It reads like a novel. He's also funny. For example, here's a brief snippet between him and one of the snake-handling elders:
"'The Bible says you're gonna suffer for your faith,' he said in his soft Georgia accent, which differed only in degree from my own. 'Look what happened to Stephen. I'd rather die of snakebite than get stoned to death. And what about Peter? Didn't they crucify him upside down on a cross? I'd rather die of a snakebite.' He glanced over the top of his glasses to gauge my reaction. It sounded like a toss-up to me."
Covington even brought his little girls to a New Year's Eve service at the snake church. One of the little girls ran back out of the church and sat in the car the rest of the service. He said it was because she's an artist and wanted to draw pictures of the people and snakes. I think she was an "it's every girl for herself" kind of person, and I applaud her for it.
All in all, I'm glad I read the book, and I highly recommend it. Besides taking away some new knowledge of a sub-culture, the book made me think about some things I can actually use outside of a Trivial Pursuit game (hey, are there questions on snake handling? I can answer them now!)
1) Beware of doing Bible balloon animals with verses and twisting them to mean something they don't.
2) Beware of having to have experiences that you think will put you in touch with God. Having spiritual experiences is wonderful. Having to have them is only going to lead you to a bad place.
I wanted my dad to read the book, but when I told him about it he said, "Why in the world are you and Joseph reading about rattlesnakes? Don't even bring that snake book in my house." See? The apple doesn't fall far from the tree.
But YOU should read it, and tell me what you think!
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Snapshot
I don't know why I thought life was going to quiet down in the fall. Instead it has ramped up unbelievably. But I'll give you a snapshot of life with a second grader and junior kindergartner.
The other night when I was tucking Lucy into bed, she caught my face in her hands and said, "Mom, I have got to tell you something. First, I love you soooooo much! And second, can you believe it? I am going to have a GREAT year again! I just love school and my teacher. How do I keep getting the best teachers?"
I guess the feeling is mutual since we got her mid-quarter progress report, and her teacher said, "Lucy is a darling girl. [I KNOW! She so is! Thank you for recognizing it! Love, Lucy's Mom] She is doing well academically, and I enjoy having her in class."
She is also swimming on the team again, meaning practice two nights a week; she's joined AWANA at our new church, and she's also joined Brownies at school. She's pretty much a busy, happy girl.
Elaine is busy and happy, too, but these two sisters are so different from each other. She is shy (except at home), and it's harder for her to make friends. Everything takes her more time, but once she gets it, she goes full steam ahead.
She is busy learning the alphabet in her class, something we tried off and on all summer that never seemed to take. Darren and I would take turns reading her this wonderful alphabet book, but each time we showed her a letter she would guess and guess what it was in vain.
But now, each week is a different letter at school, and there's a song to go with each. Total ear worm. I still remember them from when Lucy was in this class.
There are also ample chances for parents to be mystery guests. When Lucy was 4, I procrastinated until almost springtime when finally the teacher cornered me and asked me to teach French words to the class. This year, though, Darren stepped up to the plate and volunteered right away (yay! I don't have to go up in front of 18 4-year-olds!). He said he would go in and play the baritone for them.
"Why don't you play your trombone like Roger in 101 Dalmatians? " I asked him.
He just looked at me. "Because the baritone is a lot easier, Alice."
Fine. I guess he was not willing to sacrifice for literary integrity.
Here he is as Elaine's Mystery Guest:
And here he is with the whole class--do you see what they're doing? They're playing kazoos, provided by Darren. I guess they had a whole band going. I know the teachers and other parents were thrilled.
Other than school and church activities, the girls always have a continual obsession. Long-time readers I'm sure remember the Riverdance obsession. There was also the Meet Me in St. Louis obsession, the Singin' in the Rain obsession, and the Pride & Prejudice obsession.
Right now, it's Little Women (that's been ongoing). Lucy gets to be Jo, Elaine is Amy (perfect type-casting), and I am relegated to Marmee, which makes me kind of sad since I guess my days of getting to be any of the sisters are over.
This preoccupation with Little Women means that whenever we take the butter out of the fridge, we sigh, "Ohhh. Isn't butter divinity?" The other day when Elaine and I were waiting for Darren to come out of CVS Pharmacy, when she finally saw him, Elaine leaned out the window and said, "Hark! Who goes there?"
Or she'll say, "I want to be Lady Violet. I'm exhaustified of being the boy!" and Lucy will answer in her best Jo voice, "The play is the thing, Amy. You're too little to be Lady Violet!"
Other favorite quotes we say on a regular basis (most of which are Amy-isms):
"Marmee, Marmee, we've been waiting for you--we've been expectorating you for hours!"
"You'll be sorry, Jo March!"
"What's that strange smell--like burnt feathers?"
"I'm so degraditated. I owe at least a dozen limes!"
In short, they are active, happy, healthy girls this fall, and I am so thankful for it. I will leave you with the alphabet song for this week; we're on the letter D (there will be Detective Day, Bring a Stuffed Dog Day, Me and Daddy Day, among others). I feel it's only fair that you should have this in your head as much as I do. Please sing it to the tune of "Jingle Bells."
Daisy Doll, Daisy Doll,
Tell me what you see
There are lots of things around
that start with letter D
Daffodils, dandelions,
dogs that dig in dirt
Daddy working in the yard
in his favorite shirt!
You're welcome.
The other night when I was tucking Lucy into bed, she caught my face in her hands and said, "Mom, I have got to tell you something. First, I love you soooooo much! And second, can you believe it? I am going to have a GREAT year again! I just love school and my teacher. How do I keep getting the best teachers?"
I guess the feeling is mutual since we got her mid-quarter progress report, and her teacher said, "Lucy is a darling girl. [I KNOW! She so is! Thank you for recognizing it! Love, Lucy's Mom] She is doing well academically, and I enjoy having her in class."
She is also swimming on the team again, meaning practice two nights a week; she's joined AWANA at our new church, and she's also joined Brownies at school. She's pretty much a busy, happy girl.
Elaine is busy and happy, too, but these two sisters are so different from each other. She is shy (except at home), and it's harder for her to make friends. Everything takes her more time, but once she gets it, she goes full steam ahead.
She is busy learning the alphabet in her class, something we tried off and on all summer that never seemed to take. Darren and I would take turns reading her this wonderful alphabet book, but each time we showed her a letter she would guess and guess what it was in vain.
But now, each week is a different letter at school, and there's a song to go with each. Total ear worm. I still remember them from when Lucy was in this class.
There are also ample chances for parents to be mystery guests. When Lucy was 4, I procrastinated until almost springtime when finally the teacher cornered me and asked me to teach French words to the class. This year, though, Darren stepped up to the plate and volunteered right away (yay! I don't have to go up in front of 18 4-year-olds!). He said he would go in and play the baritone for them.
"Why don't you play your trombone like Roger in 101 Dalmatians? " I asked him.
He just looked at me. "Because the baritone is a lot easier, Alice."
Fine. I guess he was not willing to sacrifice for literary integrity.
Here he is as Elaine's Mystery Guest:
And here he is with the whole class--do you see what they're doing? They're playing kazoos, provided by Darren. I guess they had a whole band going. I know the teachers and other parents were thrilled.
Other than school and church activities, the girls always have a continual obsession. Long-time readers I'm sure remember the Riverdance obsession. There was also the Meet Me in St. Louis obsession, the Singin' in the Rain obsession, and the Pride & Prejudice obsession.
Right now, it's Little Women (that's been ongoing). Lucy gets to be Jo, Elaine is Amy (perfect type-casting), and I am relegated to Marmee, which makes me kind of sad since I guess my days of getting to be any of the sisters are over.
This preoccupation with Little Women means that whenever we take the butter out of the fridge, we sigh, "Ohhh. Isn't butter divinity?" The other day when Elaine and I were waiting for Darren to come out of CVS Pharmacy, when she finally saw him, Elaine leaned out the window and said, "Hark! Who goes there?"
Or she'll say, "I want to be Lady Violet. I'm exhaustified of being the boy!" and Lucy will answer in her best Jo voice, "The play is the thing, Amy. You're too little to be Lady Violet!"
Other favorite quotes we say on a regular basis (most of which are Amy-isms):
"Marmee, Marmee, we've been waiting for you--we've been expectorating you for hours!"
"You'll be sorry, Jo March!"
"What's that strange smell--like burnt feathers?"
"I'm so degraditated. I owe at least a dozen limes!"
In short, they are active, happy, healthy girls this fall, and I am so thankful for it. I will leave you with the alphabet song for this week; we're on the letter D (there will be Detective Day, Bring a Stuffed Dog Day, Me and Daddy Day, among others). I feel it's only fair that you should have this in your head as much as I do. Please sing it to the tune of "Jingle Bells."
Daisy Doll, Daisy Doll,
Tell me what you see
There are lots of things around
that start with letter D
Daffodils, dandelions,
dogs that dig in dirt
Daddy working in the yard
in his favorite shirt!
You're welcome.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
