Some simple truths
The shortest answer is often the most elegant.
The weakest moment in our lives can also be the moment where we show real strength.
The woman who struggles to speak truth is heard in a way that the easily eloquent woman is not.
Gabrielle Giffords.
She is a survivor and a victim at once.
Her struggle to overcome an assassin's bullet forced her to leave office,
but her voice now may be said to be more widely heard than ever before.
We might struggle to remember speeches that politicians gave in the past,
But there is not one person who can forget her voice
Reciting the Pledge of Allegiance.
Her words once were easy and free.
Now they are carefully placed and thought through
Every one of them.
She works hard to say them,
And her public hangs on to every one of them.
Gabby, I am newly come to Arizona
Newly come to the Democratic party,
Not at all sure of my bearings.
I did not know you before that day in January,
A day I now commemorate with my school,
We remember and we grieve,
And we look at you and marvel.
I know that your struggle is by no means over.
I know that day by day
You work and strive and suffer
To achieve what was once done without thought.
But Gabby,
You are still valued, still important, still a spokesman.
You represent my community, my state, my heart.
Every time I see you achieve a new goal,
It reminds me that evil does not long stand
When good men
and women
work together.
God bless you, Gabrielle Giffords.
May he continue to heal you and make you strong,
But until that day,
Please remember that your weakness is your strength.
Truth doesn't need thousands of words.
Truth shows herself in actions.
And your actions show you to be a woman of strength,
I pray that as they observe your strength
Others will realize that they, too, can learn to be strong.
And may your refusal to back down help them to stand up for themselves as well.
Because in weakness there is strength,
In hope there is a release from despair,
And perfect love casts out all fear.
Thursday, January 31, 2013
Wednesday, January 30, 2013
on autism
People talk about autistic children. They are stereotyped as people without emotions, people who don't speak, people who don't communicate in any way, people who have an interior life that is so complete that they don't need any outside communication. They shrink from touch, they come undone easily, loud noises or change or an outside touch can turn them into shrieking, rocking, inconsolable puzzles that parents and counselors and caregivers alike are unable to fix.
For some, I'm sure, that's true. But autism is a spectrum. Not all children fit the mold. Some do, some don't, some do at times and not at others. My son is autistic. He is high-functioning. He has Asperger's Syndrome, or he did until the powers that be took it away from the diagnosis jungle and left us with the aforementioned "high-functioning" moniker.
If you were to meet my son, you probably would not realize at first that he's autistic. He might seem a bit eccentric, a bit absorbed, a bit self-interested, but that would be it. My son is missing the first give away for autism: unsocial. David is very social. He says that he enjoys being by himself, but he also thoroughly enjoys people. He has friends--more friends than I do! He loves to talk on the phone. He has had many girlfriends in his young life, and his current girlfriend and he have been going out for over a year.
Not that it hasn't been hard. It has. There have been struggles at home and at school. We have a relationship that's different than any relationship that i've had with any of my other children. Not better, not worse, but certainly different. He has had to learn, and so have I. And he has come a long way.
If you were to ask me what it's like living with an Asperger's kid, I'd have to tell you that I'm not sure. I don't live with "an Asperger kid", I live with David. From earliest childhood, I've come to realize that the things I loved most about him were things that marked him as autistic. For example, he whistled or hummed constantly when he was in preschool. As a musician, I was entranced! When he was concentrating on learning something or understanding something, he would walk around and around in a circle. Both of those, it turns out, are "self-stimulating" behavior and sure signs of autism.
David is incredibly talented. My other kids are, too, but David has one skill that very few people --children or adults--are able to do. From the time he was about 8, David could sing harmony with me. My voice is so strong that I overpower most people and make them sing whatever I'm singing. Not him! In fact, at this time in my life it's him that we look to if we want to make sure that we're singing something correctly.
David has an intense sense of right and wrong. Things seem to be very black and white to him. He cares a lot about truth, and he still becomes intensely angry if you mention that you think he might be lying.
Why am I writing this? Well, I felt that I wanted to try to let you see that not all autistic people are dangerous. In fact, very few are. They are uniquely themselves, and each one is different. For every autistic person who kills there are 1000 who do not--who would never dream of such a thing. They are hard to get to know, maybe, but try. You might find that once the effort has been made, the resulting friendship is well worth it.
For some, I'm sure, that's true. But autism is a spectrum. Not all children fit the mold. Some do, some don't, some do at times and not at others. My son is autistic. He is high-functioning. He has Asperger's Syndrome, or he did until the powers that be took it away from the diagnosis jungle and left us with the aforementioned "high-functioning" moniker.
If you were to meet my son, you probably would not realize at first that he's autistic. He might seem a bit eccentric, a bit absorbed, a bit self-interested, but that would be it. My son is missing the first give away for autism: unsocial. David is very social. He says that he enjoys being by himself, but he also thoroughly enjoys people. He has friends--more friends than I do! He loves to talk on the phone. He has had many girlfriends in his young life, and his current girlfriend and he have been going out for over a year.
Not that it hasn't been hard. It has. There have been struggles at home and at school. We have a relationship that's different than any relationship that i've had with any of my other children. Not better, not worse, but certainly different. He has had to learn, and so have I. And he has come a long way.
If you were to ask me what it's like living with an Asperger's kid, I'd have to tell you that I'm not sure. I don't live with "an Asperger kid", I live with David. From earliest childhood, I've come to realize that the things I loved most about him were things that marked him as autistic. For example, he whistled or hummed constantly when he was in preschool. As a musician, I was entranced! When he was concentrating on learning something or understanding something, he would walk around and around in a circle. Both of those, it turns out, are "self-stimulating" behavior and sure signs of autism.
David is incredibly talented. My other kids are, too, but David has one skill that very few people --children or adults--are able to do. From the time he was about 8, David could sing harmony with me. My voice is so strong that I overpower most people and make them sing whatever I'm singing. Not him! In fact, at this time in my life it's him that we look to if we want to make sure that we're singing something correctly.
David has an intense sense of right and wrong. Things seem to be very black and white to him. He cares a lot about truth, and he still becomes intensely angry if you mention that you think he might be lying.
Why am I writing this? Well, I felt that I wanted to try to let you see that not all autistic people are dangerous. In fact, very few are. They are uniquely themselves, and each one is different. For every autistic person who kills there are 1000 who do not--who would never dream of such a thing. They are hard to get to know, maybe, but try. You might find that once the effort has been made, the resulting friendship is well worth it.
Tuesday, January 29, 2013
tell her megan says hi
Sand, sea and sky. Moving pleasantly back and forth within the waves, waiting for the big one. No board, just my body. I go beyond the waves and lay on my back, watching the sky with its pristine white clouds hovering overhead. Some seals come close, and I swim with them in a way that assures me that this is a dream. As I swim, I catch sight of a blonde head just beyond me. She also is swimming. She is young, no more than seven or eight, but she swims like a pro! Who is she, and why on earth am I dreaming of her? I begin to swim toward her to find out who she is when …Billy Joel sings to me, assuring me that a bottle of red and a bottle of white/whatever kind of mood you're in tonight/ I'll meet you anytime you want/ in our Italian restaurant.
I hit the alarm, get up, and march out of my bedroom, knowing that if I even look at that bed, I'll give in to the urge to crawl under the covers once again. Eat breakfast, shower, shave and take off down the street to catch the 302 bus to my job downtown. On my way, I think about that little blondie. What on earth kind of dream is that, where all I can remember is a 8-year-old girl!! I smile to myself. I'm more the kind of guy to think about the mom, not the girl!
Mountains, a stream, and a fishing pole. This is the life! Overhead, blue sky with not a hint of clouds. The fish are really biting, too, but as is the way of dreams, I don't remember anything but catching them and then seeing them miraculously appear on my stringer. For some reason, I'm dressed for work in a button-down blue shirt and Dockers, but at least I have on my favorite tennis shoes. I look to my side, Ah, yes! One cooler for the fish, another for me! I look in the box for a beer and notice a couple of sandwiches. A couple--am I staying a while, or did I bring a friend?
I look around. On one side, there is an old man chewing on a pipe who looks like he's fished this stream for 50 years or more. To his left, a young couple, the wife visibly pregnant, each have a pole in the water. The husband seems to be enjoying the experience much more than the wife. I hear noise in the distance and look up toward the parking lot--a ratty brown Mustang sits with its windows down, and three small children play inside.
I look to my right, and there she is. Blonde curls done back in a bow, she is older today, more like 10 or 11. She's not fishing, although she has a vest and wading boots on. I ask her where she's from and she smiles and points off into the distance. "My folks are over there, fishing. I don't like to fish, but I like to be stylish. Doesn't this look nice on me?" I smile and say yes, it certainly does! It surprises me that I say it. I'm not much into kids, really, but she's different. She seems really polite and isn't into that annoying question asking or favor begging that some kids enjoy. She asks me what I'm fishing for and I tell her "Bad Bad Leroy Brown, baddest man in the whole damn town!"
I'm jarred awake, blue eyes still in my mind as I get up to get ready for work. Twice in a row, now! Who is this girl?? She's on my mind as far as the bus stop, but then I slowly shake it off. It's just a dream! I must have seen her somewhere and she made an impression. No big deal.
That day, I go in to work and I notice that there's a new face at the desk beside me. She's quite something, I have to say. Brown hair, blue eyes, and a smile that lights up the room. She's introduced to me as Kate Colliers, and I greet her politely and then go into my work haze, as usual, forgetting everything but the task at hand.
At an opera, of all things! What on earth?!? But then I realize that it's not quite an opera, it's more a musical, which I have to admit that I enjoy. I look around, but I don't seem to be accompanying anyone, which is even more strange. I can't see myself going to something like this if a lady wasn't involved. Oh, well, whatever. I settle myself in to enjoy this pretty weird dream, and then there's a tap on my shoulder. "Excuse, me, but didn't I meet you a few years ago? You were out fishing?" I look up and see a slender blonde teen. She has aged from 10 to around 15, but again, not your usual 15-year-old. There's something about her….I say, yes, I did, but I didn't get your name. "That's right!" she says. "Hey, did you meet the new girl at work yet?" "Ms. Colliers? Yes, I did. Do you know her?" She doesn't answer that question, either. "When you see her tomorrow, can you please tell her Megan says hi?" "Megan? Is your name Megan?" But she turns and walks away, disappearing as if she'd never been.
The alarm doesn't wake me; the dream does. I don't have a clue what it meant, and I don't know what to do about it. I think about it as I shower. As I shave, I look at myself in the mirror and imagine her there. "Hi, Ms. Colliers--Kate--I know this sounds strange--" I don't even finish the thought in the mirror. How can I possibly say something that insane to her?
But by the time I'm on the bus, I know that I will. I don't stop and chat. I got straight to the office and…there she is. Why hadn't I noticed how pretty she was? Oh well, now or never! I gird up my loins and walk over to her desk.
"Hey, Kate, I, uh, well, I have something pretty strange to tell you." She looks at me with a friendly smile, and I tell her the story of my dreams. When I start, she looks pretty quizzical, but somewhere in the telling, her face flushes and her eyes begin to glimmer. She says not a single word, and there's a moment of silence when I've finished. Then she reaches for her wallet.
"Tell me Megan said 'hi'? Pete, tell me, did she look like this?" She takes out a picture of a girl of about 15. It doesn't take me a minute to realize that it's her. Blonde hair, blue eyes, sweet smile. I look at Kate and nod my head. She nods her head, too.
"Pete, Megan was my older sister. She was diagnosed with leukemia when she was 15, and this was the last picture that we have of her. She went really quickly. But she always told me that she would scope out the perfect man for me. She would make sure that he was okay, and when she was sure, she would let me know."
In that second, it was as if she heard what she'd just said, and she blushed crimson. I laughed and said, "Well, if Megan is so sure that we're a match made in dreams, we mustn't disappoint her--we should at least try it out!"
On our first date, we went fishing. The second date was to Phantom of the Opera. And the wedding? It will be at the beach. And we plan to swim with the seals afterwards. And we will light a candle for Megan, too. After all, she was the matchmaker--a match made in heaven!
I hit the alarm, get up, and march out of my bedroom, knowing that if I even look at that bed, I'll give in to the urge to crawl under the covers once again. Eat breakfast, shower, shave and take off down the street to catch the 302 bus to my job downtown. On my way, I think about that little blondie. What on earth kind of dream is that, where all I can remember is a 8-year-old girl!! I smile to myself. I'm more the kind of guy to think about the mom, not the girl!
Mountains, a stream, and a fishing pole. This is the life! Overhead, blue sky with not a hint of clouds. The fish are really biting, too, but as is the way of dreams, I don't remember anything but catching them and then seeing them miraculously appear on my stringer. For some reason, I'm dressed for work in a button-down blue shirt and Dockers, but at least I have on my favorite tennis shoes. I look to my side, Ah, yes! One cooler for the fish, another for me! I look in the box for a beer and notice a couple of sandwiches. A couple--am I staying a while, or did I bring a friend?
I look around. On one side, there is an old man chewing on a pipe who looks like he's fished this stream for 50 years or more. To his left, a young couple, the wife visibly pregnant, each have a pole in the water. The husband seems to be enjoying the experience much more than the wife. I hear noise in the distance and look up toward the parking lot--a ratty brown Mustang sits with its windows down, and three small children play inside.
I look to my right, and there she is. Blonde curls done back in a bow, she is older today, more like 10 or 11. She's not fishing, although she has a vest and wading boots on. I ask her where she's from and she smiles and points off into the distance. "My folks are over there, fishing. I don't like to fish, but I like to be stylish. Doesn't this look nice on me?" I smile and say yes, it certainly does! It surprises me that I say it. I'm not much into kids, really, but she's different. She seems really polite and isn't into that annoying question asking or favor begging that some kids enjoy. She asks me what I'm fishing for and I tell her "Bad Bad Leroy Brown, baddest man in the whole damn town!"
I'm jarred awake, blue eyes still in my mind as I get up to get ready for work. Twice in a row, now! Who is this girl?? She's on my mind as far as the bus stop, but then I slowly shake it off. It's just a dream! I must have seen her somewhere and she made an impression. No big deal.
That day, I go in to work and I notice that there's a new face at the desk beside me. She's quite something, I have to say. Brown hair, blue eyes, and a smile that lights up the room. She's introduced to me as Kate Colliers, and I greet her politely and then go into my work haze, as usual, forgetting everything but the task at hand.
At an opera, of all things! What on earth?!? But then I realize that it's not quite an opera, it's more a musical, which I have to admit that I enjoy. I look around, but I don't seem to be accompanying anyone, which is even more strange. I can't see myself going to something like this if a lady wasn't involved. Oh, well, whatever. I settle myself in to enjoy this pretty weird dream, and then there's a tap on my shoulder. "Excuse, me, but didn't I meet you a few years ago? You were out fishing?" I look up and see a slender blonde teen. She has aged from 10 to around 15, but again, not your usual 15-year-old. There's something about her….I say, yes, I did, but I didn't get your name. "That's right!" she says. "Hey, did you meet the new girl at work yet?" "Ms. Colliers? Yes, I did. Do you know her?" She doesn't answer that question, either. "When you see her tomorrow, can you please tell her Megan says hi?" "Megan? Is your name Megan?" But she turns and walks away, disappearing as if she'd never been.
The alarm doesn't wake me; the dream does. I don't have a clue what it meant, and I don't know what to do about it. I think about it as I shower. As I shave, I look at myself in the mirror and imagine her there. "Hi, Ms. Colliers--Kate--I know this sounds strange--" I don't even finish the thought in the mirror. How can I possibly say something that insane to her?
But by the time I'm on the bus, I know that I will. I don't stop and chat. I got straight to the office and…there she is. Why hadn't I noticed how pretty she was? Oh well, now or never! I gird up my loins and walk over to her desk.
"Hey, Kate, I, uh, well, I have something pretty strange to tell you." She looks at me with a friendly smile, and I tell her the story of my dreams. When I start, she looks pretty quizzical, but somewhere in the telling, her face flushes and her eyes begin to glimmer. She says not a single word, and there's a moment of silence when I've finished. Then she reaches for her wallet.
"Tell me Megan said 'hi'? Pete, tell me, did she look like this?" She takes out a picture of a girl of about 15. It doesn't take me a minute to realize that it's her. Blonde hair, blue eyes, sweet smile. I look at Kate and nod my head. She nods her head, too.
"Pete, Megan was my older sister. She was diagnosed with leukemia when she was 15, and this was the last picture that we have of her. She went really quickly. But she always told me that she would scope out the perfect man for me. She would make sure that he was okay, and when she was sure, she would let me know."
In that second, it was as if she heard what she'd just said, and she blushed crimson. I laughed and said, "Well, if Megan is so sure that we're a match made in dreams, we mustn't disappoint her--we should at least try it out!"
On our first date, we went fishing. The second date was to Phantom of the Opera. And the wedding? It will be at the beach. And we plan to swim with the seals afterwards. And we will light a candle for Megan, too. After all, she was the matchmaker--a match made in heaven!
Monday, January 28, 2013
to remember
"There's rosemary, that's for remembrance. Pray you, love, remember." Hamlet, Act 4, Scene 5
Sometimes it's hard to remember.
Sometimes remembering hurts.
The little kindnesses shown,
The half-smile on the beloved's face,
The moment when you first realized that this is the last moment that you will have together
Can burn like fire when brought to mind
After death.
But love,
Remember.
Fire will eventually burn itself out
And among the embers
You will find sparks and glowing bits of memories.
The sparks leap and shine in our hearts:
The first glimpse
The first date
The first time
The kiss that spoke more than words ever could
And the promise made that you were sure could never be forgotten.
The glow sometimes is more elusive, but it still remains nonetheless:
The pleasant Sunday spent among the sheets,
Reading the cartoons to the kiddies
The whole family together and united.
The morning that you both felt sick and stayed home from work,
And so spent the day in adjoining easy chairs
Sipping 7-Up and eating crackers,
Every once in a while glancing at one another and smiling,
Content to be together even during this.
Sparks and embers, moments of sweetness,
but also moments of recognition:
That vacantness where there used to be only love,
That creeping coldness when you touch once-loving arms,
The moment you walk away from the bedroom
realizing
that you would never again come together as one.
Yes, those memories hurt.
But they're part of the fire, aren't they?
They're the ash.
They remind you that what you once had was gone.
Death has come.
Death of the beloved
or death of the relationship
And it's time to move on.
So, yes, move on,
But don't relegate your memories to some cobweb-filled back room.
For one thing, they will refuse to stay there.
They will keep inserting themselves in your dreams,
In your thoughts,
At the most inopportune time.
They cry out for you to pay attention.
So pay attention.
There is nothing to fear,
And much to learn.
Pray you, love,
Remember.
Sometimes it's hard to remember.
Sometimes remembering hurts.
The little kindnesses shown,
The half-smile on the beloved's face,
The moment when you first realized that this is the last moment that you will have together
Can burn like fire when brought to mind
After death.
But love,
Remember.
Fire will eventually burn itself out
And among the embers
You will find sparks and glowing bits of memories.
The sparks leap and shine in our hearts:
The first glimpse
The first date
The first time
The kiss that spoke more than words ever could
And the promise made that you were sure could never be forgotten.
The glow sometimes is more elusive, but it still remains nonetheless:
The pleasant Sunday spent among the sheets,
Reading the cartoons to the kiddies
The whole family together and united.
The morning that you both felt sick and stayed home from work,
And so spent the day in adjoining easy chairs
Sipping 7-Up and eating crackers,
Every once in a while glancing at one another and smiling,
Content to be together even during this.
Sparks and embers, moments of sweetness,
but also moments of recognition:
That vacantness where there used to be only love,
That creeping coldness when you touch once-loving arms,
The moment you walk away from the bedroom
realizing
that you would never again come together as one.
Yes, those memories hurt.
But they're part of the fire, aren't they?
They're the ash.
They remind you that what you once had was gone.
Death has come.
Death of the beloved
or death of the relationship
And it's time to move on.
So, yes, move on,
But don't relegate your memories to some cobweb-filled back room.
For one thing, they will refuse to stay there.
They will keep inserting themselves in your dreams,
In your thoughts,
At the most inopportune time.
They cry out for you to pay attention.
So pay attention.
There is nothing to fear,
And much to learn.
Pray you, love,
Remember.
on being fat, a hypochondriac, sick, and stubborn
(Make-up blog from 1/27)
Before I can start my story, I have to give you some background. I have been overweight since I was 9. It's a psychological problem, mostly. I think I need food when I really don't. I eat when I'm happy, when I'm sad, when I'm lonely, when I'm bored, or just because. I had weight loss surgery when I was 16 (I'm younger than the youngest person noted in the textbooks on the subject), and I lost over 100 pounds in less than a year. Before too long, though, I was climbing back up the scale. In addition, the quick loss of weight led to my skin no longer being supple, which means that I look fatter than I am. This causes doctors to go into spasms of doctorly joy when they see me. This is how it goes:
I walk into the doctor's office. He takes one look at me and says, "Oh, I know what's the matter with you!!" He then schedules glucose tolerance tests, supremely happy that this is an easy one. I obviously have diabetes!
Except that I don't. Or didn't for many years. About five years ago I went into "pre-diabetic", and so I shaped up my act, if not my figure. I stopped eating so much sugar, so many carbs. I switched from potatoes to rice or whole wheat noodles. And my numbers went down--I was officially no longer diabetic. Which inexplicably made my doctor very unhappy. Ever since, he has been sure that I will climb back up the count and be his diabetic sweetie once again. So now to my story.
It all started a few weeks ago. I was overdue for my doctor's visit--six months overdue. For some reason, he was not happy about this. I came to his office with one problem--a sore that wouldn't heal. This was NOT diabetes related--it was due to a surgery that didn't do what it was supposed to. He checked the wound and chastised me on not getting the requisite blood work done (this man enjoys chastising me). I reminded him that I came to his office and they gave me the slip for blood work. The next 10 minutes or so went along just fine, until he asked about anything else that might have come up. Silly me--I told him about climbing a steep hill in high elevation and having trouble catching my breath for a few minutes.
You'd think I'd given him a diamond ring! Something to fixate on! I'd never before mentioned anything that might be heart related! He went from chastise to super strength berating me.
"You need to see a cardiologist immediately! You think that the wound is your most serious problem, but you could have heart disease! Don't you understand the need to care for yourself!?!" He sent me on my way with yet more blood work and a referral to a cardiologist. I promptly "lost" the latter in my back seat. Nevertheless, Mr. heart doc's office called me up later that week wanting to schedule a visit. I politely said thanks but no thanks. This set the stage.
I am a hypochondriac. I know very well that I don't have heart disease, but he put that thought into my head. From that point on, any time I was out of breath, any time I was out of sorts, and any time my chest hurt--whether from indigestion or angst or what have you--the thought came: HEART ATTACK!!! I knew it was silly, but there you go. I couldn't help myself. However, everything was settling down for me, and I was beginning to feel more my usual self. Then came last Friday.
I began to have a build up of pressure in my chest. Immediately, heart attack? queried my hypochondriac self. No, my stubborn self replied. It is centered more in your esophageal area. Oh, ulcer! maintained my hypochondriac self. I should go to urgent care! No, no. Not necessary! put in my procrastinating self. Wait and see--it will probably get better. And so it went, until Saturday. I felt miserable, but no miserable than before. So I went to a training with about 50 other people. Sorry, guys. Luckily, I came late, so I sat at a table by myself. By the end of the training, I was beginning to feel nauseous. Heart attack!! Cried my hypochondriac self. Shut up!! said both of my other selves. So home I went, and I spent the rest of the day sitting around without energy. By the evening, I was very uncomfortable, but it was clear that I didn't have heart attack, ulcer, or anything else. I had the norovirus.
Today is Monday, and I'm feeling better. Chest pain is completely gone, no more nausea, no more issues. And so my hypochondriac self can go back to sleep. Till the next time.
Saturday, January 26, 2013
write what you know
I went to a day-long (if you consider 8:30-2:00 day long!!) training for Stephen Ministries today. It was cloudy and rainy, grey skies, and inside the training was on grief, suicide, and depression. I was fascinated by what I heard. The women who led the training sessions had all experienced the things that they were talking about, and they spoke from the heart. I was especially struck by the second woman, who spoke on suicide.
Her name was Vicki, and she was preceded by another very knowledgable woman who told us about mental health issues. She was very interesting--at a professional level. I was interested but not absorbed. Then Vicki spoke. This brave woman lost her 21-year-old son to suicide four years ago, and her story was riveting. She very forthrightly spoke about the mistakes that she made, the signs that she missed, and the grief that she was still experiencing. One thing that she said struck me to my very core. It was by no means the meat of the lecture, but it was life-changing for me. Forgive the paraphrase--it didn't occur to me to write it down. But it's fairly accurate.
"There are others around now who can also speak, and at first I thought I would pass the responsibility on to her, (but) I have assimilated the experience within myself. This is what I know. This is what I do."
Yes. Finally I understand my own calling. For years I have hesitated to write overly much about grief, death, suffering, but they are who I am. I have dealt with loss from before I can remember. I am 55, and in that time I have experienced the hospitalization of my mother numerous times, her stroke, heart failure and eventual death. I have dealt with depression and mental health issues in my own life and in the life of my family. I lost my mother at 15, lost one child through miscarriage and another through premature birth and eventual death, lost all my uncles and aunts and some cousins. My father died when I was 34 (not out of time for him--he was 81). My niece died when she was 20 and I was around 26. On and on it goes. But the most powerful loss that I experienced was the death of my husband when I was 35. I did not recover from that for many many years. You might say that I never will recover--you don't "get well" from grief. You learn to live with it and move on, but it never entirely goes away. Nor would I want it to. He was my husband, and I loved him.
So what does all this mean? Well, what it does not mean is that I go around with a cloud over my head all day every day. Most days, especially now, are pretty good. I can live from day to day with joy, because I understand that God is on the throne and I will see my loved ones again. But it also means that I am different than many of you. I come from a different place. And I would not trade places.
When I lost little Tommy, I started going to a support group, "Sharing Parents". This group was a godsend, not just for me, but for my entire family. We all went, starting with Tommy's death and going through Val's. One meeting in particular stood out for me. We spoke of infant loss in general, with the speaker talking about doing funeral services for babies that were so young--miscarriages, really--that there was nothing to put in the coffin. The speaker went on to say that the parents have been forever changed, but they would never go back. It's the difference between being a virgin and getting married--you will never have the innocence again, but you would never want to go back to that naivete.
That's me. I have learned many lessons in my life, and I don't regret a single one. Not a single one. If it were possible, yes, I would prefer to have my husband and son with me, but I don't regret the experience. God became real to me in the pain. I felt this from an early age, and it has just increased over time. It was especially true in times of greatest need. For example, one day I was admitted to the hospital and it was determined that I needed to go in for gall bladder surgery. Nobody was able to come and be with me, and I was very alone and very scared. I keenly felt the loss of my husband. As the gurney came to carry me to surgery, I called out for God to be with me, and I felt his presence beside me, holding my hand as I went down the hallway. As I waited, it turned out that there was a complicating factor and I didn't get the surgery after all, but that sensation didn't go away. It stayed with me as long as I needed a friend, and then it eventually dissipated. Years later, my sister and my daughter were both at my side for my corneal transplant. I was happy because they were with me, but of course, they can't go with me into surgery. I was expecting God's hand to be there as I went down the hallway, and I was disappointed that I didn't feel it. I questioned it as I went, and I heard God's voice, "I will be there for you when you need it." Down we went to the operating room. I saw the door open, the blinding lights of the room--and there was God's hand, right at the moment of my need.
When I moved from Bakersfield to Tucson, this relationship suffered. For the first time since my youth, I was hurt and angry with God. I moved because I knew it was the right thing to do, but there was no human companionship, either at church, at school, or in my community. I realize now that I was very depressed and unable to reach out, but that was not something I could have helped at the time. I'm grateful for my son, David's, presence. But I've never felt so alone.
Slowly, gently, God took my hand once again. As the years passed, I realized that there was one person that I needed to get reacquainted with--myself. Through trial and error, with many steps backward and even more steps forward, I have been brought back to myself. I'm thankful for that. And as I've become more driven to write, I keep thinking, 'You have to write what you know.' And what I know is pain and loss. So I will not be afraid to write about pain and loss.
That doesn't mean that I will stop writing about other things. God has given me a brain, and quite an analytical one at that. I enjoy dissecting things. I enjoy the idea of lectio divina, reading through scripture many times, with different intent each time. I love exploring ideas. All these things are fun for me, and I will definitely blog about them.
But I do believe that my first published works will probably deal with loss, with pain, with grief, with emotional trauma. Write what you know. But why write about this doom-and-gloom stuff? Not to be maudlin, not to sink into the pit of despair. No, to paraphrase the verse, I suffered and I was comforted. And now I hope to write (and minister) to those who are suffering so that they can receive that same comfort that God gave me.
Going back to my training, when we finished and were preparing to go outside, one of the trainees remarked that the sun had come out. We walked out of the building into the still-wet street, and the sun was breaking through the clouds. I see both my writing and my ministry as that: staying with others and sharing the walk through the rain and darkness until the sun finally comes out and it is once again possible for them to walk alone. That's my goal. And I think it's a good one.
Her name was Vicki, and she was preceded by another very knowledgable woman who told us about mental health issues. She was very interesting--at a professional level. I was interested but not absorbed. Then Vicki spoke. This brave woman lost her 21-year-old son to suicide four years ago, and her story was riveting. She very forthrightly spoke about the mistakes that she made, the signs that she missed, and the grief that she was still experiencing. One thing that she said struck me to my very core. It was by no means the meat of the lecture, but it was life-changing for me. Forgive the paraphrase--it didn't occur to me to write it down. But it's fairly accurate.
"There are others around now who can also speak, and at first I thought I would pass the responsibility on to her, (but) I have assimilated the experience within myself. This is what I know. This is what I do."
Yes. Finally I understand my own calling. For years I have hesitated to write overly much about grief, death, suffering, but they are who I am. I have dealt with loss from before I can remember. I am 55, and in that time I have experienced the hospitalization of my mother numerous times, her stroke, heart failure and eventual death. I have dealt with depression and mental health issues in my own life and in the life of my family. I lost my mother at 15, lost one child through miscarriage and another through premature birth and eventual death, lost all my uncles and aunts and some cousins. My father died when I was 34 (not out of time for him--he was 81). My niece died when she was 20 and I was around 26. On and on it goes. But the most powerful loss that I experienced was the death of my husband when I was 35. I did not recover from that for many many years. You might say that I never will recover--you don't "get well" from grief. You learn to live with it and move on, but it never entirely goes away. Nor would I want it to. He was my husband, and I loved him.
So what does all this mean? Well, what it does not mean is that I go around with a cloud over my head all day every day. Most days, especially now, are pretty good. I can live from day to day with joy, because I understand that God is on the throne and I will see my loved ones again. But it also means that I am different than many of you. I come from a different place. And I would not trade places.
When I lost little Tommy, I started going to a support group, "Sharing Parents". This group was a godsend, not just for me, but for my entire family. We all went, starting with Tommy's death and going through Val's. One meeting in particular stood out for me. We spoke of infant loss in general, with the speaker talking about doing funeral services for babies that were so young--miscarriages, really--that there was nothing to put in the coffin. The speaker went on to say that the parents have been forever changed, but they would never go back. It's the difference between being a virgin and getting married--you will never have the innocence again, but you would never want to go back to that naivete.
That's me. I have learned many lessons in my life, and I don't regret a single one. Not a single one. If it were possible, yes, I would prefer to have my husband and son with me, but I don't regret the experience. God became real to me in the pain. I felt this from an early age, and it has just increased over time. It was especially true in times of greatest need. For example, one day I was admitted to the hospital and it was determined that I needed to go in for gall bladder surgery. Nobody was able to come and be with me, and I was very alone and very scared. I keenly felt the loss of my husband. As the gurney came to carry me to surgery, I called out for God to be with me, and I felt his presence beside me, holding my hand as I went down the hallway. As I waited, it turned out that there was a complicating factor and I didn't get the surgery after all, but that sensation didn't go away. It stayed with me as long as I needed a friend, and then it eventually dissipated. Years later, my sister and my daughter were both at my side for my corneal transplant. I was happy because they were with me, but of course, they can't go with me into surgery. I was expecting God's hand to be there as I went down the hallway, and I was disappointed that I didn't feel it. I questioned it as I went, and I heard God's voice, "I will be there for you when you need it." Down we went to the operating room. I saw the door open, the blinding lights of the room--and there was God's hand, right at the moment of my need.
When I moved from Bakersfield to Tucson, this relationship suffered. For the first time since my youth, I was hurt and angry with God. I moved because I knew it was the right thing to do, but there was no human companionship, either at church, at school, or in my community. I realize now that I was very depressed and unable to reach out, but that was not something I could have helped at the time. I'm grateful for my son, David's, presence. But I've never felt so alone.
Slowly, gently, God took my hand once again. As the years passed, I realized that there was one person that I needed to get reacquainted with--myself. Through trial and error, with many steps backward and even more steps forward, I have been brought back to myself. I'm thankful for that. And as I've become more driven to write, I keep thinking, 'You have to write what you know.' And what I know is pain and loss. So I will not be afraid to write about pain and loss.
That doesn't mean that I will stop writing about other things. God has given me a brain, and quite an analytical one at that. I enjoy dissecting things. I enjoy the idea of lectio divina, reading through scripture many times, with different intent each time. I love exploring ideas. All these things are fun for me, and I will definitely blog about them.
But I do believe that my first published works will probably deal with loss, with pain, with grief, with emotional trauma. Write what you know. But why write about this doom-and-gloom stuff? Not to be maudlin, not to sink into the pit of despair. No, to paraphrase the verse, I suffered and I was comforted. And now I hope to write (and minister) to those who are suffering so that they can receive that same comfort that God gave me.
Going back to my training, when we finished and were preparing to go outside, one of the trainees remarked that the sun had come out. We walked out of the building into the still-wet street, and the sun was breaking through the clouds. I see both my writing and my ministry as that: staying with others and sharing the walk through the rain and darkness until the sun finally comes out and it is once again possible for them to walk alone. That's my goal. And I think it's a good one.
Friday, January 25, 2013
Psalm 144
I wanted to take a little time to day to reflect on the person who wrote Psalm 144. It is said to be written by David--not all the psalms are, of course, and it speaks to me in ways that other psalms do not.
Praise be to the Lord my Rock,
who trains my hands for war,
my fingers for battle.
2 He is my loving God and my fortress,
my stronghold and my deliverer,
my shield, in whom I take refuge,
who subdues peoples[a] under me.
who trains my hands for war,
my fingers for battle.
2 He is my loving God and my fortress,
my stronghold and my deliverer,
my shield, in whom I take refuge,
who subdues peoples[a] under me.
David the poet--those fingers that strummed a lyre and fashioned poetry for his God also slew those that were against him. He was equally secure praising his God in song and complaining about his slowness to come and deliver him. He was aware of God's goodness and strength, and he was equally aware that God had equipped him, too, to be a power in His name.
3 Lord, what are human beings that you care for them,
mere mortals that you think of them?
4 They are like a breath;
their days are like a fleeting shadow.
mere mortals that you think of them?
4 They are like a breath;
their days are like a fleeting shadow.
5 Part your heavens, Lord, and come down;
touch the mountains, so that they smoke.
6 Send forth lightning and scatter the enemy;
shoot your arrows and rout them.
7 Reach down your hand from on high;
deliver me and rescue me
from the mighty waters,
from the hands of foreigners
8 whose mouths are full of lies,
whose right hands are deceitful.
touch the mountains, so that they smoke.
6 Send forth lightning and scatter the enemy;
shoot your arrows and rout them.
7 Reach down your hand from on high;
deliver me and rescue me
from the mighty waters,
from the hands of foreigners
8 whose mouths are full of lies,
whose right hands are deceitful.
From observation to reflection to petition. And what a petition! Smite those that persecute me! Who among us would have the brazenness to pray like this? Those people who threatened him--they had families and cattle and land, too. But they were full of deceit and lies, and therefore David felt justified in asking for their extermination.
9 I will sing a new song to you, my God;
on the ten-stringed lyre I will make music to you,
10 to the One who gives victory to kings,
who delivers his servant David.
on the ten-stringed lyre I will make music to you,
10 to the One who gives victory to kings,
who delivers his servant David.
I especially like the last two lines--the one who gives victory to kings/who delivers his servant David. Even as a king, David acknowledges his servanthood.
From the deadly sword 11 deliver me;
rescue me from the hands of foreigners
whose mouths are full of lies,
whose right hands are deceitful
rescue me from the hands of foreigners
whose mouths are full of lies,
whose right hands are deceitful
Is he all alone in this? Who is with him to fight? He seems self-absorbed, and yet, really, isn't that how we should all be? God tells us to come to him with all our hurts and our needs, and this is exactly what David is doing.
12. Then our sons in their youth
will be like well-nurtured plants,
and our daughters will be like pillars
carved to adorn a palace.
13. Our barns will be filled
with every kind of provision.
Our sheep will increase by thousands,
by tens of thousands in our fields;
14. our oxen will draw heavy loads.[b]
There will be no breaching of walls,
no going into captivity,
no cry of distress in our streets.
Their sons and daughters (now we have the our) are dependent on David in a very real way. Kingdoms fell or grew strong in the strength of their king. He knew exactly what he was talking about. Victors had confidence, peace, freedom--and food.
15. Blessed is the people of whom this is true;
blessed is the people whose God is the Lord.
David leads the sons of Israel into battle. He leads the Chosen, the people that God pulled out of Egypt, led to the Promised Land, and saved from danger again and again and again. And all we who believe are adopted into this same wonderful family. Blessed is the people whose God is the Lord! Maranatha, Lord Jesus! Come and take your people home! Amen!
Thursday, January 24, 2013
on being happy: Mr. Kanamori
How was your home room? Did you spend your days hearing announcements and then sleeping on your desk? Did you dread the start to your day? Did you even sleep in so that you could miss it?
Mr. Kanamori's class would never do such a thing. They are a 4th-grade homeroom in Japan, and Mr. Kanamori has helped them set a goal for themselves: to be happy.
To be happy? Seems like a useless goal, doesn't it? But this incredible teacher has thought of a way to bring meaning and understanding to this goal. To be happy, they must share with others. Only in revealing themselves can they help others understand that they are not alone. Once they understand that they are not alone, the children let go of barriers that have stood for years, and the entire class grows in understanding, empathy, and love.
In the video that I saw, Mr. Kanamori's class writes notebook journals. These journals are designed to be read tot the class. In it, the students tell their stories, and the other students then write responses. The responses pave the way for empathy, as well as give other students the ability to tell their own stories, bringing about the ability to heal.
One boy had been gone for several days. His grandmother had died, and he wrote the class about the experience. He wrote about it all, from the grandmother lying in bed upstairs to the family going on a bus to the crematorium to witness the grandmother's cremation. Afterwards, many other students shared their sympathy; some also shared their own stories. The children were not afraid to cry about their own experiences, and they also shed tears for the experiences of others. One little boy had lost his grandfather recently; the tears were still fresh.
Then a little girl stood up. She had lost her father when she was three, and she had never discussed his death with anyone. She was afraid that she was the only one to have gone through this and thought that nobody would understand. When her classmates shared their experiences, she realized for the first time that she was not alone and that it was safe to express her grief.
A few days later, this same little girl brought a well-loved drawing to class. It had hung in her room since she was a tiny girl. It was a drawing that her father, an engineer, had made of a machine that was going to be in a parade. He died before it was completed, and even though the machine appeared, her mother was too afraid to see it. For the first time, the little girl shared her treasure with her friends and smiled as she spoke of her father. She was happy.
Happiness is a choice. It is something that is given away. It comes with sharing, and it usually comes when two or more are together. I think that it's hard to be happy without sharing.
Val, the older I get, the more I understand your wish. I hope you are happy now--I'm pretty sure you are, since you're surrounded with God and his saints. I know you made us happy. I'm going to do my best to make others happy, too.
For a link to the video, press here: .http://www.wimp.com/homeroomteacher/
Wednesday, January 23, 2013
The church--a cautionary tale
Once upon a time there was a tiny little church. It was old and had obviously seen better days, as had the neighborhood. Not many people could get in at once-surely no more than 20 or so. The pastor was poor but honest, and his flock loved him. They were a motley assortment at best, but they all loved him.
Dwayne was one of the sheep, and he was the most vocal. He was old, loud, dirty, and proud of his evil past. He had come to the church years ago, and the pastor's easy manner and friendly disposition had persuaded him that it might be worth staying here. He found that the church was inviting--it didn't make fun of him or laugh at him. It didn't turn up its nose when he walked past--figuratively or literally. He was treated as a cherished brother, and Dwayne liked that. In fact, he started listening to the pastor's sermons (more homilies than sermons, really), and he found himself wanting to be a friend of the man that Pastor talked about.
Beauty was Dwayne's wife. She had been a streetwalker--she preferred that to tramp--but Dwayne had found her after he found the church. He took her to service, and she found welcome and acceptance there, just as Dwayne had. She wasn't made to feel ashamed, but she came to desire escape from her former life. Dwayne helped her leave the life, and the two of them had been helping others leave ever since. They didn't all care about the church or its God, but they were all grateful for the freedom that they had found, and they all were free to accept prayers--and even to ask for them. Dwayne and Beauty (whose real name, Betsy, was not nearly as pretty, in her opinion) felt sure that one day they would come to love the church, its pastor, and their God every bit as much as they did.
There were others, too. Sid was a drugged-out teen who had come to the church one night begging for a handout. Instead, he had been given a ride to a drive-in, a warm meal, and a place to sleep in the church's basement. Sid was offered help to kick his habit, and even though the help hadn't worked (yet), the sheep had high hopes. Deep in his heart, so did Sid. And like many others, Sid was attracted to the church and its God, if not yet convinced. Marianne and her partner Lianne were lesbians who came when Lianne found out that her mother had terminal cancer. Even though her parents refused to acknowledge their lifestyle, Lianne was worried and hurting. The church took both of them to its heart, and Lianne and Marianne were soon part of a prayer group. Some people were comfortable with the thought of gay people at church, others were confused, and still others were sure that the lifestyle was wrong, but none of them felt that dealing with that was as important as praying for a mother who was dying. They finally came to the conclusion that "Judge not lest you also be judged" was in the Bible for a reason. Others were just normal folk, mostly poor--like the neighborhood--but good people who loved God, loved the pastor, and loved the church.
One day a real estate developer came to town. He had been looking over the neighborhood, and he'd decided that the houses were too old and unsightly to be of any use to him. Some people rented--the landlords were happy to be rid of the nuisance. Others were happy to have a few dollars in their pocket and another house in a different part of town. They sold right away, at a profit. Some members of the church were in this crowd--they felt that God was blessing the neighborhood by bringing in new blood and giving others a chance to leave. The pastor wasn't so sure.
Soon, the neighborhood was quite different. The old houses were destroyed and new and fashionable condominiums took their place. The old neighbors were unable to afford to buy the sweet condos and soon left. The neighbors that stayed were happy, at least for a time. New neighbors came, too. They were different than the old ones, much different. They came into the little church and had a talk with the pastor. "We don't feel that the church paints the proper picture for this new community," they said. "We are willing to pay for an upgrade. You will have the most beautiful church in the city!" Once again, the pastor wasn't sure it was a good idea, but he didn't really have a voice in the decision. The vestry voted 12-0 to gratefully accept the new neighbor's building contribution, and the most wealthy and influential neighbor, Solomon, was voted into the vestry immediately. Nobody seemed to care that the number became 13.
Well, the little old church was torn down and a beautiful new building took its place. It drew the new neighbors to it like flies to garbage. The new neighbors were very aware of their social standing. They looked around at the original parishioners and did not like what they saw. They soon decided to take steps.
The first sacrificial lamb was Beauty. Edith, an accountant with a businessman husband and a high opinion of her life, came to her and hinted that she was a little--well--loud. Beauty, at first, took it in stride. She giggled and said, "I guess so. I'm not the mani-pedi and salon dye type. But at our church, you take us as we are. But the problem was that there were not that many original church members left. Edith and her friends made it a point to ignore Edith and her friends and keep her out of the loop. The pastor spoke to her about her attitude, but Edith pointedly mentioned that a pastor's salary is maintained by his parishioners, and he might want to keep his mouth shut. The pastor wasn't intimidated, but he was at a loss. He went to the chapel and began to devote time to prayer, seeking an answer to this question.
The answer came almost immediately. Solomon informed the pastor that he was not a good fit for the new church and its new congregation. They preferred "congregation" to "sheep". He was given a month's severance pay and told to find another church.
Soon after, Ed, a buff retired fireman who enjoyed positions of power, took both Dwayne and Sid in hand. Dwayne was told that the church would no longer support his going out and finding "those women". Dwayne got belligerent and profane, which Ed had secretly hoped would happen. He said that the vestry had assured him that they would not tolerate people who took the Lord's name in vain (let alone some of the other things he had said). He was kicked out of church on the spot. Sid was even easier. He came to church one day looking for the pastor. He had fallen off the wagon and needed help. He hadn't been around for awhile and knew nothing about the recent changes. Ed greeted him at the door with a big smile and hearty handshake. He then called 911 and told the police that there was a person in possession of illegal drugs at the church. The police soon showed up and escorted Sid off the premises. The poor kid was over 18, so he was given jail time. He blamed the whole thing on God, not Ed, and vowed never to set foot in another church.
Lianne and Marianne were next. The vestry invited them to their next meeting. They told them that the church had decided that it would not condone homosexuality inside its walls. The two were told that they must publicly acknowledge that they were deep in sin and promise never to practice homosexuality ever again. The alternative was to leave the church at once. Lianne asked, "Will you still at least keep my mother in your prayers?" "She isn't gay, too, is she?" Edith said with a sneer. The two women turned away without another word.
It has been seven years, and First Church of Suburbia is doing very well, thank you. There are prayer services, women's brunches, children's camp, choir and praise team, and many other services and ministries available for the discerning church goer. If you hadn't known the church before, you might not notice the spiritual emptiness hanging like cobwebs from every window and door.
You might ask, "What about the pastor and his sheep?" Not all have returned. Many neighbors moved and were lost to him, but some sought him out. He found a space in a small gym and has services there on Sundays and is saving his pennies so that he can one day move to a real church. He is thankful for every day, and sorry that his flock had to go through such trials. He visits Sid in prison, and Sid has asked to be baptized. Lianne and Marianne found the church as well, and so did Dwayne and his wife. They are active and happy, if not as naive as they once were. They believe that God is in control and that everything happens for a reason. They admit that they can't understand why this happened, but they aren't too worried. They're too busy living for God and rejoicing in his name.
Dwayne was one of the sheep, and he was the most vocal. He was old, loud, dirty, and proud of his evil past. He had come to the church years ago, and the pastor's easy manner and friendly disposition had persuaded him that it might be worth staying here. He found that the church was inviting--it didn't make fun of him or laugh at him. It didn't turn up its nose when he walked past--figuratively or literally. He was treated as a cherished brother, and Dwayne liked that. In fact, he started listening to the pastor's sermons (more homilies than sermons, really), and he found himself wanting to be a friend of the man that Pastor talked about.
Beauty was Dwayne's wife. She had been a streetwalker--she preferred that to tramp--but Dwayne had found her after he found the church. He took her to service, and she found welcome and acceptance there, just as Dwayne had. She wasn't made to feel ashamed, but she came to desire escape from her former life. Dwayne helped her leave the life, and the two of them had been helping others leave ever since. They didn't all care about the church or its God, but they were all grateful for the freedom that they had found, and they all were free to accept prayers--and even to ask for them. Dwayne and Beauty (whose real name, Betsy, was not nearly as pretty, in her opinion) felt sure that one day they would come to love the church, its pastor, and their God every bit as much as they did.
There were others, too. Sid was a drugged-out teen who had come to the church one night begging for a handout. Instead, he had been given a ride to a drive-in, a warm meal, and a place to sleep in the church's basement. Sid was offered help to kick his habit, and even though the help hadn't worked (yet), the sheep had high hopes. Deep in his heart, so did Sid. And like many others, Sid was attracted to the church and its God, if not yet convinced. Marianne and her partner Lianne were lesbians who came when Lianne found out that her mother had terminal cancer. Even though her parents refused to acknowledge their lifestyle, Lianne was worried and hurting. The church took both of them to its heart, and Lianne and Marianne were soon part of a prayer group. Some people were comfortable with the thought of gay people at church, others were confused, and still others were sure that the lifestyle was wrong, but none of them felt that dealing with that was as important as praying for a mother who was dying. They finally came to the conclusion that "Judge not lest you also be judged" was in the Bible for a reason. Others were just normal folk, mostly poor--like the neighborhood--but good people who loved God, loved the pastor, and loved the church.
One day a real estate developer came to town. He had been looking over the neighborhood, and he'd decided that the houses were too old and unsightly to be of any use to him. Some people rented--the landlords were happy to be rid of the nuisance. Others were happy to have a few dollars in their pocket and another house in a different part of town. They sold right away, at a profit. Some members of the church were in this crowd--they felt that God was blessing the neighborhood by bringing in new blood and giving others a chance to leave. The pastor wasn't so sure.
Soon, the neighborhood was quite different. The old houses were destroyed and new and fashionable condominiums took their place. The old neighbors were unable to afford to buy the sweet condos and soon left. The neighbors that stayed were happy, at least for a time. New neighbors came, too. They were different than the old ones, much different. They came into the little church and had a talk with the pastor. "We don't feel that the church paints the proper picture for this new community," they said. "We are willing to pay for an upgrade. You will have the most beautiful church in the city!" Once again, the pastor wasn't sure it was a good idea, but he didn't really have a voice in the decision. The vestry voted 12-0 to gratefully accept the new neighbor's building contribution, and the most wealthy and influential neighbor, Solomon, was voted into the vestry immediately. Nobody seemed to care that the number became 13.
Well, the little old church was torn down and a beautiful new building took its place. It drew the new neighbors to it like flies to garbage. The new neighbors were very aware of their social standing. They looked around at the original parishioners and did not like what they saw. They soon decided to take steps.
The first sacrificial lamb was Beauty. Edith, an accountant with a businessman husband and a high opinion of her life, came to her and hinted that she was a little--well--loud. Beauty, at first, took it in stride. She giggled and said, "I guess so. I'm not the mani-pedi and salon dye type. But at our church, you take us as we are. But the problem was that there were not that many original church members left. Edith and her friends made it a point to ignore Edith and her friends and keep her out of the loop. The pastor spoke to her about her attitude, but Edith pointedly mentioned that a pastor's salary is maintained by his parishioners, and he might want to keep his mouth shut. The pastor wasn't intimidated, but he was at a loss. He went to the chapel and began to devote time to prayer, seeking an answer to this question.
The answer came almost immediately. Solomon informed the pastor that he was not a good fit for the new church and its new congregation. They preferred "congregation" to "sheep". He was given a month's severance pay and told to find another church.
Soon after, Ed, a buff retired fireman who enjoyed positions of power, took both Dwayne and Sid in hand. Dwayne was told that the church would no longer support his going out and finding "those women". Dwayne got belligerent and profane, which Ed had secretly hoped would happen. He said that the vestry had assured him that they would not tolerate people who took the Lord's name in vain (let alone some of the other things he had said). He was kicked out of church on the spot. Sid was even easier. He came to church one day looking for the pastor. He had fallen off the wagon and needed help. He hadn't been around for awhile and knew nothing about the recent changes. Ed greeted him at the door with a big smile and hearty handshake. He then called 911 and told the police that there was a person in possession of illegal drugs at the church. The police soon showed up and escorted Sid off the premises. The poor kid was over 18, so he was given jail time. He blamed the whole thing on God, not Ed, and vowed never to set foot in another church.
Lianne and Marianne were next. The vestry invited them to their next meeting. They told them that the church had decided that it would not condone homosexuality inside its walls. The two were told that they must publicly acknowledge that they were deep in sin and promise never to practice homosexuality ever again. The alternative was to leave the church at once. Lianne asked, "Will you still at least keep my mother in your prayers?" "She isn't gay, too, is she?" Edith said with a sneer. The two women turned away without another word.
It has been seven years, and First Church of Suburbia is doing very well, thank you. There are prayer services, women's brunches, children's camp, choir and praise team, and many other services and ministries available for the discerning church goer. If you hadn't known the church before, you might not notice the spiritual emptiness hanging like cobwebs from every window and door.
You might ask, "What about the pastor and his sheep?" Not all have returned. Many neighbors moved and were lost to him, but some sought him out. He found a space in a small gym and has services there on Sundays and is saving his pennies so that he can one day move to a real church. He is thankful for every day, and sorry that his flock had to go through such trials. He visits Sid in prison, and Sid has asked to be baptized. Lianne and Marianne found the church as well, and so did Dwayne and his wife. They are active and happy, if not as naive as they once were. They believe that God is in control and that everything happens for a reason. They admit that they can't understand why this happened, but they aren't too worried. They're too busy living for God and rejoicing in his name.
Tuesday, January 22, 2013
On the steps
Stopping for a moment to look upward at the Greek temple--
Would he have been impressed
Or would he have guffawed at the thought
The boy from Illinois
The homespun hero
Enshrined like a king
Like a god
In a temple of white marble.
He sits sedately
Hair and suit ruffled.
Sitting, he seems less imposing somehow.
A benignly beaming god looking amiably down
At those who make history below him.
What does he think as he gazes across the open space--
Reflecting pool, Washington Monument, Capitol Building in the distance?
Does he remember the great moments?
Does he see Martin Luther King in memory?
Does he hear the throb of the crowd,
Cheering on the man of peace
Hoping for latter-day freedom?
Do you remember Mr. King, Sir?
Did you cheer him on in his cry for equality?
And did it surprise you
That even after 100 years,
It still had not come?
The eyes that searched for freedom
It seems that you see something far away
Something longed for but not yet realized
We are still struggling, Sir.
Sometimes it feels that we are treading water
Just barely
Water as murky as the black reflecting pool.
But then, the pool is black
To better reflect.
So maybe today
In the darkness of political rivalry
and bitter feuds between the left and the right
and the disrespect that permeates our society
We can stop and look
See your reflection,
Remember your struggle
And maybe that can help us go a day further
So that we can continue in the cause.
For we share this cause,
Not only you,
But John and Martin and so many others
Known and unknown.
We reflect your hope
As we take up your cause
And we hope that we have it in us to say,
As you did
| With malice toward none, with charity for all, with firmness in the right as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in, to bind up the nation's wounds, to care for him who shall have borne the battle and for his widow and his orphan, to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and lasting peace among ourselves and with all nations. | 4 |
Monday, January 21, 2013
on sharing grief
My sister lost her best friend today. Her name was Esther Peterson. I'm not sure when she and my sister got to know each other, but I'm sure that they were friends when they were living on Pioneer Drive in Bakersfield, CA, as teens. I know that they went to school together, and miraculously, they didn't lose touch when my sister moved with my family, first to another house in Bakersfield and then to Taft. I imagine that they were in each others' weddings, though I'm not sure of that, either. Esther married a great guy named Ken Coleman. I don't know much about the years in between, but I know that they eventually moved to Glendale, CA, (I think) and bought a beautiful two-story house.
You might wonder why my story is so spotty. I am 17 years younger than Charnell, so I know only what I was told. Esther was so close that the story was just understood, for the most part. I'm sure my brother was old enough to remember the gist, but not me. I have my own memories, but they are much later. Esther came into my life when my sister suggested that we live with them while we were with our son, Tommy, during his eleven days of life. I will never forget their kindness to us. I particularly remember Ken sitting reading his paper and talking to my husband, Val, about business. I was so grateful that he spoke to Val man to man, not as a much older businessman talking to a blue-collar worker. I know that it gave Val a lift to know that someone actually listened to him and cared about his ideas. Esther was there, too, and was invaluable to both of us after we lost Tommy. I remember coming back, numb with shock, and saying that I was glad that this was over. Now we could get on with our lives. She listened quietly and gently informed me that there would be days ahead that would be much more difficult. Later, she and Ken allowed us to share their home before and after our trip to DC after my husband's death. Still later, she allowed my friend Vicki and I to stay in her house when we were there for some trip or other. But nothing that I can remember comes close to what my sister felt for her.
I can't imagine what it's like to have a friendship that lasts throughout your life. I can't imagine what it is to go through life and love and gains and losses together. The love that they had, I'm sure, was more like the love between sisters. I'm sure that Charnell was as much a sister to Esther as she was to me, and the thought doesn't wound at all. I'm thankful that my sister had a friend who was her own age and shared so much. I love my sister and our relationship, but I know that as deep as our love is, it's very different.
Esther had cancer. She had been diagnosed years ago, struggled with it and came through it. I think she lived free of cancer for some years, and then it came back. She was a fighter, though, and continued the fight to the very end. Charnell told me that she went to a family gathering the day before, and she had a great time, She came home with her daughter and went to bed. And that was it. It was a blessing, I'm sure. My sister is thankful that she'd had a chance to speak with her a few days before she died.
When someone you love loses someone they love, it is probably the most helpless feeling that you can have. I have been worried about this future loss ever since the cancer came back, and I knew today when I saw my sister's call (voice message) that it had happened. Hearing her voice on the phone ripped my heart out. She was so absolutely in grief. My sister--my whole family--has gone through so much loss. I so didn't want her to have to go through any more. But that's the way of the world. As we get older, our loved ones die. Sometimes they die out of season; sometimes they go in the fullness of time. But if they are truly loved, they will be missed. And mourned.
What can we do when we are walking with a loved one through grief? Well, I know for sure some things I wish people wouldn't do. Don't try to say things to make it better. "Well, they're out of pain now. Well, they're with their family again. They're with God." Sure they are, and that's wonderful. But if you loved them, their passing will hurt. And that hurt is honest and good. Let them go through it.
Don't try to put a time limit on grief. Don't assume that it will get easier for them as time passes and they get older. Losing your friend is losing your friend, no matter what age you are. If you were close it will hurt. And don't put a time limit on the grief. Some people stop showing outward grief after a day, a week, a month, while others seem to "wallow" for months or years. They're not wallowing. They're grieving. If they show you their grief, assume it's because they trust you as a friend. As much as you can, just be there for them.
Don't bring up God--or be very careful when you do. If you know me, you know how spiritual I am. But I can tell you that I am not comforted when I hear others say "God needed another angel." "It was him time." "He's home now." "God needed him, so he called him home." Aside from the angel remark (angels are not dead people), it might be true, but it is not helpful. We're not talking about our normal friend or loved one here. We're talking about someone who is hurting. They don't need to feel guilty because they can't trust God (that's not even the question), and they certainly don't need to be told that God needed them in Heaven more than he wanted them on Earth with us. What does that make God? People who are grieving don't need to sort out theological issues. They need comfort.
So how do you comfort someone in grief? Listen. Be there. Keep the line open. If they need to talk, tell them that you're available. And then be available. They might be angry, hurt, full of tears, talking and not making sense. That's okay. Be there. My sister's daughter, Peggy, died when she was 20. I didn't have a phone and got the message, "Miss Piggy died." My mother-in-law misunderstood and thought that it was a family pet. I understood immediately. I don't remember much, but I remember my husband staying home with the kids while I drove with my friend Ann. I remember screaming and crying, so angry and full of grief I could barely hold myself together. I don't remember a single word that Ann said, and I know that she dealt with grief very differently that do I. But she was there. She understood my need, and she was there for me in a way that only a friend can be. Thank God for her.
And thank God for you if you walk beside a friend in grief. You are there to help them, and God will walk with the two of you. Just listen for his voice.
You might wonder why my story is so spotty. I am 17 years younger than Charnell, so I know only what I was told. Esther was so close that the story was just understood, for the most part. I'm sure my brother was old enough to remember the gist, but not me. I have my own memories, but they are much later. Esther came into my life when my sister suggested that we live with them while we were with our son, Tommy, during his eleven days of life. I will never forget their kindness to us. I particularly remember Ken sitting reading his paper and talking to my husband, Val, about business. I was so grateful that he spoke to Val man to man, not as a much older businessman talking to a blue-collar worker. I know that it gave Val a lift to know that someone actually listened to him and cared about his ideas. Esther was there, too, and was invaluable to both of us after we lost Tommy. I remember coming back, numb with shock, and saying that I was glad that this was over. Now we could get on with our lives. She listened quietly and gently informed me that there would be days ahead that would be much more difficult. Later, she and Ken allowed us to share their home before and after our trip to DC after my husband's death. Still later, she allowed my friend Vicki and I to stay in her house when we were there for some trip or other. But nothing that I can remember comes close to what my sister felt for her.
I can't imagine what it's like to have a friendship that lasts throughout your life. I can't imagine what it is to go through life and love and gains and losses together. The love that they had, I'm sure, was more like the love between sisters. I'm sure that Charnell was as much a sister to Esther as she was to me, and the thought doesn't wound at all. I'm thankful that my sister had a friend who was her own age and shared so much. I love my sister and our relationship, but I know that as deep as our love is, it's very different.
Esther had cancer. She had been diagnosed years ago, struggled with it and came through it. I think she lived free of cancer for some years, and then it came back. She was a fighter, though, and continued the fight to the very end. Charnell told me that she went to a family gathering the day before, and she had a great time, She came home with her daughter and went to bed. And that was it. It was a blessing, I'm sure. My sister is thankful that she'd had a chance to speak with her a few days before she died.
When someone you love loses someone they love, it is probably the most helpless feeling that you can have. I have been worried about this future loss ever since the cancer came back, and I knew today when I saw my sister's call (voice message) that it had happened. Hearing her voice on the phone ripped my heart out. She was so absolutely in grief. My sister--my whole family--has gone through so much loss. I so didn't want her to have to go through any more. But that's the way of the world. As we get older, our loved ones die. Sometimes they die out of season; sometimes they go in the fullness of time. But if they are truly loved, they will be missed. And mourned.
What can we do when we are walking with a loved one through grief? Well, I know for sure some things I wish people wouldn't do. Don't try to say things to make it better. "Well, they're out of pain now. Well, they're with their family again. They're with God." Sure they are, and that's wonderful. But if you loved them, their passing will hurt. And that hurt is honest and good. Let them go through it.
Don't try to put a time limit on grief. Don't assume that it will get easier for them as time passes and they get older. Losing your friend is losing your friend, no matter what age you are. If you were close it will hurt. And don't put a time limit on the grief. Some people stop showing outward grief after a day, a week, a month, while others seem to "wallow" for months or years. They're not wallowing. They're grieving. If they show you their grief, assume it's because they trust you as a friend. As much as you can, just be there for them.
Don't bring up God--or be very careful when you do. If you know me, you know how spiritual I am. But I can tell you that I am not comforted when I hear others say "God needed another angel." "It was him time." "He's home now." "God needed him, so he called him home." Aside from the angel remark (angels are not dead people), it might be true, but it is not helpful. We're not talking about our normal friend or loved one here. We're talking about someone who is hurting. They don't need to feel guilty because they can't trust God (that's not even the question), and they certainly don't need to be told that God needed them in Heaven more than he wanted them on Earth with us. What does that make God? People who are grieving don't need to sort out theological issues. They need comfort.
So how do you comfort someone in grief? Listen. Be there. Keep the line open. If they need to talk, tell them that you're available. And then be available. They might be angry, hurt, full of tears, talking and not making sense. That's okay. Be there. My sister's daughter, Peggy, died when she was 20. I didn't have a phone and got the message, "Miss Piggy died." My mother-in-law misunderstood and thought that it was a family pet. I understood immediately. I don't remember much, but I remember my husband staying home with the kids while I drove with my friend Ann. I remember screaming and crying, so angry and full of grief I could barely hold myself together. I don't remember a single word that Ann said, and I know that she dealt with grief very differently that do I. But she was there. She understood my need, and she was there for me in a way that only a friend can be. Thank God for her.
And thank God for you if you walk beside a friend in grief. You are there to help them, and God will walk with the two of you. Just listen for his voice.
Sunday, January 20, 2013
on disrespect
This blog is the most unsure blog I've written. I'm more airing my views than stating facts, and if you have anything to add, I'd appreciate it. My premise is a familiar one--the disrespect that we are living with in our younger generation today has been fostered by the television we watch and the music that we listen to.
I graduated in 1975. I was born in 1957. My sister was born in 1939 and graduated in 1957. My brother was born in 1952 and graduated in 1968. So as you can see, we went through puberty in very different times. My sister was in the time of Pat Boone, The Mousketeers, Elvis, and the birth of rock. My brother was around for the Beatles, Rolling Stones, The Mousketeers, The Animals, and the hippie movement. I was around for Earth, Wind and Fire, Chicago, Queen…and reruns of the Mousketeers.
Our viewing choices were very different, too. I don't know how much my sister watched as a teen, but I remember Bonanza, Gunsmoke, Father Knows Best, Make Room For Daddy, and I Love Lucy. I remember my brother watching Laugh In, Flip Wilson, Sonny and Cher, All in the Family, and Maude. My generation watched Dark Shadows, Carpenters, Donny and Marie, Nanny and the Professor, and later--Roseanne and Married with Children and the Simpsons.
I don't remember my sister's choices much. She left home when I was two, so I don't remember her music or tv programs at all. Nor do I remember her attitude in the house. My brother was home, but I remember Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass, the Beatles, and a classical radio station that played nonstop. I was the only one that I remember being totally into modern music, and it was mostly bubblegum, John Denver-y stuff, and show tunes. My mother and father were both older, and they expected respect. What they expected was normally given. They also controlled the TV, at least until my brother was in high school. When he was in hs and college, I remember watching what they wanted to watch until they went to bed, at which time it became Gaylen's turn.
Today, kids are into all sorts of things, from Frank Sinatra to Queen to Eminem to Key$ha. They don't listen to records, they listen to I-phone. They can watch pretty much anything they want to at any time of the day on one of many devices. Nothing is out of bounds unless parents step in. With many parents divorced or working 2 jobs, the television is often the babysitter.
What does all this have to do with disrespect? Everything, in my opinion. When my parents (and my sister) were young, families were much different. Children were expected to behave--they were also expected to be children. It would have been unheard of for a child to wear revealing clothing or high heels; teens were expected to wear dresses, skirts and blouses, or slacks and shirts to school. Respect was also expected in school, and children would be punished if they didn't display the proper attitude. It was not uncommon to have a "board of education" hanging on the principal's wall, and the principal would definitely use it. Spanking was an expected part of life, and the expectation of a good whipping was enough to keep you from doing that misdeed some--if not all--of the time.
In the late 50's through the 60's, though, things started changing. Pants got tighter, women started wearing shorts and pants in public on a regular basis, hairstyles became more adult, and teens started listening to different music. It was often a rebellious act to bring the music in against the parents' wishes. Up through the early-mid 50s, music was innocuous enough, although I'm sure that parents disagreed with this or that artist. Pat Boone singing April Love
seems so innocent by today's standards. Patty Page is another example: the music she sings is very similar to that of the parents.
However, in the late 50s, new faces appeared. The music also changed with the advent of Rock and Roll. Parents were immediately concerned--this was not the music they were used to, and it seemed linked to teen misbehavior. Authorities spoke out against it, and many teens rebelled. It was fun to dance to, and it was definitely NOT their parents music.
Elvis, Big Bopper, Ritchie Valens, it started getting more and more its own style, and many parents were concerned. However, if you ask my sister, she will tell you that respect was still expected and given. The model for it abounded in television, also. I Love Lucy, Father Knows Best, etc all showed families who were dripping with respect for one another. Yes, they might have their moments, but respect would win the day.
In the 60's, things started to change. Rock music was now firmly established, and it definitely had found its own voice. Things changed even more with the advent of the Viet Nam war and the Hippie movement. Suddenly, respect was not automatic. In fact, respect was only given if it was earned, and if you weren't trusted, you weren't respected. I remember a short story I read in this period. I was only about 10, but it has never left me. It was a society where it was understood that once you turned 30, you were turned out of society. The woman who was the narrator was faced with this and was frantically seeking help. She looked at a boy riding a bike. She thought about asking him and then decided that it would be pointless. She would get no respect from him--he was too old. He was at least nine! And that's how it seemed to be. Parents, teachers, government officials, the military--nobody was deserving of respect because nobody understood the importance of "making love not war".
I really think that's where our problem with disrespect started. Once the ball was set in motion, it became harder and harder to stop it. It shows up in television and music most clearly. In music we go from Puppy Love to Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds to Fat Bottomed Girls to--well, pretty much any rap you want to mention that refers to women as whores. TV went from Leave it to Beaver to All in the Family to The Simpsons to Modern Dad. Disrespect is seen practiced--without any mention of it being wrong--practically everywhere you go in TVLand.
My feeling is that if you already have disrespect (as well as loose morals, bad manners, no ethics, etc) in music and on television, it's practically impossible to stop it in school. Teachers today complain of children who don't listen, don't care, and don't give them the respect they deserve. I really do believe that what you're exposed to is what you do. It's little wonder that children treat others with disrespect if that is what they're exposed to on their I-pod and their tv.
So how do you get respect back? I am not holding out much hope here. Yes, you can. It's actually pretty easy, in my opinion. Simply turn off the tv, put away the music, and talk to your kids. Expect their respect and model it, and they should respect you. But how many of us are willing to do that? Another option is to speak out about the music and television shows that are currently available. But no amount of speaking out is going to matter if you still watch the shows and (more importantly) buy the products that they advertise.
So how can we get our kids to show respect? I don't know, but I think that we definitely should model it ourselves. Listen to yourself when you talk to your child. Remember that the voice they pay the most attention to is yours.
Good luck.
I graduated in 1975. I was born in 1957. My sister was born in 1939 and graduated in 1957. My brother was born in 1952 and graduated in 1968. So as you can see, we went through puberty in very different times. My sister was in the time of Pat Boone, The Mousketeers, Elvis, and the birth of rock. My brother was around for the Beatles, Rolling Stones, The Mousketeers, The Animals, and the hippie movement. I was around for Earth, Wind and Fire, Chicago, Queen…and reruns of the Mousketeers.
Our viewing choices were very different, too. I don't know how much my sister watched as a teen, but I remember Bonanza, Gunsmoke, Father Knows Best, Make Room For Daddy, and I Love Lucy. I remember my brother watching Laugh In, Flip Wilson, Sonny and Cher, All in the Family, and Maude. My generation watched Dark Shadows, Carpenters, Donny and Marie, Nanny and the Professor, and later--Roseanne and Married with Children and the Simpsons.
I don't remember my sister's choices much. She left home when I was two, so I don't remember her music or tv programs at all. Nor do I remember her attitude in the house. My brother was home, but I remember Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass, the Beatles, and a classical radio station that played nonstop. I was the only one that I remember being totally into modern music, and it was mostly bubblegum, John Denver-y stuff, and show tunes. My mother and father were both older, and they expected respect. What they expected was normally given. They also controlled the TV, at least until my brother was in high school. When he was in hs and college, I remember watching what they wanted to watch until they went to bed, at which time it became Gaylen's turn.
Today, kids are into all sorts of things, from Frank Sinatra to Queen to Eminem to Key$ha. They don't listen to records, they listen to I-phone. They can watch pretty much anything they want to at any time of the day on one of many devices. Nothing is out of bounds unless parents step in. With many parents divorced or working 2 jobs, the television is often the babysitter.
What does all this have to do with disrespect? Everything, in my opinion. When my parents (and my sister) were young, families were much different. Children were expected to behave--they were also expected to be children. It would have been unheard of for a child to wear revealing clothing or high heels; teens were expected to wear dresses, skirts and blouses, or slacks and shirts to school. Respect was also expected in school, and children would be punished if they didn't display the proper attitude. It was not uncommon to have a "board of education" hanging on the principal's wall, and the principal would definitely use it. Spanking was an expected part of life, and the expectation of a good whipping was enough to keep you from doing that misdeed some--if not all--of the time.
In the late 50's through the 60's, though, things started changing. Pants got tighter, women started wearing shorts and pants in public on a regular basis, hairstyles became more adult, and teens started listening to different music. It was often a rebellious act to bring the music in against the parents' wishes. Up through the early-mid 50s, music was innocuous enough, although I'm sure that parents disagreed with this or that artist. Pat Boone singing April Love
seems so innocent by today's standards. Patty Page is another example: the music she sings is very similar to that of the parents.
Elvis, Big Bopper, Ritchie Valens, it started getting more and more its own style, and many parents were concerned. However, if you ask my sister, she will tell you that respect was still expected and given. The model for it abounded in television, also. I Love Lucy, Father Knows Best, etc all showed families who were dripping with respect for one another. Yes, they might have their moments, but respect would win the day.
In the 60's, things started to change. Rock music was now firmly established, and it definitely had found its own voice. Things changed even more with the advent of the Viet Nam war and the Hippie movement. Suddenly, respect was not automatic. In fact, respect was only given if it was earned, and if you weren't trusted, you weren't respected. I remember a short story I read in this period. I was only about 10, but it has never left me. It was a society where it was understood that once you turned 30, you were turned out of society. The woman who was the narrator was faced with this and was frantically seeking help. She looked at a boy riding a bike. She thought about asking him and then decided that it would be pointless. She would get no respect from him--he was too old. He was at least nine! And that's how it seemed to be. Parents, teachers, government officials, the military--nobody was deserving of respect because nobody understood the importance of "making love not war".
I really think that's where our problem with disrespect started. Once the ball was set in motion, it became harder and harder to stop it. It shows up in television and music most clearly. In music we go from Puppy Love to Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds to Fat Bottomed Girls to--well, pretty much any rap you want to mention that refers to women as whores. TV went from Leave it to Beaver to All in the Family to The Simpsons to Modern Dad. Disrespect is seen practiced--without any mention of it being wrong--practically everywhere you go in TVLand.
My feeling is that if you already have disrespect (as well as loose morals, bad manners, no ethics, etc) in music and on television, it's practically impossible to stop it in school. Teachers today complain of children who don't listen, don't care, and don't give them the respect they deserve. I really do believe that what you're exposed to is what you do. It's little wonder that children treat others with disrespect if that is what they're exposed to on their I-pod and their tv.
So how do you get respect back? I am not holding out much hope here. Yes, you can. It's actually pretty easy, in my opinion. Simply turn off the tv, put away the music, and talk to your kids. Expect their respect and model it, and they should respect you. But how many of us are willing to do that? Another option is to speak out about the music and television shows that are currently available. But no amount of speaking out is going to matter if you still watch the shows and (more importantly) buy the products that they advertise.
So how can we get our kids to show respect? I don't know, but I think that we definitely should model it ourselves. Listen to yourself when you talk to your child. Remember that the voice they pay the most attention to is yours.
Good luck.
Saturday, January 19, 2013
on isolation and its cure
I am alone.
Totally alone.
There are others around,
But I am totally alone.
As are they.
I see a woman crying,
And I don't barge in.
I don't know her,
So who am I to intrude on her pain.
I see a couple laughing,
And I don't intrude.
Who knows but that they're lovers,
And they're laughing over something precious to them.
And so I continue alone.
Until one day I hear a voice at church,
"I wish I knew someone who could play cards.
I need a fourth for bridge next week."
And I know how to play.
So I take my courage in my hands,
Come forward,
And confess that I overheard
And that I play.
The relief on her face--
This stranger--
Is palpable to see.
I am the solution to her problem
and she is the answer to mine.
I go to her house the next week,
Women together playing cards,
And I meet another woman.
And she loves to read mysteries.
As do I
As does my friend
And now we are three.
Weeks go by, and we meet together
To play bridge,
To read mysteries and discuss them together,
And to enjoy each other's company.
As we come together,
The silence grows every week less,
And every week
I am more willing to open myself to others,
As they are to me.
We live alone together,
Strangers become friends,
And our lives intersect from time to time,
Bringing joy and peace.
It is not good for man to live alone--
But sometimes we must.
Thank God for friends,
Who bring a welcome light
To the dark shadows of our solitude,
Making it not only livable,
But profitable.
We live in isolation,
But we get together
From time to time
And revel in our unity.
And one day
I see a woman crying
And I know her as my bridge-playing partner,
My mystery-loving friend.
I come to her,
Take her hand,
And say nothing.
We know each other
And we understand silence.
I know that if she needs to talk,
She knows I'm there.
Until then, we sit together
In silence
Alone
Together.
Totally alone.
There are others around,
But I am totally alone.
As are they.
I see a woman crying,
And I don't barge in.
I don't know her,
So who am I to intrude on her pain.
I see a couple laughing,
And I don't intrude.
Who knows but that they're lovers,
And they're laughing over something precious to them.
And so I continue alone.
Until one day I hear a voice at church,
"I wish I knew someone who could play cards.
I need a fourth for bridge next week."
And I know how to play.
So I take my courage in my hands,
Come forward,
And confess that I overheard
And that I play.
The relief on her face--
This stranger--
Is palpable to see.
I am the solution to her problem
and she is the answer to mine.
I go to her house the next week,
Women together playing cards,
And I meet another woman.
And she loves to read mysteries.
As do I
As does my friend
And now we are three.
Weeks go by, and we meet together
To play bridge,
To read mysteries and discuss them together,
And to enjoy each other's company.
As we come together,
The silence grows every week less,
And every week
I am more willing to open myself to others,
As they are to me.
We live alone together,
Strangers become friends,
And our lives intersect from time to time,
Bringing joy and peace.
It is not good for man to live alone--
But sometimes we must.
Thank God for friends,
Who bring a welcome light
To the dark shadows of our solitude,
Making it not only livable,
But profitable.
We live in isolation,
But we get together
From time to time
And revel in our unity.
And one day
I see a woman crying
And I know her as my bridge-playing partner,
My mystery-loving friend.
I come to her,
Take her hand,
And say nothing.
We know each other
And we understand silence.
I know that if she needs to talk,
She knows I'm there.
Until then, we sit together
In silence
Alone
Together.
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