Marty started teaching with high hopes. She saw herself as a shining figure, looked upon with awe by her students. She thought she could make a difference in the world. She imagined that she would be surrounded by adoring little faces, asking for hugs and fighting each other for the chance to hold her hand.
Then reality intervened. First of all, she was a new teacher. New teachers get their pick neither of schools nor of grades. You get what you're given, and in this economy, you're happy to get whatever you are given. So Marty--Ms. Banks--was given a sixth grade class in an area of town that was not the best.
Things didn't start off well, and they went downhill from there. Her dreams of teacherly bliss soon faded, to be replaced by the understanding that this was a war zone. Her students didn't want to be there, and she didn't really want them there, either. They were not very nice. They were foul mouthed, they cheated, and some of them smelled bad. Oh, there were two or three who had a ready smile for "Teacher", but most of them said little and worked less. Within a week, Marty was sure she'd made a mistake. By the end of the first month, she realized that teaching wasn't for her. By the end of the first semester, she decided that she had to quit. She hated to do it to her students, but honestly, they would be better off with a teacher who cared. So right before Christmas break, she went to the principal, Mr. Evans, and explained that she wanted out.
Mr Evans reminded her that she had a contract. However, he said, he would disregard it if, in return, she would do one thing for him. She could leave without breaking her contract if she would first give each of her students a home visit. Marty was immediately struck by the thought of what kind of homes these students must live in, what kind of neighborhoods, but before she could say a word, Mr. Evans said that he'd been to every home in the school. He promised her that she would be safe. The parents knew that she was a teacher, and they would make sure of it.
Marty didn't want to do it, but she knew that she was being offered a deal that was more than generous, so she agreed. That very afternoon, she made her first visits. She decided to start off easy, so she visited the house of two sisters who had asked to be placed together. The house was poor but neat, and the parents--both unemployed--were nonetheless very careful to make sure that their children were clean and minded their manners. It was a very nice visit. The next day, she visited a few more houses, then a few more, then a few more.
As the week progressed, she ran out of "good" children to visit and started to visit the ones that gave her problems. First was Enrique. He never did his homework, never paid attention, and always seemed to be talking to another student beside him. When Marty rang the bell, a woman in a long dress and a shawl answered. Her coal black hair hung in a braid behind her, and when she saw Marty, she immediately called for her son. Enrique came to the door along with a little sister holding a baby. They looked on shyly as Enrique said, "Teacher! You come see me?" Marty said that she was only here to say "Hi," to the family; that he wasn't in trouble. Enrique said, "Oh, my mom no speak English so good." Marty spoke some Spanish, and she and the mom chatted about her children, her husband in Mexico, and about Enrique. She thanked her over and over for coming--no other teacher ever came to visit--only Mr. Evans. As she talked, Marty watched Enrique interact with his sisters. He was so gentle, so patient with them! He never uttered a word of English--they all spoke Spanish. Understanding dawned--"Enrique, when you talk to the other students in class, what do you talk about?" Enrique explained, "I still no speak English so good, and I talk to my friends. You talk a little fast, but they help me." Marty smiled and said that it was fine for Enrique to ask his friends for translation. She said goodbye to the mother and went to the next house on the list--Bozie's house.
Bozie was never clean. He came to school, yes, but he didn't seem ready to work. He slept half the time, and the rest of the time he acted out--calling out questions, getting close to her and just standing there, jus tlittle stuff. He was big and never seemed to wear clean clothes, and Marty thought that maybe he had some special needs. Bozie's dad opened the door. "What do you want?" he said. "I'm Bozie's teacher, and I am paying all my students a visit over Christmas. I just wanted to introduce you and say hello. "Bozie really likes your class," he said. He's out at the store right now. I"m disabled, and Bozie helps me out a lot around the house. It's been hard on us for the past few years--his mom died right after I broke my hip at work, and things just haven't felt right since. He'll be sad he missed you. He talks about you all the time. It's really hard, you know, raising a boy on your own, but Bozie is a good kid, He's been slow since his mama died, but the doctor tells me that happens when kids go through trauma. She died in a car accident--did I tell you that?
Marty left the house before Bozie's dad could see her cry. As she continued her visits, she realized that the only person with a problem at the school was her. The other students had problems, yes, but she had not realized that and hadn't tried to help in any way.
When she came back to the principal the week after Christmas, she told him that she'd changed her mind. She wanted to stay. The principal told her that he had not doubted that. Sometimes we had to remember that we were here to serve. It is hard to know how to serve if you don't know who you're serving. When second semester started, Marty had a different attitude. No, things didn't magically improve, but Marty's attitude did. Now she understood. The answer to her problem wasn't a new job--or more discipline--nor was it better classroom management. The answer to her problem was love. Love those that are put in your path, and that love will be paid back a thousandfold. It was a lesson she never forgot. And every Christmas from then on, Marty made it a point to visit her classes. It was a labor of love.
Thursday, February 28, 2013
Wednesday, February 27, 2013
the picture of my mother
I see it when I look in the mirror, when I am polishing silver (okay, when I'm drying flatware) and I notice my reflection, even, sometimes when I catch myself in a shadow. I see it, and the question always comes:
When did I turn into my mother?
I used to swear it would never happen. I tried my best not to imitate her. Like most of you, I thought my mom was hopelessly behind the times and not someone to emulate.
Unfortunately, I didn't count on genetics.
Everyone tells me I look just like her. These days, even I see it. Or I should say that I look as much like her as a person five inches taller can look. I have her hair, her eyes, her nose, her mouth. I look in the mirror and see her staring back at me, sometimes with a smile, often with mouth slightly downturned--neither one of us smile naturally.
I know from experience that I have her anger, her temper. I have discovered that I also have her gift for words. We both sing. But the ways in which I am most like my mother are myriad and small.
I set my arms on my hips when angry. There she is! Finger goes up to emphasize my point--that's her! I hear myself saying "Mark my words" and wish I could take them back. Too late--my mother has spoken.
Not that I mind. My mother was a great woman, and in my mind, she becomes greater every day. I'm thankful for the gifts she's given me--gifts like thoughtful speech, wisdom, and a desire to become ever closer to the Lord. I look forward to that day when I will finally see her again, get to put my arms around her and tell her how much I love her. I know that she knows, but it will be a blessing to finally see her respond and give me that hug, that squeeze of the hand that I've been missing all these years.
I lost my mom when I was fifteen. This was a lifetime ago.
But even though my mom is gone, she's certainly not forgotten. All I have to do to remember is look in a mirror.
Thank you Mom. I love you, too!
When did I turn into my mother?
I used to swear it would never happen. I tried my best not to imitate her. Like most of you, I thought my mom was hopelessly behind the times and not someone to emulate.
Unfortunately, I didn't count on genetics.
Everyone tells me I look just like her. These days, even I see it. Or I should say that I look as much like her as a person five inches taller can look. I have her hair, her eyes, her nose, her mouth. I look in the mirror and see her staring back at me, sometimes with a smile, often with mouth slightly downturned--neither one of us smile naturally.
I know from experience that I have her anger, her temper. I have discovered that I also have her gift for words. We both sing. But the ways in which I am most like my mother are myriad and small.
I set my arms on my hips when angry. There she is! Finger goes up to emphasize my point--that's her! I hear myself saying "Mark my words" and wish I could take them back. Too late--my mother has spoken.
Not that I mind. My mother was a great woman, and in my mind, she becomes greater every day. I'm thankful for the gifts she's given me--gifts like thoughtful speech, wisdom, and a desire to become ever closer to the Lord. I look forward to that day when I will finally see her again, get to put my arms around her and tell her how much I love her. I know that she knows, but it will be a blessing to finally see her respond and give me that hug, that squeeze of the hand that I've been missing all these years.
I lost my mom when I was fifteen. This was a lifetime ago.
But even though my mom is gone, she's certainly not forgotten. All I have to do to remember is look in a mirror.
Thank you Mom. I love you, too!
Tuesday, February 26, 2013
when you're dealing with death
In our Stephen Ministry class yesterday, we approached the topic of death--how to walk beside someone who is dying or their friends or family. I was amazed at how many people have dealt with their own death or death of others besides parents. Children, spouses, their own deaths that were averted--the pain in the room was palpable. And it was a fragile time. I saw tempers flare and tears come easily. I've been dealing with my own anniversary of death (husband's 20th), so maybe I was less sensitive for that reason, but I was very aware of the atmosphere in the room.
I thought that some things that were said were worth repeating:
I thought that some things that were said were worth repeating:
- Don't try to reason a dying person away from thinking and talking about his own death. When they're ready, they might want to talk, and they need you to be there to listen. Not to judge, not to talk them out of it--to listen and to affirm and to repeat their thoughts back to them so that they know that they're being heard.
- When someone is dying they go through the five steps: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. They might go through one to another sequentially, but often they go back and forth and revisit the stages until they are ready to go on. Some never get to acceptance. And that's okay. Don't try to hasten it along. Don't make them live--and die--on your timetable. It's not doing them a service to remind them that bargaining is futile or that anger is useless. God understands. Try to do the same.
- Please be kind. They don't need a cheerleader. They don't need a motivational speaker. They need someone who is willing to be there, to listen, to cry with them (if that's something you can do), and to hold them.
- Here's one that didn't come up yesterday, but I learned it and it is with me every day. Understand that feelings may change or not be easily understood. My husband only regained consciousness for a short while. I know that he was happy to see me. I know he loved me. He seemed perfectly content to hold my hand and be with me. But when I asked if he'd like to see his mother--he squeezed my hand so hard that there was no doubt as to who was the one he needed. I was momentarily hurt, but I was also grateful that I could do him such an enormous good by such a little action.
- Don't take the grief of the family onto yourself (this is also mine). If you are walking with the dying person, then you will see family members and they might want to talk to you about your dying friend or family member, recruit you to speak for their point of view, or keep you from what they see as infringing on their time. If your friend has made it clear that s/he wants you to share this last walk with them, don't bow to anyone else's wishes. There's time enough to deal with others later. Of course, you should always make sure that your friend's wishes are still being met. If she's decided that she would rather be with family, then bow out gracefully. It's their needs that need to be met, not yours.
I hope that this has been helpful for someone. I have worked with grief for a long time, but I've never had to walk with someone (besides my husband and son, of course) who were walking the last path. I pray that when the time comes, I will be a good friend to that person. If you are the one who is chosen to share the path, I pray the same thing for you.
Monday, February 25, 2013
on procrastination
I meant to write this yesterday--no, last week--no, sometime before that.
I have always meant to write on procrastination, but it always seems to slip my mind.
I am a master procrastinator. I don't believe in putting off till tomorrow what can be done today. Tomorrow is way too soon. I think in terms of vacations. I could clean my house today, but hey, we have a four-day weekend coming up in just two weeks! Time enough then!
Then when those two weeks pass, "What? Do housework on my vacation? There's time enough for housework after break!"
Then, of course, I'm too tired after break, when schedules go back to normal.
So when do I get the housework done?
All you teachers, repeat with me: IN THE SUMMER!!
Procrastination has long been my enemy. I have lots of great ideas, and I'll get to them.
Someday.
But someday never seems to come.
I have therefore decided that I must stop this. I have determined that I must pull myself up by my bootstraps and DO those things that I have long been meaning to do.
I will diet.
I will clean my house.
I will finish the accompaniment tracks for my musical.
I will put my writings into presentable form and submit them for publication.
I will start going to the gym.
I will
I will
…..tomorrow.
I have always meant to write on procrastination, but it always seems to slip my mind.
I am a master procrastinator. I don't believe in putting off till tomorrow what can be done today. Tomorrow is way too soon. I think in terms of vacations. I could clean my house today, but hey, we have a four-day weekend coming up in just two weeks! Time enough then!
Then when those two weeks pass, "What? Do housework on my vacation? There's time enough for housework after break!"
Then, of course, I'm too tired after break, when schedules go back to normal.
So when do I get the housework done?
All you teachers, repeat with me: IN THE SUMMER!!
Procrastination has long been my enemy. I have lots of great ideas, and I'll get to them.
Someday.
But someday never seems to come.
I have therefore decided that I must stop this. I have determined that I must pull myself up by my bootstraps and DO those things that I have long been meaning to do.
I will diet.
I will clean my house.
I will finish the accompaniment tracks for my musical.
I will put my writings into presentable form and submit them for publication.
I will start going to the gym.
I will
I will
…..tomorrow.
Sunday, February 24, 2013
the land of the living
What if I had not believed that I would see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living?
My heart responds to those words from Ps 27. It is spoken (rather, sung, since these are songs) in the midst of a plea for physical and spiritual protection from enemies that are fierce and out for blood.
The psalm begins
The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom then shall I fear?
The Lord is the strength of my life; of whom then shall I be afraid?
It then goes on to explain exactly who, and how the Lord protects from these enemies.
It goes on to state the desire of his life: to dwell in the house of the Lord all the days of my life; to behold the fair beauty of the Lord, and to seek him in his temple.
We shouldn't go to war and pray to an unknown God for peace and protection.
No, we should live our lives in His service and spend our days in his temple
(under the shadow of His wings)
Then when trouble comes, we know the corners where we can hide.
We know the Father to whom we pray,
and we understand the surety of salvation in the evil day,
For we have spoken to him about it in the days, weeks, and months before.
So many of us go about our daily lives without any thought to our Lord God.
Then, when the hour comes in which we cry for comfort and peace,
we are surprised when we are left comfortless.
We don't understand.
It isn't that we are left comfortless,
It is that we don't recognize the Comforter.
So go to your secret place,
Call out to your Father now,
Don't wait for the day of trial to get to know him better.
He is here today, waiting in that still place--
That place that you know instinctively exists--
Go and meet him there.
He will teach you trust,
And hope,
And he will build your faith
From mustard seed to mountain.
Then when the evildoers come to your door
When death, darkness and despair come to call,
You will know where to turn.
He is truly a friend in the darkness,
But it's so much easier to see him in the darkness
If you have first walked with him when it was light.
My heart responds to those words from Ps 27. It is spoken (rather, sung, since these are songs) in the midst of a plea for physical and spiritual protection from enemies that are fierce and out for blood.
The psalm begins
The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom then shall I fear?
The Lord is the strength of my life; of whom then shall I be afraid?
It then goes on to explain exactly who, and how the Lord protects from these enemies.
It goes on to state the desire of his life: to dwell in the house of the Lord all the days of my life; to behold the fair beauty of the Lord, and to seek him in his temple.
We shouldn't go to war and pray to an unknown God for peace and protection.
No, we should live our lives in His service and spend our days in his temple
(under the shadow of His wings)
Then when trouble comes, we know the corners where we can hide.
We know the Father to whom we pray,
and we understand the surety of salvation in the evil day,
For we have spoken to him about it in the days, weeks, and months before.
So many of us go about our daily lives without any thought to our Lord God.
Then, when the hour comes in which we cry for comfort and peace,
we are surprised when we are left comfortless.
We don't understand.
It isn't that we are left comfortless,
It is that we don't recognize the Comforter.
So go to your secret place,
Call out to your Father now,
Don't wait for the day of trial to get to know him better.
He is here today, waiting in that still place--
That place that you know instinctively exists--
Go and meet him there.
He will teach you trust,
And hope,
And he will build your faith
From mustard seed to mountain.
Then when the evildoers come to your door
When death, darkness and despair come to call,
You will know where to turn.
He is truly a friend in the darkness,
But it's so much easier to see him in the darkness
If you have first walked with him when it was light.
Saturday, February 23, 2013
the alcoholic and the aftermath
Lizzie was an alcoholic. She had learned to say that, even though she gave up drinking over five years ago. She knew that she was an alcoholic daily; she would never be able to say that she used to be an alcoholic. Every day was a new day; every day had to be worked through. She often would go for weeks at a time without the slightest craving, but then one day she would feel sad or nervous or homesick or in pain and find herself reaching for the bottle that no longer was in her house. She knew the price she would pay for giving in and getting that first drink, so she never did. But she knew that there was always the chance of that first time, and so she kept her wits about her and kept her support person's number close at hand wherever she was.
Lizzie hadn't always had a drinking problem. For many years, she didn't see the need to drink. She was from a family with a history of alcoholism, and she knew the risks if she should start, so she chose not to drink. She still remembered her father coming home stinking of gin and cigarettes, coming up to her mother and groping her, her mother pulling herself away with a look of disgust at this man who was both her husband and her child at that moment. The family loved their father when he was sober and hated him when he was drunk. Lizzie wanted a normal father and resented the man that made it impossible for her to bring friends home or expect to have enough money to do fun things. The family was never in danger of being on the street, their mother made sure of that, but booze ate up any leftover money that might have been used for vacations or luxuries. So Lizzie was as surprised as everyone else when her father's problem became her own.
It started when her husband left her. They had been happily married for over 13 years when one day he came home, kissed her on the cheek, and gave her a manilla envelope. "I've found another woman, and Lizzie I'm sorry, but she's pregnant. I know you're strong; you'll get by. She's not. She needs me much more than you and the kids do." He asked her to sign the papers; numb, in shock, she did what he asked. The rest of it went by in a blur. Lawyers and meetings and discussions--very civil discussions--about who is responsible for what all came and went with her barely able to realize what was happening. He lived with her in her house until the divorce was final. He slept in her bed and made love to her--he kept telling her that she was his true love and it was all his fault. He promised her that he would keep in touch with the kids; he promised her the house, promised to pay child support until they finished college, promised her the moon so that the divorce would happen quickly. The day the divorce became final he left the house. They never saw him again. No child support. No help with the house payments. The husband and father that they had loved was gone with not a single backwards glance.
Lizzie was single again--a single mother of three. The children were 13, 11, and 10, and they missed their father miserably. They couldn't understand why he had promised them love and left them empty. In the way of children, they blamed Lizzie. She was there, she was safe. They knew that she wouldn't leave them. So they took all their anger and hurt and directed it towards their mother. At first Lizzie understood; she listened to their childish ranting and forgave them. She concentrated all her energy on the getting by that her husband was so sure she could do. For the first year, she managed.
After a year or so, Lizzie began going out on the weekends with friends. She vowed to herself that she wouldn't look for male companionship until her children were grown; she just needed friendship, a way to relieve the stress and pressure that built up during the long days at work and the long nights with her children. She didn't have many friends; it's funny how they abandon you when you're no longer one of a pair. But some girls did stick by her. One in particular, Melody, had been a friend since she was a girl. Melody and Lizzie went out on Friday or Saturday evenings. They would go to the show, go to a concert, go to karaoke, go somewhere. Then they would end up in a bar. At first, Melody would have wine and Lizzie would have a Coke, but somewhere along the line Lizzie decided to exchange the soda for wine, too. She liked the way that two or three glasses would make her feel. It relaxed her, calmed her nerves, soothed the pain.
As the years passed, her children grew into teenagers and the anger and bitterness increased. The hurt over their father made the normal teen angst that much worse, and Lizzie didn't know how to cope. She found herself going to a bar before she came home at night. She didn't want booze in the house because of the kids, so she would have two, three, four, five drinks before she came home. Before she knew it, she had her first DUI. She hid it from her children, of course, but they somehow found out. She was more and more dependent on liquor and less and less able to keep it from controlling her life. She began to sneak bottles of vodka, her new drug of choice, into the house. She hid them where she thought the children couldn't find them. They knew, of course, but nobody said anything. When the arguments and anger were too much to bear, Lizzie would sneak into her bedroom and drink.
When Lizzie was drunk, her behavior changed. She was by turns weepy and explosive. She would castigate the children about some little thing and then break down in bitter tears in front of them. She brought a feeling of insecurity into the house. Life had been safe with their mom; now life was not safe with anyone. There were missed appointments, calls home because she had forgotten to pick them up, promises of fun vacations that weren't fulfilled, and never-ending apologies. The children, already bruised by the abandonment of one parent, were devastated by the retreat of another into a world that was alien and scary.
The breaking point came when her daughter Jenna needed a ride to school for a concert that night. Lizzie had forgotten about the concert and was already drunk. But motherhood was more important, she thought, and she got in the car. They hadn't driven four blocks before Lizzie got in an accident. She totaled the car, but thankfully nobody was hurt. However, the police came and she was arrested for driving under the influence--again. It was a wake-up call. Lizzie was lucky; she was able to come back to her house and family. She joined AA the next day.
Part of the recovery process in AA is making atonement. Lizzie knew that she had a lot to atone for. She began going from family member to family member, asking for their forgiveness. Some forgave her; others did not. Her own children were the same. Jenna and her brother Charlie forgave her. They were happy to see their mother back. Her youngest, Arthur, did not. He was the youngest, and he was angry and bitter and refused to hear anything from her. He wanted nothing to do with a mother that had betrayed him after the earlier betrayal of a father he had loved. Nothing that Lizzie could do--no promises, no pleading--nothing could convince him to forgive her.
Lizzie went to her sponsor in tears. "How can I fix this?" she asked. "He won't forgive me. He is so angry--what do I do?"
The older woman thought for a minute. She knew how Lizzie was feeling--her own family had trouble with forgiveness, even all these years later. She remembered her own journey: broken promises, broken dreams, broken hearts. Quietly she said, "Lizzie, that isn't your call to make. You made amends. It's up to him, now. He can choose to forgive you or choose not to. He's your son and he's hurting. You have offered him a gift in your apology. Now offer him the love and discipline that is yours as a sober parent to give. When he brings up the past, accept your part in his pain, and remind him that the past is past and help him in his present."
Lizzie took the message to heart and found it useful in all her relationships. Even with those who had forgiven her, there were times when pain and hurt from the past would be brought up. Lizzie learned to acknowledge her part in the causing of the pain and then turn the conversation to the issue in the present that had triggered the hurt from the past. Although Arthur never spoke words of forgiveness, his attitude changed--somewhat. The relationship that had been, though, was gone forever. He never trusted her completely again. Sadly, she realized that she no longer deserved that trust. She had to acknowledge that and continue to live her life as best she could--one day at a time.
Today, Lizzie is a mother and grandmother. Her children understand the danger that alcohol poses to them. They have seen their mother fall--but they have also seen her rise to her feet with the help of AA. There is peace within the family for the most part. The relationship becomes strained from time to time, but the family does its best to work together to deal with issues and leftover pain. Arthur is on the sidelines looking in--by choice. Lizzie understands and has herself backed away. She realizes that the relationship might never be fully healed, and she tries to be at peace with that.
Dealing with her own family and her own alcoholism has caused Lizzie to take one further step. Not long ago, she went to the cemetery with flowers and a note. She sat at her father's grave and quietly prayed. Then she looked at the headstone, at the picture of the man that had made her life a joy and a pain. "Daddy, I understand now. I know that you weren't bad--you were sick. I inherited your sickness. I love you, and I forgive you." On the headstone, she put the flowers and the note, a simple card that would never be read. It was the picture of an ocean at sunset. Inside, a childlike note. Daddy, I wish we could have shared times like this together. But now I understand why we didn't. Your daughter, Lizzie. Lizzie walked away from her father's grave and into her future, a future that she would build one day at a time.
Lizzie hadn't always had a drinking problem. For many years, she didn't see the need to drink. She was from a family with a history of alcoholism, and she knew the risks if she should start, so she chose not to drink. She still remembered her father coming home stinking of gin and cigarettes, coming up to her mother and groping her, her mother pulling herself away with a look of disgust at this man who was both her husband and her child at that moment. The family loved their father when he was sober and hated him when he was drunk. Lizzie wanted a normal father and resented the man that made it impossible for her to bring friends home or expect to have enough money to do fun things. The family was never in danger of being on the street, their mother made sure of that, but booze ate up any leftover money that might have been used for vacations or luxuries. So Lizzie was as surprised as everyone else when her father's problem became her own.
It started when her husband left her. They had been happily married for over 13 years when one day he came home, kissed her on the cheek, and gave her a manilla envelope. "I've found another woman, and Lizzie I'm sorry, but she's pregnant. I know you're strong; you'll get by. She's not. She needs me much more than you and the kids do." He asked her to sign the papers; numb, in shock, she did what he asked. The rest of it went by in a blur. Lawyers and meetings and discussions--very civil discussions--about who is responsible for what all came and went with her barely able to realize what was happening. He lived with her in her house until the divorce was final. He slept in her bed and made love to her--he kept telling her that she was his true love and it was all his fault. He promised her that he would keep in touch with the kids; he promised her the house, promised to pay child support until they finished college, promised her the moon so that the divorce would happen quickly. The day the divorce became final he left the house. They never saw him again. No child support. No help with the house payments. The husband and father that they had loved was gone with not a single backwards glance.
Lizzie was single again--a single mother of three. The children were 13, 11, and 10, and they missed their father miserably. They couldn't understand why he had promised them love and left them empty. In the way of children, they blamed Lizzie. She was there, she was safe. They knew that she wouldn't leave them. So they took all their anger and hurt and directed it towards their mother. At first Lizzie understood; she listened to their childish ranting and forgave them. She concentrated all her energy on the getting by that her husband was so sure she could do. For the first year, she managed.
After a year or so, Lizzie began going out on the weekends with friends. She vowed to herself that she wouldn't look for male companionship until her children were grown; she just needed friendship, a way to relieve the stress and pressure that built up during the long days at work and the long nights with her children. She didn't have many friends; it's funny how they abandon you when you're no longer one of a pair. But some girls did stick by her. One in particular, Melody, had been a friend since she was a girl. Melody and Lizzie went out on Friday or Saturday evenings. They would go to the show, go to a concert, go to karaoke, go somewhere. Then they would end up in a bar. At first, Melody would have wine and Lizzie would have a Coke, but somewhere along the line Lizzie decided to exchange the soda for wine, too. She liked the way that two or three glasses would make her feel. It relaxed her, calmed her nerves, soothed the pain.
As the years passed, her children grew into teenagers and the anger and bitterness increased. The hurt over their father made the normal teen angst that much worse, and Lizzie didn't know how to cope. She found herself going to a bar before she came home at night. She didn't want booze in the house because of the kids, so she would have two, three, four, five drinks before she came home. Before she knew it, she had her first DUI. She hid it from her children, of course, but they somehow found out. She was more and more dependent on liquor and less and less able to keep it from controlling her life. She began to sneak bottles of vodka, her new drug of choice, into the house. She hid them where she thought the children couldn't find them. They knew, of course, but nobody said anything. When the arguments and anger were too much to bear, Lizzie would sneak into her bedroom and drink.
When Lizzie was drunk, her behavior changed. She was by turns weepy and explosive. She would castigate the children about some little thing and then break down in bitter tears in front of them. She brought a feeling of insecurity into the house. Life had been safe with their mom; now life was not safe with anyone. There were missed appointments, calls home because she had forgotten to pick them up, promises of fun vacations that weren't fulfilled, and never-ending apologies. The children, already bruised by the abandonment of one parent, were devastated by the retreat of another into a world that was alien and scary.
The breaking point came when her daughter Jenna needed a ride to school for a concert that night. Lizzie had forgotten about the concert and was already drunk. But motherhood was more important, she thought, and she got in the car. They hadn't driven four blocks before Lizzie got in an accident. She totaled the car, but thankfully nobody was hurt. However, the police came and she was arrested for driving under the influence--again. It was a wake-up call. Lizzie was lucky; she was able to come back to her house and family. She joined AA the next day.
Part of the recovery process in AA is making atonement. Lizzie knew that she had a lot to atone for. She began going from family member to family member, asking for their forgiveness. Some forgave her; others did not. Her own children were the same. Jenna and her brother Charlie forgave her. They were happy to see their mother back. Her youngest, Arthur, did not. He was the youngest, and he was angry and bitter and refused to hear anything from her. He wanted nothing to do with a mother that had betrayed him after the earlier betrayal of a father he had loved. Nothing that Lizzie could do--no promises, no pleading--nothing could convince him to forgive her.
Lizzie went to her sponsor in tears. "How can I fix this?" she asked. "He won't forgive me. He is so angry--what do I do?"
The older woman thought for a minute. She knew how Lizzie was feeling--her own family had trouble with forgiveness, even all these years later. She remembered her own journey: broken promises, broken dreams, broken hearts. Quietly she said, "Lizzie, that isn't your call to make. You made amends. It's up to him, now. He can choose to forgive you or choose not to. He's your son and he's hurting. You have offered him a gift in your apology. Now offer him the love and discipline that is yours as a sober parent to give. When he brings up the past, accept your part in his pain, and remind him that the past is past and help him in his present."
Lizzie took the message to heart and found it useful in all her relationships. Even with those who had forgiven her, there were times when pain and hurt from the past would be brought up. Lizzie learned to acknowledge her part in the causing of the pain and then turn the conversation to the issue in the present that had triggered the hurt from the past. Although Arthur never spoke words of forgiveness, his attitude changed--somewhat. The relationship that had been, though, was gone forever. He never trusted her completely again. Sadly, she realized that she no longer deserved that trust. She had to acknowledge that and continue to live her life as best she could--one day at a time.
Today, Lizzie is a mother and grandmother. Her children understand the danger that alcohol poses to them. They have seen their mother fall--but they have also seen her rise to her feet with the help of AA. There is peace within the family for the most part. The relationship becomes strained from time to time, but the family does its best to work together to deal with issues and leftover pain. Arthur is on the sidelines looking in--by choice. Lizzie understands and has herself backed away. She realizes that the relationship might never be fully healed, and she tries to be at peace with that.
Dealing with her own family and her own alcoholism has caused Lizzie to take one further step. Not long ago, she went to the cemetery with flowers and a note. She sat at her father's grave and quietly prayed. Then she looked at the headstone, at the picture of the man that had made her life a joy and a pain. "Daddy, I understand now. I know that you weren't bad--you were sick. I inherited your sickness. I love you, and I forgive you." On the headstone, she put the flowers and the note, a simple card that would never be read. It was the picture of an ocean at sunset. Inside, a childlike note. Daddy, I wish we could have shared times like this together. But now I understand why we didn't. Your daughter, Lizzie. Lizzie walked away from her father's grave and into her future, a future that she would build one day at a time.
Friday, February 22, 2013
to my husband, dead these 20 years
Hello, Sweetie!!
Although it's been twenty years, I still remember it like it was yesterday. Highs, lows, hope, dread, and then the final moments with you. I remember walking around your still-warm body, touching your arms, already growing cold, and talking with you. I knew that your spirit was still there. It was so hard to say goodbye, so incredibly difficult to leave that room, knowing that I never would be with you in this way again. At 36 years old, your life had already ended, and I felt that mine was ending, too. This unbelievable thing was really and truly happening.
We never expected it, did we? You were so healthy, we both knew that I would go before you. You had so much ahead of you--seeing your children grow and find their own way, welcoming wives, husbands, grandchildren into the fold, growing old together, and finally retiring to that place in the woods that you longed for. I know that we both envisioned you happily hunting and fishing in your golden years. Instead, you left me to raise our children alone. I'm not going to go into how good a job I did or didn't do. I truly believe that you have been watching and praying for us, and you know it all already. But I do want you to understand how it was after you left.
Your children all miss you terribly, even today. David, too. He doesn't remember you himself; he only sees you through the memories of others. But every one of your children know that you loved them. Every one of them still wants to make you proud. And I think they have. They have grown into such beautiful people. Emily and James, Matthew and Michael live in the woods, just like you wanted to. Emily has often said that you would love it there, and I know she's right. Imagine a lake almost within walking distance! Imagine being able to chop down your own Christmas tree and gather your own firewood (but no more picking up snakes from the road--that was way too scary for this woman!). She is married to a good man, and though you wouldn't agree with his politics, I know you would identify with his gentle spirit.
Val has grown into a good man. He struggles daily with the challenges of raising seven children on his own, but they're his children and he loves them and cares for them with a father's love. He learned that from you, Val. You showed him how to be a father. It's tough, but he doesn't give up. He learned that from you, too. It rings in our ears: A Villanueva never quits! And now he is nearing the end of junior college. He's majoring in archeology, another love that you share. I remember all those mission trips and the fun you had exploring history. Val is sharing that same love with his children now, as well as your love of the beach and camping.
Jeremy is amazing, too. He and Michelle have done a great job showing solidarity and supporting each other in their lives. Their children have great role models. Jeremy is about to graduate, and I couldn't be happier for him. I know that you know about the trials he has faced and the struggles he has triumphed over. He is coming into the potential that you always saw in him. I know that we disagreed about how to discipline, but there was no doubt, ever, that you saw greatness in him--in all our children. You wanted him to discover it in himself. He has.
David, to me, is the most surprising of all. I never expected to see you in him, but you are so present. It's there in the way he walks, speaks, thinks--even in the way he sometimes uses his hands. I am proud of him. He has Asperger's Syndrome, but he doesn't see it as a disability. Instead, he says that it makes him into the person he is today. He loves singing and acting and is determined to make it into a career. I see you in that as well. One of my deepest regrets is that I wasn't as supportive of your jewelry aspirations as I could have been. We see things so much more clearly from the other side of history, don't we? It was more than a hobby with you, and you yearned to make it into a career. I'm sorry that I didn't give you the support you needed to make that happen. But I've learned from past mistakes with you. As much as I can, I'm standing behind David and supporting him in his dream. And he's good, Honey! He has a great voice (so does Emily--I don't know about Val and Jeremy--remember him saying "I can't SING!" in children's choir?) and he evens helps others in his class with their singing. I'm afraid, Sweetheart, that he takes after me in that, not you. Remember me trying to teach you to sing? But whatever the makeup of your voice, we all loved it. I never forgot you singing "Streets of Laredo" and "Mariah". Did you know Val even named his younger daughter Mariah? Of course you did.
Val, life is so different now. For many years, everything was a struggle. I felt like half a person. And I was. I take seriously the Bible verse that says that you shall leave your father and mother, cleave to your spouse, and the two shall become one. When you went away, that left half. I spent many years dealing with the loss and learning to become whole again. Our kids, especially Emily, have helped me in that. She has spoken truth to me that I needed to hear, and it's really helped. All the children have been affirming, and I've so appreciated it. I know I made mistakes--too many to count--but they don't hold me to blame for it. They have forgiven me, and that made it much easier to forgive myself.
Today is so different than it was with you. I am my own woman. I'm not afraid, not like I used to be. I love my independence and wouldn't change. I don't see a need to look for another husband. I had that, and it was wonderful, but I don't need it again. I have my memories with you, my life with my children, and my friends and career. I'm truly happy again, and I'm thankful for every day that God gives me.
I am also looking forward in faith to that day when I will come home. I will close my eyes, and when I open them, you will be there--you and Tommy and Leslie and my mom and dad and everyone else that I love and have lost. I look forward to that day, but I no longer yearn for it with all my heart. It will come when it comes, and until then, I have a rich and fulfilling life here.
So Val, be happy. Do the work that God has given you to do. Know that we all think of you and love you and are supremely grateful for the years that God gave us to be with you. We all miss you, but we all know that we'll all be together again one day.
Godspeed, my Love, until then.
Margaret
Although it's been twenty years, I still remember it like it was yesterday. Highs, lows, hope, dread, and then the final moments with you. I remember walking around your still-warm body, touching your arms, already growing cold, and talking with you. I knew that your spirit was still there. It was so hard to say goodbye, so incredibly difficult to leave that room, knowing that I never would be with you in this way again. At 36 years old, your life had already ended, and I felt that mine was ending, too. This unbelievable thing was really and truly happening.
We never expected it, did we? You were so healthy, we both knew that I would go before you. You had so much ahead of you--seeing your children grow and find their own way, welcoming wives, husbands, grandchildren into the fold, growing old together, and finally retiring to that place in the woods that you longed for. I know that we both envisioned you happily hunting and fishing in your golden years. Instead, you left me to raise our children alone. I'm not going to go into how good a job I did or didn't do. I truly believe that you have been watching and praying for us, and you know it all already. But I do want you to understand how it was after you left.
Your children all miss you terribly, even today. David, too. He doesn't remember you himself; he only sees you through the memories of others. But every one of your children know that you loved them. Every one of them still wants to make you proud. And I think they have. They have grown into such beautiful people. Emily and James, Matthew and Michael live in the woods, just like you wanted to. Emily has often said that you would love it there, and I know she's right. Imagine a lake almost within walking distance! Imagine being able to chop down your own Christmas tree and gather your own firewood (but no more picking up snakes from the road--that was way too scary for this woman!). She is married to a good man, and though you wouldn't agree with his politics, I know you would identify with his gentle spirit.
Val has grown into a good man. He struggles daily with the challenges of raising seven children on his own, but they're his children and he loves them and cares for them with a father's love. He learned that from you, Val. You showed him how to be a father. It's tough, but he doesn't give up. He learned that from you, too. It rings in our ears: A Villanueva never quits! And now he is nearing the end of junior college. He's majoring in archeology, another love that you share. I remember all those mission trips and the fun you had exploring history. Val is sharing that same love with his children now, as well as your love of the beach and camping.
Jeremy is amazing, too. He and Michelle have done a great job showing solidarity and supporting each other in their lives. Their children have great role models. Jeremy is about to graduate, and I couldn't be happier for him. I know that you know about the trials he has faced and the struggles he has triumphed over. He is coming into the potential that you always saw in him. I know that we disagreed about how to discipline, but there was no doubt, ever, that you saw greatness in him--in all our children. You wanted him to discover it in himself. He has.
David, to me, is the most surprising of all. I never expected to see you in him, but you are so present. It's there in the way he walks, speaks, thinks--even in the way he sometimes uses his hands. I am proud of him. He has Asperger's Syndrome, but he doesn't see it as a disability. Instead, he says that it makes him into the person he is today. He loves singing and acting and is determined to make it into a career. I see you in that as well. One of my deepest regrets is that I wasn't as supportive of your jewelry aspirations as I could have been. We see things so much more clearly from the other side of history, don't we? It was more than a hobby with you, and you yearned to make it into a career. I'm sorry that I didn't give you the support you needed to make that happen. But I've learned from past mistakes with you. As much as I can, I'm standing behind David and supporting him in his dream. And he's good, Honey! He has a great voice (so does Emily--I don't know about Val and Jeremy--remember him saying "I can't SING!" in children's choir?) and he evens helps others in his class with their singing. I'm afraid, Sweetheart, that he takes after me in that, not you. Remember me trying to teach you to sing? But whatever the makeup of your voice, we all loved it. I never forgot you singing "Streets of Laredo" and "Mariah". Did you know Val even named his younger daughter Mariah? Of course you did.
Val, life is so different now. For many years, everything was a struggle. I felt like half a person. And I was. I take seriously the Bible verse that says that you shall leave your father and mother, cleave to your spouse, and the two shall become one. When you went away, that left half. I spent many years dealing with the loss and learning to become whole again. Our kids, especially Emily, have helped me in that. She has spoken truth to me that I needed to hear, and it's really helped. All the children have been affirming, and I've so appreciated it. I know I made mistakes--too many to count--but they don't hold me to blame for it. They have forgiven me, and that made it much easier to forgive myself.
Today is so different than it was with you. I am my own woman. I'm not afraid, not like I used to be. I love my independence and wouldn't change. I don't see a need to look for another husband. I had that, and it was wonderful, but I don't need it again. I have my memories with you, my life with my children, and my friends and career. I'm truly happy again, and I'm thankful for every day that God gives me.
I am also looking forward in faith to that day when I will come home. I will close my eyes, and when I open them, you will be there--you and Tommy and Leslie and my mom and dad and everyone else that I love and have lost. I look forward to that day, but I no longer yearn for it with all my heart. It will come when it comes, and until then, I have a rich and fulfilling life here.
So Val, be happy. Do the work that God has given you to do. Know that we all think of you and love you and are supremely grateful for the years that God gave us to be with you. We all miss you, but we all know that we'll all be together again one day.
Godspeed, my Love, until then.
Margaret
Thursday, February 21, 2013
hatred
I realized today that I have an issue that has to be dealt with. I have a deep black hatred in my heart for those people in my childhood who tormented me. I have never really thought about it in that way before, and I never really realized what a powerful thing it was.
In childhood, I was fat and sensitive and…well, different. I suspect that I showed some signs of autism. I remember always looking down, having an extremely active imagination, and being interested in what I was interested in and not much else. To say that I didn't fit in at school is an understatement. From around 4th grade on, I isolated myself more and more. At first I didn't understand what was going on, but by junior high it was clear in my mind that I was unloved and unlovable. That lie stayed with me growing up, and I have to say that it is still with me today.
Bullies saw this early on and enjoyed tormenting me. Because I was introverted, fat, and an easy target, I remember loving school but hating the people in it. Some teachers were helpful; others ignored the problem and in doing so made it worse. I also belonged to Girl Scouts. One day I remember was playing a game where someone would turn around in a circle, point at you, and you had to be the animal she called out. After being called on to be an elephant 4 times in a row, I left the game to read. I enjoyed scouts because of the challenge to earn merit badges. I cared nothing at all for the camaraderie that it was famous for, since that just equalled more torture for me. Slumber parties turned into fresh ways for the girls to hurt me.
I grew up and left both the town and the people. I never thought I would ever want to see them again, but I have renewed acquaintances with some--I've written about that before. What I wanted to make clear here is the impact that my early life had on my later life.
I am not interested in being a friend. I am not interested in finding a husband. I am not interested in joining clubs, being part of a social group at school or work, or anything that would lead to close social contact. I will speak to people online and I do have some friends, but I try them over and over before really identifying myself with them. Obviously, I'm not talking about sharing my life. Sharing my life is easy. It's sharing my heart that's difficult. I can talk about all this on paper or in front of a crowd because I feel that it's important for others to realize that they're not alone in their hurt. But I feel, at times, horribly alone. I feel that nobody could ever really like me, and those that say that they do want something from me. I know it's not true, but I have to get past those feelings to invite you into my heart.
The stunning thing about this new understanding to me is that hatred doesn't have to come out of anger. With me, it comes out of hurt and fear. So many days I walked to school fearing that someone would see me and find another way to hurt me. When I was in junior high, I felt that I was so ugly, so hideous, that I would try to find ways to avoid going to restaurants with my family. I didn't want to inflict myself on the public view any more than was necessary. What on earth would make a 12-13 year old girl feel that way? Day after day after day of being informed how fat and ugly and awful she was. I believed it--it seemed that so many people said it that it must be true.
Why am I giving you all this info? There's a video that I saw that spoke strongly to me. It was the first time that I realized that there is still deep-rooted hatred in my heart for these people who have so negatively impacted my life. I want to give you a chance to see it and realize what I went through (and probably what you went through, too). Here's the link:
http://www.upworthy.com/bullies-called-him-pork-chop-he-took-that-pain-with-him-and-then-cooked-it-into?g=2
I am also writing this to remind you that I am still a wounded person, as so many of us are. I hear many of you say that I'm successful, that I'm good at what I do, that I am a real help, and I truly hope that some day I'll believe it. Right now, though, I will just keep acting as if I do, and maybe one day the action will turn into the truth. I know that it's more true of me now than it used to be. And for those of you thinking about starting on this journey with me, it has become more true the more I write and the more people respond and share their own pain. Knowing that I was not alone in my journey, both in childhood and today, has been tremendously healing. Thanks to all of you who have shared your lives with me as well.
In childhood, I was fat and sensitive and…well, different. I suspect that I showed some signs of autism. I remember always looking down, having an extremely active imagination, and being interested in what I was interested in and not much else. To say that I didn't fit in at school is an understatement. From around 4th grade on, I isolated myself more and more. At first I didn't understand what was going on, but by junior high it was clear in my mind that I was unloved and unlovable. That lie stayed with me growing up, and I have to say that it is still with me today.
Bullies saw this early on and enjoyed tormenting me. Because I was introverted, fat, and an easy target, I remember loving school but hating the people in it. Some teachers were helpful; others ignored the problem and in doing so made it worse. I also belonged to Girl Scouts. One day I remember was playing a game where someone would turn around in a circle, point at you, and you had to be the animal she called out. After being called on to be an elephant 4 times in a row, I left the game to read. I enjoyed scouts because of the challenge to earn merit badges. I cared nothing at all for the camaraderie that it was famous for, since that just equalled more torture for me. Slumber parties turned into fresh ways for the girls to hurt me.
I grew up and left both the town and the people. I never thought I would ever want to see them again, but I have renewed acquaintances with some--I've written about that before. What I wanted to make clear here is the impact that my early life had on my later life.
I am not interested in being a friend. I am not interested in finding a husband. I am not interested in joining clubs, being part of a social group at school or work, or anything that would lead to close social contact. I will speak to people online and I do have some friends, but I try them over and over before really identifying myself with them. Obviously, I'm not talking about sharing my life. Sharing my life is easy. It's sharing my heart that's difficult. I can talk about all this on paper or in front of a crowd because I feel that it's important for others to realize that they're not alone in their hurt. But I feel, at times, horribly alone. I feel that nobody could ever really like me, and those that say that they do want something from me. I know it's not true, but I have to get past those feelings to invite you into my heart.
The stunning thing about this new understanding to me is that hatred doesn't have to come out of anger. With me, it comes out of hurt and fear. So many days I walked to school fearing that someone would see me and find another way to hurt me. When I was in junior high, I felt that I was so ugly, so hideous, that I would try to find ways to avoid going to restaurants with my family. I didn't want to inflict myself on the public view any more than was necessary. What on earth would make a 12-13 year old girl feel that way? Day after day after day of being informed how fat and ugly and awful she was. I believed it--it seemed that so many people said it that it must be true.
Why am I giving you all this info? There's a video that I saw that spoke strongly to me. It was the first time that I realized that there is still deep-rooted hatred in my heart for these people who have so negatively impacted my life. I want to give you a chance to see it and realize what I went through (and probably what you went through, too). Here's the link:
http://www.upworthy.com/bullies-called-him-pork-chop-he-took-that-pain-with-him-and-then-cooked-it-into?g=2
I am also writing this to remind you that I am still a wounded person, as so many of us are. I hear many of you say that I'm successful, that I'm good at what I do, that I am a real help, and I truly hope that some day I'll believe it. Right now, though, I will just keep acting as if I do, and maybe one day the action will turn into the truth. I know that it's more true of me now than it used to be. And for those of you thinking about starting on this journey with me, it has become more true the more I write and the more people respond and share their own pain. Knowing that I was not alone in my journey, both in childhood and today, has been tremendously healing. Thanks to all of you who have shared your lives with me as well.
Wednesday, February 20, 2013
Frank the Pug
I used to be a cat person. Their aloof, anti-social behavior suited me fine. I enjoyed seeing the kittenish boisterousness change slowly to regal majesty. Cats were enough for me.
And then I met Frank.
Frank is not my Pug. He was a Christmas gift for my son, but he sleeps on my bed, sleeps in my lap (among numerous other places) and pretty much considers himself my dog. He is a beautiful fawn color, with the black face and ears that are common among Pugs.
Pugs are interesting dogs. They don't bark as a rule. If Frank senses danger, he might vocalize a little, but he isn't yappy. I appreciate that about him. Frank whines. I don't appreciate that so much, but again, it's better than barking. If he wants food, he whines. If he wants in my bed, he whines. If he feels ignored, he whines. But quietly--not intrusively (unless he feels that you're not paying adequate attention).
Pugs are evenly divided--some are water bugs. They love the water and splash happily in any puddle they find. Others avoid water. Frank is the latter. If we are starting our walk and there is a sprinkler going that is wetting the sidewalk, we have to leave another way or go later. He has been known to skirt around puddles, stop and stare at wet spots on the ground before walking in them, and taking our walk to double time if it is sprinkling. Don't even think of walking him in the rain. It is not going to happen.
My friend and I picked Frank out of a litter when he was a pup. There were two beautiful black pups in the front room. I was looking at one, a girl, and had almost decided that was the one for my son. Then Frank (then known as Puppy 3) walked into the room, head down, tail down. He took one look at us, and his tail rolled into a happy bun on his back. That was it. He was mine.
Frank is very expressive. I love talking to him, because he always responds. He cocks his head, as if to better understand your words. He understands many words, among them Walk, Park, Frank, Good Dog, What did you do?, and Dog Park. When he hears those words, he reacts accordingly. He enjoys a good rub, and he smiles when you pet him. Frank prefers people to pets, and he will come up to any stranger for a back and belly rub. His eyes express his gratitude.
I think the most amusing thing that Frank does is a Puggy figure 8. If he gets sufficiently excited (and it's easy to get him that way--just play with his toys and then throw one toward him), he will start to run. Head down, tail up, feet swishing and sliding on the floor, he makes shapes as he runs. His preferred shape used to be a figure 8, but with the new apartment, he contents himself with circles and triangles. It is truly a joy to behold!
I'm no longer a cat person. I am a Pug person. And proud to be one. Frank's muzzle is now grey, but that's the way it is with Pugs. I hope he lives a long and happy life. He brings joy and pleasure to my day. Yes, he has quirks and faults (among them the unfortunate tendency to pass gas as he climbs into my lap), but they're forgivable. After all, I have quirks and faults, too, and I know he forgives me. Frank is truly a furry friend.
And then I met Frank.
Frank is not my Pug. He was a Christmas gift for my son, but he sleeps on my bed, sleeps in my lap (among numerous other places) and pretty much considers himself my dog. He is a beautiful fawn color, with the black face and ears that are common among Pugs.
Pugs are interesting dogs. They don't bark as a rule. If Frank senses danger, he might vocalize a little, but he isn't yappy. I appreciate that about him. Frank whines. I don't appreciate that so much, but again, it's better than barking. If he wants food, he whines. If he wants in my bed, he whines. If he feels ignored, he whines. But quietly--not intrusively (unless he feels that you're not paying adequate attention).
Pugs are evenly divided--some are water bugs. They love the water and splash happily in any puddle they find. Others avoid water. Frank is the latter. If we are starting our walk and there is a sprinkler going that is wetting the sidewalk, we have to leave another way or go later. He has been known to skirt around puddles, stop and stare at wet spots on the ground before walking in them, and taking our walk to double time if it is sprinkling. Don't even think of walking him in the rain. It is not going to happen.
My friend and I picked Frank out of a litter when he was a pup. There were two beautiful black pups in the front room. I was looking at one, a girl, and had almost decided that was the one for my son. Then Frank (then known as Puppy 3) walked into the room, head down, tail down. He took one look at us, and his tail rolled into a happy bun on his back. That was it. He was mine.
Frank is very expressive. I love talking to him, because he always responds. He cocks his head, as if to better understand your words. He understands many words, among them Walk, Park, Frank, Good Dog, What did you do?, and Dog Park. When he hears those words, he reacts accordingly. He enjoys a good rub, and he smiles when you pet him. Frank prefers people to pets, and he will come up to any stranger for a back and belly rub. His eyes express his gratitude.
I think the most amusing thing that Frank does is a Puggy figure 8. If he gets sufficiently excited (and it's easy to get him that way--just play with his toys and then throw one toward him), he will start to run. Head down, tail up, feet swishing and sliding on the floor, he makes shapes as he runs. His preferred shape used to be a figure 8, but with the new apartment, he contents himself with circles and triangles. It is truly a joy to behold!
I'm no longer a cat person. I am a Pug person. And proud to be one. Frank's muzzle is now grey, but that's the way it is with Pugs. I hope he lives a long and happy life. He brings joy and pleasure to my day. Yes, he has quirks and faults (among them the unfortunate tendency to pass gas as he climbs into my lap), but they're forgivable. After all, I have quirks and faults, too, and I know he forgives me. Frank is truly a furry friend.
Monday, February 18, 2013
only the righteous man may pass
I've been going this way to school since I was five. Ever since I can remember, I went up to the top of the street, run from the dog on the corner (just a dachshund, but what a bark!) picked up a switch and ran it over the whitewashed fence on my way, and then down down down to the bottom of the hill. After that, There was a short climb up a little hill and a much longer walk down another hill to the little school beside the park at the bottom. I didn't know much about the rest of the town, but I did know how to get to school. And back.
I loved going to school. I hated coming back home. Going to school meant playing with my friends, seeing teachers that knew me and gave me sad little smiles, and immersing myself in study. I was always surprised when the 3:00 bell rang. When I was young, I would beg to stay. I always hoped somehow that if I stayed, one of the smiling teachers would take me home with them. But they never let me. I had to go back up the hill, back up the other hill, up again past the whitewashed fence and the yappy dog, and down to the next-to-last house on the street. My house. The curtains were always closed. The door was always locked. I had to knock, and wait, and hope that they would let me in.
Sometimes my mother would be there alone, and she would let me in with a tired little smile, and I would be safe. Sometimes my mother and father would be there together, and she would let me in. I knew then to run to my room and stay there. If I was lucky, it would be okay. But sometimes my father would be there alone. When that happened, I would try to be a quiet mouse. Sometimes it worked. Usually, though, it didn't. And when it didn't, it usually ended badly for me.
I had a brother, once, but he ran away as soon as he turned 16. He was much older than me--he was my mother's son but he had a different daddy. He told me once that his daddy had died, and he missed him every single day. I used to wish my daddy would die. It never happened, though, and I finally stopped wishing, just like I stopped hoping that things would change, that my mom would be home every night, or that he wouldn't hurt me.
My daddy liked hurting people. He hurt my mommy every single day. She was really good at putting on makeup, so nobody knew about it. He used to hurt Thad, too, and that was why he ran away. But he was best at hurting me. He knew how to do it so that nothing would show, but that didn't mean that it didn't hurt. Sometimes he would make me put on my Sunday School clothes and then he'd make me sit in a chair and hold a Bible up in the air over my head. He would make me hold it there till I couldn't hold it any more, and when I dropped it or put my arms down, he'd use that as an excuse to hit me and call me names. He would tell me that the Bible could never help me, that it wasn't him hurting me, it was that blanking Bible. Other times he made me stay in my room with all the lights off--he did that until he figured out that I wasn't scared of the dark. Honestly, that was my favorite punishment.
I am not afraid of the dark because when I'm by myself and it's dark, the angels come. They are white and shiny and only I can see them. They tell me that they know how much it hurts, but my real father knows, too, and he promises that this won't last forever. One of them is always there. Sometimes I can see him and sometimes I can't. But I can always feel him. He tells me to be patient. But it's hard, because sometimes I think that my daddy will kill me. And other times it's even harder, because I find myself being more afraid that he won't. I have dreams where my mommy dies or goes away, and my daddy and I are the only ones that are left.
One day I think that my dream has come true. I woke up in the night to loud screaming. My mommy taught me never to leave my room, but he comes in. "Come in here and clean up this mess!" my daddy tells me. He takes me by the hand and drags me to his room--their room. My mother is lying in the middle of the floor, half of her under the bed. Her eyes are closed and she doesn't look like she's breathing. There's blood everywhere. I thought at first that she was dead, but then I saw her eyes open for a minute and look at me. There were tears in them. My daddy brought me a bucket and a rag, and I washed my mother and the floor. I was changing the sheets on the bed when I saw the little bundle. I figured it out then. My mommy had been pregnant and I hadn't known. She lost the baby and instead of going to the hospital, my daddy was keeping her home while I mopped up.
I finished and went back into my room. The angels were there. "Please, please, help my mommy! Don't let her die!" Without a word, the biggest one walked through my door. I ran after him.
When he left my room, he changed. He wasn't white or shiny, and he looked like a normal man. But he didn't act like a normal man. He walked through my mommy's room, picked her up, breathed on her, She didn't change all of a sudden, but it seemed to me that she felt a little better.
The angel-man held her in his arms like she was a little doll. He took me by the hand and started out the door. My daddy went after him, but he couldn't get through his own door! "Hey, you! What's going on? Where you taking my family?"
He looked at my father with eyes of clearest blue, and he said, "Only the righteous man may pass." No yelling, no loud voices, but he was the boss, not my daddy. My daddy pretended to be very big and grown up, but I knew that he was only pretending. I saw how scared he really was in his eyes. "Don't you know anything? Indiana Jones is my favorite movie hero. The line is "Only the penitent man may pass!"
The angel just stood there, looking at him. Just then the other angels went past, out into the street with the other angel, my mommy and me. My mommy was saying something, but all I could hear was my daddy's heart pounding. He ran away from all of them, into his room, and shut the door. The angel said it again, "Only the righteous man may pass," and then we went outside.
The angel put Mommy into the car and then he drove and drove. We went away from the house, my daddy, my school, our city, and then we drove even more. He didn't stop driving for a week, just for food and for gas. One day, though, Mommy came out of it. She looked at me, took the wheel like she'd been doing it all the time, and drove down the highway until she got to a little town. She pulled up beside a really pretty brick house. It looked like a place I'd dreamed about--but it was real. Mommy took me by the hand and led me up the walk to the door. She knocked on the door, and Thad opened it! Right behind him was a lady that reminded me of Mommy, just bunches older. She grabbed me in a big hug, and then she reached up past me and stroked my mommy's cheek. When I looked at Mommy, tears were streaming down her face. Mine, too. We cried a lot those first few days. We cried for the baby, for our house, for everything we'd left behind--we even cried for Daddy. It still rang in my ears--only the righteous man may pass." Mommy never said anything about those days, not until much later.
I went to bed with Mommy that night, and we stayed with Grandma--that was who she was, my Grandma, Mommy's mommy--for a long time after that. I never saw the angels again after that, either. I never told Mommy about them either. But one day, much later, I did ask her if she remembered how we got out. "It's so strange, LizAnne. I'd tried to leave so many times. Every time he'd hide the car keys or hurt me or threaten you. But this time, it was different. I don't even really remember how we got away. I remember seeing you having to clean up the mess, and then I passed out. I don't remember anything for days. In fact, I don't even remember driving the car until right before we got to Grandma's. I don't even remember deciding to go there! My mom and I had argued, and I'd run away with my first husband. Things hadn't been healed between us. I guess it just shows what you're capable of doing when you have to protect the ones you love. Not one word about the angels. But then, I didn't really think there would be.
Daddy never came after us, never came looking. Many years later, I heard that he stayed in that little house in that same city until he died. He never got married again, never hurt anyone else again, ever. He sort of just shriveled up. He died not too many years after that. I never saw the angels again, either, though I never really thought that I would. They were with me when I needed them, and I know that things would have been much worse for Mommy and me if they weren't around. But I'm always going to remember them,and I will never forget the way that they protected me. I have a new Bible, now, and I read it almost every day. I love reading about my friends, especially Michael. I wonder if that was him? I guess I'll find out--one day. For now, I'm happy to be a normal little girl in a normal school with a mommy, a brother, and a Grandma that loves me. I like my life!
I loved going to school. I hated coming back home. Going to school meant playing with my friends, seeing teachers that knew me and gave me sad little smiles, and immersing myself in study. I was always surprised when the 3:00 bell rang. When I was young, I would beg to stay. I always hoped somehow that if I stayed, one of the smiling teachers would take me home with them. But they never let me. I had to go back up the hill, back up the other hill, up again past the whitewashed fence and the yappy dog, and down to the next-to-last house on the street. My house. The curtains were always closed. The door was always locked. I had to knock, and wait, and hope that they would let me in.
Sometimes my mother would be there alone, and she would let me in with a tired little smile, and I would be safe. Sometimes my mother and father would be there together, and she would let me in. I knew then to run to my room and stay there. If I was lucky, it would be okay. But sometimes my father would be there alone. When that happened, I would try to be a quiet mouse. Sometimes it worked. Usually, though, it didn't. And when it didn't, it usually ended badly for me.
I had a brother, once, but he ran away as soon as he turned 16. He was much older than me--he was my mother's son but he had a different daddy. He told me once that his daddy had died, and he missed him every single day. I used to wish my daddy would die. It never happened, though, and I finally stopped wishing, just like I stopped hoping that things would change, that my mom would be home every night, or that he wouldn't hurt me.
My daddy liked hurting people. He hurt my mommy every single day. She was really good at putting on makeup, so nobody knew about it. He used to hurt Thad, too, and that was why he ran away. But he was best at hurting me. He knew how to do it so that nothing would show, but that didn't mean that it didn't hurt. Sometimes he would make me put on my Sunday School clothes and then he'd make me sit in a chair and hold a Bible up in the air over my head. He would make me hold it there till I couldn't hold it any more, and when I dropped it or put my arms down, he'd use that as an excuse to hit me and call me names. He would tell me that the Bible could never help me, that it wasn't him hurting me, it was that blanking Bible. Other times he made me stay in my room with all the lights off--he did that until he figured out that I wasn't scared of the dark. Honestly, that was my favorite punishment.
I am not afraid of the dark because when I'm by myself and it's dark, the angels come. They are white and shiny and only I can see them. They tell me that they know how much it hurts, but my real father knows, too, and he promises that this won't last forever. One of them is always there. Sometimes I can see him and sometimes I can't. But I can always feel him. He tells me to be patient. But it's hard, because sometimes I think that my daddy will kill me. And other times it's even harder, because I find myself being more afraid that he won't. I have dreams where my mommy dies or goes away, and my daddy and I are the only ones that are left.
One day I think that my dream has come true. I woke up in the night to loud screaming. My mommy taught me never to leave my room, but he comes in. "Come in here and clean up this mess!" my daddy tells me. He takes me by the hand and drags me to his room--their room. My mother is lying in the middle of the floor, half of her under the bed. Her eyes are closed and she doesn't look like she's breathing. There's blood everywhere. I thought at first that she was dead, but then I saw her eyes open for a minute and look at me. There were tears in them. My daddy brought me a bucket and a rag, and I washed my mother and the floor. I was changing the sheets on the bed when I saw the little bundle. I figured it out then. My mommy had been pregnant and I hadn't known. She lost the baby and instead of going to the hospital, my daddy was keeping her home while I mopped up.
I finished and went back into my room. The angels were there. "Please, please, help my mommy! Don't let her die!" Without a word, the biggest one walked through my door. I ran after him.
When he left my room, he changed. He wasn't white or shiny, and he looked like a normal man. But he didn't act like a normal man. He walked through my mommy's room, picked her up, breathed on her, She didn't change all of a sudden, but it seemed to me that she felt a little better.
The angel-man held her in his arms like she was a little doll. He took me by the hand and started out the door. My daddy went after him, but he couldn't get through his own door! "Hey, you! What's going on? Where you taking my family?"
He looked at my father with eyes of clearest blue, and he said, "Only the righteous man may pass." No yelling, no loud voices, but he was the boss, not my daddy. My daddy pretended to be very big and grown up, but I knew that he was only pretending. I saw how scared he really was in his eyes. "Don't you know anything? Indiana Jones is my favorite movie hero. The line is "Only the penitent man may pass!"
The angel just stood there, looking at him. Just then the other angels went past, out into the street with the other angel, my mommy and me. My mommy was saying something, but all I could hear was my daddy's heart pounding. He ran away from all of them, into his room, and shut the door. The angel said it again, "Only the righteous man may pass," and then we went outside.
The angel put Mommy into the car and then he drove and drove. We went away from the house, my daddy, my school, our city, and then we drove even more. He didn't stop driving for a week, just for food and for gas. One day, though, Mommy came out of it. She looked at me, took the wheel like she'd been doing it all the time, and drove down the highway until she got to a little town. She pulled up beside a really pretty brick house. It looked like a place I'd dreamed about--but it was real. Mommy took me by the hand and led me up the walk to the door. She knocked on the door, and Thad opened it! Right behind him was a lady that reminded me of Mommy, just bunches older. She grabbed me in a big hug, and then she reached up past me and stroked my mommy's cheek. When I looked at Mommy, tears were streaming down her face. Mine, too. We cried a lot those first few days. We cried for the baby, for our house, for everything we'd left behind--we even cried for Daddy. It still rang in my ears--only the righteous man may pass." Mommy never said anything about those days, not until much later.
I went to bed with Mommy that night, and we stayed with Grandma--that was who she was, my Grandma, Mommy's mommy--for a long time after that. I never saw the angels again after that, either. I never told Mommy about them either. But one day, much later, I did ask her if she remembered how we got out. "It's so strange, LizAnne. I'd tried to leave so many times. Every time he'd hide the car keys or hurt me or threaten you. But this time, it was different. I don't even really remember how we got away. I remember seeing you having to clean up the mess, and then I passed out. I don't remember anything for days. In fact, I don't even remember driving the car until right before we got to Grandma's. I don't even remember deciding to go there! My mom and I had argued, and I'd run away with my first husband. Things hadn't been healed between us. I guess it just shows what you're capable of doing when you have to protect the ones you love. Not one word about the angels. But then, I didn't really think there would be.
Daddy never came after us, never came looking. Many years later, I heard that he stayed in that little house in that same city until he died. He never got married again, never hurt anyone else again, ever. He sort of just shriveled up. He died not too many years after that. I never saw the angels again, either, though I never really thought that I would. They were with me when I needed them, and I know that things would have been much worse for Mommy and me if they weren't around. But I'm always going to remember them,and I will never forget the way that they protected me. I have a new Bible, now, and I read it almost every day. I love reading about my friends, especially Michael. I wonder if that was him? I guess I'll find out--one day. For now, I'm happy to be a normal little girl in a normal school with a mommy, a brother, and a Grandma that loves me. I like my life!
Sunday, February 17, 2013
Our Brother and the evil one in the wilderness
Luke 4:1-13
It happened after our Brother was filled with the Holy Spirit. He told us that he needed to go to the wilderness to fast. He walked out, and as soon as he began his journey, the evil one took a place at his side. Every step he walked, the old trickster whispered in his ear. At first, of course, our Brother paid no heed. He had decided to neither eat nor drink for forty days! He spent the same amount of time in the wilderness that our Grandfather Noah spent on the water, fasting, praying, and waiting for the will of God to be revealed. It seemed to him that every day the voice of the old tempter became more seductive, more enticing. Finally the forty days were over. The end of his journey was at hand--this would be the end of his first steps and the beginning of the longer Journey that would lead to our blessed Brother's death. He knew exactly what was in store, and he hungered and thirsted.
On that day, our Brother was famished. Of course, the tempter chose that moment to sidle beside Him and whisper seductively into his ear. "If you are the Son of God, command this stone to become a loaf of bread." As soon as he said it, our Brother's eyes saw the tempting loaf. He smelled the yeast and grain, and the aroma was overwhelming. But at the same time, the Holy Spirit within him brought to mind His Father's words: Man does not live by bread alone. No sooner was the thought made apparent than the lips caused them to come into being. "It is written…" Instantly the tantalizing aroma vanished, to be replaced by the stench of death.
Having failed in the first test, the evil one took our Brother up an incline. He swept out his hand and our Brother saw a myriad of kingdoms--shining and glorious with people and riches too vast to count. The people seemed to see them and immediately fell to their faces in awe and respect--not for our Brother, but for the evil one. They surrounded their leader and fawned attention on him. From their midst he looked at our Brother and said, "See how they adore me? See how they worship me? See how they lay their tributes at my feet? Simply worship me, and all this authority, power and glory will be yours! The people at the evil king's feet looked up at our Brother, and the light of love was in their eyes. They began to stand as our Brother moved in front of the evil one. But then they all fell back as he proclaimed, "It is written, 'Worship the Lord your God and serve only Him'". Was it only a trick of the light? All semblance of humanity disappeared and the two were once again surrounded only by rocks and desert sands.
But the evil one was not finished. Not yet. Our Brother was taken to the holy city, Jerusalem. The evil one took him to the temple, a building made to honor our God and Father. He stood before him, staring at him with a mixture of defiance and malice. "If you are the Son of God, throw yourself down from here, for it is written, 'He will command his angels concerning you, to protect you,' and 'On their hands they will bear you up, so that you will not dash your foot against a stone.'" The sneer in his voice made it apparent that he doubted the holy words. It was nothing more nor less than a dare.
As he spoke the words, the very air around him was filled with the rush of angels' wings: black and white and shining in the brilliance of the desert sun. Starving, thirsty, with fatigue straining his being, our Brother looked at this being, this once-beloved, and he answered him. "It is said, 'Do not put the Lord your God to the test.'" It was not said vindictively, not with malice, and yet the very words caused the fallen angel to remember the time that he himself decided in his vanity to do just that. The tableau vanished, Jerusalem once again became desert sky, and the prince of darkness skulked off to wait for the more opportune time.
It was finished. For now.
It happened after our Brother was filled with the Holy Spirit. He told us that he needed to go to the wilderness to fast. He walked out, and as soon as he began his journey, the evil one took a place at his side. Every step he walked, the old trickster whispered in his ear. At first, of course, our Brother paid no heed. He had decided to neither eat nor drink for forty days! He spent the same amount of time in the wilderness that our Grandfather Noah spent on the water, fasting, praying, and waiting for the will of God to be revealed. It seemed to him that every day the voice of the old tempter became more seductive, more enticing. Finally the forty days were over. The end of his journey was at hand--this would be the end of his first steps and the beginning of the longer Journey that would lead to our blessed Brother's death. He knew exactly what was in store, and he hungered and thirsted.
On that day, our Brother was famished. Of course, the tempter chose that moment to sidle beside Him and whisper seductively into his ear. "If you are the Son of God, command this stone to become a loaf of bread." As soon as he said it, our Brother's eyes saw the tempting loaf. He smelled the yeast and grain, and the aroma was overwhelming. But at the same time, the Holy Spirit within him brought to mind His Father's words: Man does not live by bread alone. No sooner was the thought made apparent than the lips caused them to come into being. "It is written…" Instantly the tantalizing aroma vanished, to be replaced by the stench of death.
Having failed in the first test, the evil one took our Brother up an incline. He swept out his hand and our Brother saw a myriad of kingdoms--shining and glorious with people and riches too vast to count. The people seemed to see them and immediately fell to their faces in awe and respect--not for our Brother, but for the evil one. They surrounded their leader and fawned attention on him. From their midst he looked at our Brother and said, "See how they adore me? See how they worship me? See how they lay their tributes at my feet? Simply worship me, and all this authority, power and glory will be yours! The people at the evil king's feet looked up at our Brother, and the light of love was in their eyes. They began to stand as our Brother moved in front of the evil one. But then they all fell back as he proclaimed, "It is written, 'Worship the Lord your God and serve only Him'". Was it only a trick of the light? All semblance of humanity disappeared and the two were once again surrounded only by rocks and desert sands.
But the evil one was not finished. Not yet. Our Brother was taken to the holy city, Jerusalem. The evil one took him to the temple, a building made to honor our God and Father. He stood before him, staring at him with a mixture of defiance and malice. "If you are the Son of God, throw yourself down from here, for it is written, 'He will command his angels concerning you, to protect you,' and 'On their hands they will bear you up, so that you will not dash your foot against a stone.'" The sneer in his voice made it apparent that he doubted the holy words. It was nothing more nor less than a dare.
As he spoke the words, the very air around him was filled with the rush of angels' wings: black and white and shining in the brilliance of the desert sun. Starving, thirsty, with fatigue straining his being, our Brother looked at this being, this once-beloved, and he answered him. "It is said, 'Do not put the Lord your God to the test.'" It was not said vindictively, not with malice, and yet the very words caused the fallen angel to remember the time that he himself decided in his vanity to do just that. The tableau vanished, Jerusalem once again became desert sky, and the prince of darkness skulked off to wait for the more opportune time.
It was finished. For now.
Saturday, February 16, 2013
a new look at homelessness (lenten reflection)
I teach high school. We are a very service-oriented high school, too. We prepare food for the homeless, clean up and repair buildings, and so on. We support Adopt-A-Family. My students know about homeless, and so do I.
So imagine my surprise when I began our devotions last week from a book for teachers that gives a devotion for each period during Lent, only to realize that I myself had been homeless.
No, I never lost my house. I never had to beg for money on the streets. God has been supremely gracious to me, because it easily could have ended up like that for my family and me after my husband died. Instead, he brought my sister to dare me to go back to school. I did, got my degree, began teaching, and was in the middle of my first year when my husband died.
What I realized this week was that I was "homeless" in that I moved and had no home. Home was Bakersfield, as I've mentioned earlier. In Tucson, I knew nobody, had no idea of where the good places to live, eat, buy clothes, go shopping, or find fun things to do were. At that time, I was not a person who reached out easily, and so I didn't make friends and spent my first few years in solitude.
What a blessing it would have been had someone reached out! When from time to time someone spoke words of encouragement to me, took me to coffee, or just reached out a hand in friendship, it was as if morning was dawning in a cold dreary night.
This is the lesson that my students and I learned this week. God asks you to comfort those who are without comfort, care for your brothers and sisters, and minister to those in need. You don't have to look in soup kitchens or on skid row for them; they're right here--in the workplace, in school, in your own neighborhood.
Have you noticed that new face at work? Have you heard about the young mother whose husband just shipped out? Did you get the news about the elderly lady whose husband just died? Those people are your Lenten sacrifice--speak to them, offer them a hand of welcome, fix them a dinner, offer to babysit. You'll be amazed at how good it makes you feel.
So imagine my surprise when I began our devotions last week from a book for teachers that gives a devotion for each period during Lent, only to realize that I myself had been homeless.
No, I never lost my house. I never had to beg for money on the streets. God has been supremely gracious to me, because it easily could have ended up like that for my family and me after my husband died. Instead, he brought my sister to dare me to go back to school. I did, got my degree, began teaching, and was in the middle of my first year when my husband died.
What I realized this week was that I was "homeless" in that I moved and had no home. Home was Bakersfield, as I've mentioned earlier. In Tucson, I knew nobody, had no idea of where the good places to live, eat, buy clothes, go shopping, or find fun things to do were. At that time, I was not a person who reached out easily, and so I didn't make friends and spent my first few years in solitude.
What a blessing it would have been had someone reached out! When from time to time someone spoke words of encouragement to me, took me to coffee, or just reached out a hand in friendship, it was as if morning was dawning in a cold dreary night.
This is the lesson that my students and I learned this week. God asks you to comfort those who are without comfort, care for your brothers and sisters, and minister to those in need. You don't have to look in soup kitchens or on skid row for them; they're right here--in the workplace, in school, in your own neighborhood.
Have you noticed that new face at work? Have you heard about the young mother whose husband just shipped out? Did you get the news about the elderly lady whose husband just died? Those people are your Lenten sacrifice--speak to them, offer them a hand of welcome, fix them a dinner, offer to babysit. You'll be amazed at how good it makes you feel.
Friday, February 15, 2013
The Church of the Open Door
They’ll know we are
Christians by our love.
The words to the old
song ring in my ears as I look at the white clapboard church, doors tightly
shut against me. My friends had
warned me that this would happen—“They won’t understand. They won’t try to understand. They’ll just judge.” I didn’t believe them. How could it be?
And yet, here it
was. I had come in seeking
shelter, and I was summarily cast out.
Churches today expect a full record of your life if they don’t know
you. They want everything—birth
records, marriage documents, reports of any known lifestyle defects and
evidence that those defects have been taken care of. “The church is not your nanny,” they are fond of saying. This is a place for the Righteous to
come and be safe, protected from the hideousness that exists outside. I didn’t make it past the first
step—the documents check. Though I
tried to explain that what happened wasn’t my fault, I was silenced and sent
back outside. Evidently I was one
of the hideous mob and not welcome.
It wasn’t always like
this, I’m told. There are records
of churches being welcoming sanctuaries where you could come and be safe. In those days, churchgoers considered
themselves sinners as well, and they welcomed one and all to come and
worship. I long for those
days. But that was before
lifestyle changes led to disruption, science led to new visions of what man was
capable of becoming, and morality gave way to “to each his own”. The major churches banded together in
defense of the unknown, and a new religion was born. The view was that all redeemable men had been redeemed. They felt that anyone who was not a
member, anyone who was not in the fold, was incapable of redemption. The operation of the church changed from
one of welcoming redemption to one of guarded safety—we are inside, you are
out. You are not allowed in.
Most of the
“unredeemed” didn’t care. They had
little use for religion, and there were plenty of other faiths out there
anyway. But for people like me,
people who had found a Bible, read it, believed it, and wanted to be part of
the Truth, seeing those temples in town was torture. We thought that the truth was out there somewhere, and we
wanted to find others who believed as we do. As followers of Christ, we wanted to be accepted by our
fellow Christians.
Why was I not
accepted? I am a clone. I was created from cells of my older brother
as a replacement for him. Even
after all these years, it still hurts to remember the disappointment in my
parents’ faces when they realized that cells do not a replacement make. He was athletic; I am a poet. He was into cars; I am into books. He was slim and ripped; I am heavy
and…not. After raising me to
adulthood, my parents lost interest in me and turned me loose. I had other brothers, after all, other
clones who were more true to the son that they had lost. I could easily be replaced. So at sixteen, I was on my own.
I loved books, as I
said. I am a poet. I found a Bible in the literature
section of the library, and as I began to read, I first was attracted to
Psalms. I didn’t understand a lot
of the language, but I loved the idea of a man who could come to his Father
with anything—love, hate, despair—and know that he would be heard. More than that, he would not be
abandoned because of what he could or could not do. So I read further.
So many varieties of literature!
At first, that was all I saw.
I don’t even remember when it began to dawn on me that maybe, just
possibly, this could be a work of nonfiction. The Old Testament spoke of wars, uprisings, races taking
over other races, women and men born into infidelity and coming into a faith on
their own, being led by this Jehovah…this God who seemed to love them in spite
of their unworthiness. The New
Testament was devoted to the works and life of the Man from Galilee. He was kind to all, Jews and Samaritans
alike. I was impressed by his
actions, although it took a while for it to sink in. The man in the second testament was sent by the God in the
first testament—and he was God’s son.
In fact, if I understood the book correctly, he was God himself! I wasn’t sure how that could be—that
was one reason I wanted, no-- needed to
get into one of those churches. I
had to understand! But I was an
outcast.
One day, I was reading
the book of Genesis once again, when something struck me. I reread the passage. Why hadn’t I noticed it before? God created Eve from Adam’s rib! She wasn’t born; she was a clone! She was created from Adam’s own body, just as I was created
from my brother’s own cells! And
wasn’t Eve the mother of us all? In that way, couldn’t you say that we are all descended from clones?
I began to read the
Bible again, in earnest. I didn’t
see another example of this, but I did see God himself go away from his own
design from time to time. He
created warriors from skeletons.
He intervened personally into history. He declared murder contrary to his own laws, yet he called a
murderer—a man who killed his mistress’s husband—a man after his own
heart! It seemed that life
following this God was anything but safe!
As I continued to read
and pray (I wasn’t sure what prayer was, but I read the prayer that was
suggested by this Jesus and prayed it.
I also read the way he talked to his father, his God, and I also started
doing that), the idea began to dawn on me: why don’t I start a church of my own? If I followed this Christ on the
outside, maybe there were others who did as well!
So I found a building
in good repair, made sure that there were no other tenants, and converted it to
a small church. I called it “The
Church of the Open Door”, and I made sure that the door was indeed open. It was open to all—clones, recipients
of surgeries that the other Churches had declared ungodly, people who had
fallen into sin and wanted to climb back out, even those who said that they
weren’t interested in changing their ways, they were just interested in what
this Bible of mine had to say.
Some of them came a few times, laughed at us, and left. Others, though, kept coming back, month
after month. At first I spoke
every month, but soon others asked to share the privilege. We didn’t know much, but we all were
studying the Book, and we all found something new to say. It was a wonderful time.
One day, the strangest
thing happened. A man came who
seemed different from us. For one
thing, he was much better dressed.
This was obviously a man of society, unlike the rest of us on the
outside. He was from one of the
closed churches, but he said that news had come to them of our meeting. The others had ridiculed us, but
something about our meeting kept nagging at him. He had also been reading the Bible—he’d been doing his own
reading, not the suggested verses that the Church said were appropriate for
these latter days, but all the Bible, and he thought that our way was closer to
the heart of God than his way. He
humbly asked if he could be a part of our communion.
I was surprised, and I
was pleased. However, some of my
fellow churchmen weren’t in the same frame of mind as I was. They wanted to keep him out. He was a member of the churches that
refused us entry, so why shouldn’t we refuse him? But they left it up to me. I prayed and sought God earnestly, and heard only, “All are
welcome here.” So this man, too,
found welcome.
Today, our building is
bursting at the seams. There is a
growing desire to know this Jesus, and people come from all over. Other buildings are popping up as well. We don’t call ourselves churches (that’s
forbidden by law, anyway). We call
ourselves communities of believers.
All are welcome. All. No matter the problem, no matter your
race, no matter your background, surgery, marital state or creed, you are
welcome here. We’ve decided that
we don’t need to prohibit anyone—the Word itself draws those who it draws and
repels all others. We understand
this, and we are content.
Monday, February 11, 2013
Coming home
I've lived in Tucson for about 7 years now,
And I feel that Tucson is home.
When I first moved here,
It was difficult.
Every time I wanted to go to a certain store,
I saw a road map in my head
I knew exactly how to get there
In Bakersfield.
When I wanted a certain book,
I knew exactly which bookcase held it
In Bakersfield.
Bakersfield restaurants,
Bakersfield friends,
Bakersfield memories ruled my mind,
Bakersfield was home,
And Tucson was uncharted territory.
As the years passed,
I found something strange happening.
Whenever I was in Bakersfield,
My road map was for Tucson,
But whenever I came home to Tucson,
My road map was for Bakersfield.
Bakersfield was home,
But so was Tucson.
The last time I came to Bakersfield
I was surprised.
I had no road map!
I couldn't remember how to get to favorite places,
And needed to stop and think about where things were.
Everything was changing around me.
Bakersfield was changing
And so was I.
Today, I have come to realize
That Bakersfield is no longer home.
Bakersfield is where I'm from,
And Tucson is home.
And I'm glad.
Not that I left Bakersfield,
But that I found Tucson.
There is much that I love in Bakersfield--
Friends, family, memories--
But Tucson is home.
And I feel that Tucson is home.
When I first moved here,
It was difficult.
Every time I wanted to go to a certain store,
I saw a road map in my head
I knew exactly how to get there
In Bakersfield.
When I wanted a certain book,
I knew exactly which bookcase held it
In Bakersfield.
Bakersfield restaurants,
Bakersfield friends,
Bakersfield memories ruled my mind,
Bakersfield was home,
And Tucson was uncharted territory.
As the years passed,
I found something strange happening.
Whenever I was in Bakersfield,
My road map was for Tucson,
But whenever I came home to Tucson,
My road map was for Bakersfield.
Bakersfield was home,
But so was Tucson.
The last time I came to Bakersfield
I was surprised.
I had no road map!
I couldn't remember how to get to favorite places,
And needed to stop and think about where things were.
Everything was changing around me.
Bakersfield was changing
And so was I.
Today, I have come to realize
That Bakersfield is no longer home.
Bakersfield is where I'm from,
And Tucson is home.
And I'm glad.
Not that I left Bakersfield,
But that I found Tucson.
There is much that I love in Bakersfield--
Friends, family, memories--
But Tucson is home.
Sunday, February 10, 2013
children on the wall
It seems so foreign now
Silence, being alone.
I'm not complaining, mind you
It just seems strange.
Wasn't it just yesterday that little feet pattered down the hallway,
Little voices crying "Mommy, Daddy!"?
How did time pass so quickly?
I glance at the photos on the walls,
Frilly dresses,
Starched suits,
Awkward smiles frozen in time.
Why do we always go for formal solemnity
When what we remember is so different?
The neatly combed hair seems strange
On a boy who was always mussed.
Clean faces and hands peer out at me,
Daring me to remember them any other way.
Oh, but my darlings, I do!
I remember the mud-covered clothes and faces
Mud covering the floor as you fill the kitchen
Calling out, "Hungry, Mommy!"
I remember the scuffed shoes
Battered knees
Tears falling as you sob,
"Kiss, Mommy!
Make it better."
I did then,
And I wish I could now.
Games and toys and childish delight
Have made way
For jobs and families
And children of your own.
It's now your turn.
Your houses are family full
While mine is finally empty.
But don't weep for me, Angels.
I am content
Knowing that you have found love
And the cycle continues.
Yours is the mud, the hugs,
The tears and boo-boo kisses.
And while I wish you were here,
I'm so thankful that you're there--
With family that loves you.
God bless you my children
As you are blessed with children of your own.
Silence, being alone.
I'm not complaining, mind you
It just seems strange.
Wasn't it just yesterday that little feet pattered down the hallway,
Little voices crying "Mommy, Daddy!"?
How did time pass so quickly?
I glance at the photos on the walls,
Frilly dresses,
Starched suits,
Awkward smiles frozen in time.
Why do we always go for formal solemnity
When what we remember is so different?
The neatly combed hair seems strange
On a boy who was always mussed.
Clean faces and hands peer out at me,
Daring me to remember them any other way.
Oh, but my darlings, I do!
I remember the mud-covered clothes and faces
Mud covering the floor as you fill the kitchen
Calling out, "Hungry, Mommy!"
I remember the scuffed shoes
Battered knees
Tears falling as you sob,
"Kiss, Mommy!
Make it better."
I did then,
And I wish I could now.
Games and toys and childish delight
Have made way
For jobs and families
And children of your own.
It's now your turn.
Your houses are family full
While mine is finally empty.
But don't weep for me, Angels.
I am content
Knowing that you have found love
And the cycle continues.
Yours is the mud, the hugs,
The tears and boo-boo kisses.
And while I wish you were here,
I'm so thankful that you're there--
With family that loves you.
God bless you my children
As you are blessed with children of your own.
Saturday, February 9, 2013
Psalm 31:3--what I learned from a week of teaching
... tú eres mi roca y mi fortaleza,
y por amor de tu nombre me conducirás y me guiarás.
I teach in a Catholic school, and every period opens with prayer or devotion. Since I teach Spanish, the prayer/devotion is in that language. Since my students are Spanish 2, I give the verse/prayer in Spanish and then enlarge upon it in English.
y por amor de tu nombre me conducirás y me guiarás.
I teach in a Catholic school, and every period opens with prayer or devotion. Since I teach Spanish, the prayer/devotion is in that language. Since my students are Spanish 2, I give the verse/prayer in Spanish and then enlarge upon it in English.
So for a whole week, my students (I hope) and I concentrated on the above verse: Psalm 31:3. "... you are my rock and my fortress, and for love of your name, you will direct me and guide me." I wanted to share some of my devotions for that week. Don't worry--the entire devotion could take no more than 5 minutes or so; this will not take forever. Promise!
First of all--for love of your name.
Why should God care about me enough to direct and guide me? Well, because I am his. I reflect him. He loves his own, and I bear his name. A good father guides his children, and in the past, it was expected that we conduct ourselves appropriately because of our good name. I was a Wood--my behavior reflected upon the Woods past and present. Therefore, it was my responsibility to act in a way that would make the name of Wood shine. It was my parents' responsibility to teach me how to act that way. I think this idea is becoming a thing of the past in the US, and it makes me sad. Another idea that came from this section is the fact that the name goes both ways: I bear his name, and he carries my name in the palm of his hand. We are intimately connected, my Lord and I.
Next: My fortress
I always pictured a fortress as a place to run and hide when trouble threatened, but a fortress was more than that. A fortress was a place where people lived. While war was waged around me, I could know that I was safe in my fortress. Understanding that this psalm was written by a man in the midst of war, we can understand that even though the conflict goes on all around me, I am safe within the fortress of God's love. So why is it that I choose to only run inside when there is danger? Isn't it a better idea to live my whole life within the safety of the fortress? Lean on the Lord in your distress, yes, but also learn to lean on him when the times are good. That way you're used to the fortress and can be assured that you're protected when times get tough.
My rock:
A fortress I can understand. We can be safe inside while the battle rages outside. But a rock? What on earth is safe about a rock? I actually had to look this up. But when I did, it was a "ohhh" experience. A rock means strength. Well, God is our Rock. He is our strength-he will fight our battles and be an ever-present help in times of need. When I think of this idea--ever-present help--I think of growing up and going to the beach. We knew we were almost there when we could see Morro Rock in the distance. It is a big, beautiful rock, and its presence brought us hope and joy because our trip was ending and vacation fun was beginning. When we look at Christ our Rock, we have hope and joy because we have a friend and brother who fights on our side and has guaranteed that we will win the race.
He will conduct us and guide us:
Have you ever watched a shepherd guiding his sheep? The shepherd has a rod and a staff. If the sheep veered off, the shepherd was there for him, not to hit or frighten, but simply to guard and guide. The sticks were there to keep the sheep safe. The rod disciplined and protected the sheep from intruders; the staff guided them so they wouldn't veer to far off the path. Well, I am a sheep and the Lord is my Shepherd. If I veer off my path, I can rest assured that I won't veer too far, because he is right there beside me, using his rod and staff to guard me and guide me. I know that at times it seems that you have gone too far, but just ask him to forgive you--you'll find that he's been there all along, and he's always willing to bring you back to the right path.
Well, that was my week in prayer. What about yours?
reading the bible in spanish (for language lovers and others)
I teach Spanish at a Catholic school, and we start every period with prayer. Since I teach Spanish 2, I teach the prayer or scripture in Spanish, but I then give a short devotion in English. If you have never looked at scripture in a foreign language, you are missing out on a real eye-opening experience.
English is limited. We have two tenses: past and present. We have various aspects, but only two tenses. Spanish, on the other hand, has 14 different tenses: present, imperfect, preterit, conditional, future, present perfect, pluperfect, subjunctive, to name just a few. Greek, the language of the Bible (NT) has 15 tenses x 2 (don't ask me--that's what I was told, I'm not a Greek scholar)--making 30 tenses in all. So in the New Testament, using Spanish might give you a clearer idea of what was actually being said. For example, this is John 1: 11-12 in English (NIV)
1 He came to that which was his own, but his own did not receive him. 12 Yet to all who did receive him, to those who believedin his name, he gave the right to become children of God— 13 children born not of natural descent, nor of human decision or a husband’s will, but born of God.
This is the same passage in Spanish:(NVI--same version, but in Spanish)
11 Vino a lo que era suyo, pero los suyos no lo recibieron.12 Mas a cuantos lo recibieron, a los que creen en su nombre, les dio el derecho de ser hijos de Dios. 13 Éstos no nacen de la sangre, ni por deseos *naturales, ni por voluntad humana, sino que nacen de Dios.
The version is similar, but with distinct differences:
Hi came to those who were his, bit his own did not receive him. But to those who received him, to those who BELIEVE in his name, he gave them the right TO BE children of God. Those are not born of blood, nor of natural desire, nor of human will, but THEY ARE born of God.
So you see that in this version, the receiving and being born of God continues to this day (it could also be literary present, but I prefer to think of it this way :) )
The first thing that happens when you read in a foreign language is that you are immediately struck by language. You are used to English--it's your mother tongue. If you read in Spanish, words and tenses hit you. Another example:
The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome[a] it. (John 1:5)
in Spanish:
Esta luz resplandece en las tinieblas, y las tinieblas no han podido extinguirla.
This light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not been able to extinguish it.
At first glance, there is little difference between the two verses; even the idea of "extinguish" also appears in the NIV as an option. The difference is between "tinieblas" and "darkness" and "resplandece" and "shines"
Resplandece does mean shine, but it also means glimmers or gleams, and (I love this) it can also refer to a person. Jesus is the light that shines in the darkness--he literally shimmers.
Tinieblas is a very dark word in Spanish. It is a literary term and refers to both natural and MORAL darkness. When I hear tinieblas, I think of a total absence of light, either natural or spiritual. When I see La luz resplandece en las tinieblas, I get a picture of Christ himself shining in the total moral darkness of this earth.
So if you know two languages, get a Bible and try it out. If you don't--hey, there's no time like the present to learn!!
English is limited. We have two tenses: past and present. We have various aspects, but only two tenses. Spanish, on the other hand, has 14 different tenses: present, imperfect, preterit, conditional, future, present perfect, pluperfect, subjunctive, to name just a few. Greek, the language of the Bible (NT) has 15 tenses x 2 (don't ask me--that's what I was told, I'm not a Greek scholar)--making 30 tenses in all. So in the New Testament, using Spanish might give you a clearer idea of what was actually being said. For example, this is John 1: 11-12 in English (NIV)
1 He came to that which was his own, but his own did not receive him. 12 Yet to all who did receive him, to those who believedin his name, he gave the right to become children of God— 13 children born not of natural descent, nor of human decision or a husband’s will, but born of God.
This is the same passage in Spanish:(NVI--same version, but in Spanish)
11 Vino a lo que era suyo, pero los suyos no lo recibieron.12 Mas a cuantos lo recibieron, a los que creen en su nombre, les dio el derecho de ser hijos de Dios. 13 Éstos no nacen de la sangre, ni por deseos *naturales, ni por voluntad humana, sino que nacen de Dios.
The version is similar, but with distinct differences:
Hi came to those who were his, bit his own did not receive him. But to those who received him, to those who BELIEVE in his name, he gave them the right TO BE children of God. Those are not born of blood, nor of natural desire, nor of human will, but THEY ARE born of God.
So you see that in this version, the receiving and being born of God continues to this day (it could also be literary present, but I prefer to think of it this way :) )
The first thing that happens when you read in a foreign language is that you are immediately struck by language. You are used to English--it's your mother tongue. If you read in Spanish, words and tenses hit you. Another example:
The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome[a] it. (John 1:5)
in Spanish:
Esta luz resplandece en las tinieblas, y las tinieblas no han podido extinguirla.
This light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not been able to extinguish it.
At first glance, there is little difference between the two verses; even the idea of "extinguish" also appears in the NIV as an option. The difference is between "tinieblas" and "darkness" and "resplandece" and "shines"
Resplandece does mean shine, but it also means glimmers or gleams, and (I love this) it can also refer to a person. Jesus is the light that shines in the darkness--he literally shimmers.
Tinieblas is a very dark word in Spanish. It is a literary term and refers to both natural and MORAL darkness. When I hear tinieblas, I think of a total absence of light, either natural or spiritual. When I see La luz resplandece en las tinieblas, I get a picture of Christ himself shining in the total moral darkness of this earth.
So if you know two languages, get a Bible and try it out. If you don't--hey, there's no time like the present to learn!!
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