I'm one of those people who loves to reminisce. I often begin thoughts like this: "Thirty-two years ago at this moment, I was sitting in Santa's lap at the mall asking for..." "Three years ago last Thursday, we put our Christmas tree up for the first time in this house." "Two weeks ago right now, we were waiting for the results of the pregnancy test." That sort of thing. No, I haven't waited for the results of a pregnancy test in more than nine years, but I bet you're paying attention now, aren't you?
Seriously, yesterday at this time, Steve and I were enjoying a fantastic dinner at Campania, an Italian restaurant in our area with a well-deserved reputation for excellent food, fine wine, and impeccable service. The salmone aurora melted in my mouth, and the insalate caprino had just enough goat cheese and pine nuts to balance off the vinagrette superbly. Cake, candles, and lots of presents back here at home rounded out the perfect night. I managed to put my hand over Daniel's mouth to keep him from blowing out my candles just in time, little rascal. "Tonight it's all about me," were my exact words. Generous and kindhearted man that he is, Steve put only four candles on my cake - one for each delightful decade of my life.
Generous and kindhearted man that he is, Steve also made sure that every item on my wish list ended up in wrapping paper in the kitchen. Everything, except for the milk chocolate turtles which are out of stock at Dean and DeLuca, much to my deep dismay. I'll survive, I'm sure, but I had been looking forward to them for quite a while. I'll just have to wait until the chocolate case is filled again in order to indulge that whimsy of mine. (It occurred to me as I typed the last sentence that if the unavailablity of those sweets is my greatest birthday disappointment, then mine is indeed a good life.) Plus he more than made up for the missing pecan turtles by adding a true work of art to my collection of cross pendants with an ornate piece made by an Israeli artist. It is sterling silver encrusted with Swarovski crystals in various shades of blue and green. He also chose a sparkly snowflake necklace for me that will offset the red of the turtleneck I am planning to wear to tomorrow night's dinner perfectly.
Yesterday at this time, I was rereading emails and ecards sent by thoughtful, witty, fun-loving friends and family members whose greetings added to my good spirits on my big day. I will not soon forget your kind words and gestures. Today I received a gorgeous bouquet of yellow roses and calla lilies from my dear friend, Kim. To all of you who remembered and thought enough of me to send your warm wishes, I send my thanks, and I wish you great blessing in this Christmas season and beyond. May your days and nights be merry and bright.
Tomorrow at this time, we will be beginning our tour of the Biltmore Estate up in the North Carolina mountains. Apparently, the Biltmore is at its finest at this time of year with candles lit, carolers strolling around, and elegantly dressed visitors pretending that the massive estate is their own. I'm planning to let my imagination run wild as I traverse those wide corridors, glide up and down curving staircases, and welcome the guests to their stately guestrooms. Even though we will have only 30 hours away from the kiddies (but who's counting?), I am looking forward to dinner, a tour, and a night at the Biltmore Inn tomorrow, followed by breakfast at the inn and a lazy stroll along the streets of Asheville with my generous and kindhearted husband on Saturday. All alone. Just the two of us. What a concept!
No, I guess "Oh happy day" doesn't fit this description too well, does it? Perhaps "oh happy week" is better.
Am I really 40? Is that even possible?
Thursday, December 15, 2005
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
My Top Forty...
Here I sit, on the eve of the first day of the second half of my life. In the words of the immortal James Brown, "I feel good." Tomorrow will be a busy day: breakfast at my Mom's house, Wednesday worship at noon under the teaching of my dear friend, Katie Crowe, followed by lunch with the kids, dinner with my husband, and an entire day threaded through with thoughts, prayers, journaling, and pondering the entirety of my life thus far, and wondering about what lies ahead.
One of my favorite songs by Billy Joel is called, "I've Loved These Days." In it, he recounts friendships, loves, and other highlights of his life to that point. In my own life, there are many friendships, loves, and highlights to be grateful for. I have loved these days, these 40 years of life on the planet. As I listened to Daniel play basketball on the driveway with his friends earlier today and realized that he's been building these friendships for over three years already, as I looked into her room and watched Kristiana set up her favorite toys for visit to imaginary worlds I cannot even dream of entering, as I stare into this computer screen and try to summarize what I am feeling right here right now, then I can truthfully say, "I've loved these days."
Sometimes when I think about the things I write here on the blog, in the essays I craft, and on the pages of my journal, I criticize myself for being a little too optimistic, for seeing life through rose-colored glasses a little too often, and skimming over the more serious events too lightly. Perhaps I am too cheery for some people, but my goal in life for several years now has been to find the light at the end of every long, dark tunnel, to find the lesson in every difficulty, and to look at the world around me with eyes full of compassion, peace, and love. It's not easy sometimes, I must admit. But with all the bad news, abuse, scandals, murders, wars, and mayhem that fill the airwaves and newspapers, I cherish this outlet where I can be positive, grateful, and hopeful on a regular basis.
Looking back on my life in the past few days, I have shed tears and laughed aloud at memories that have come back to mind. In no particular order, I'd like to share 40 of my favorite people, places, events, and remembrances.
1. Giving birth to my two children.
2. Earning my Master's degree from Wesleyan University with all A's.
3. Taking Kristiana with me up to the podium to receive that degree. She was 4.
4. Being with my father when he passed away in March of 2001.
5. Meeting and marrying Steve.
6. The decision to grow dreadlocs.
7. Discovering the literature of Alice Walker.
8. Being inspired by her to begin the practice of journaling.
9. Attending Poly Prep from the 7th grade until the 12th grade. Teaching there for two years after graduating from college.
10. Running the anchor leg on relay teams both in high school and college.
11. Going to Europe in 1986, especially Ireland, England, Amsterdam and Spain.
12. Learning Political Science and so much more from Carlos Egan.
13. Learning to speak Spanish fluently.
14. Going to Italy for the first time in October 2001.
15. Sitting alone in the cloister at the Santa Croce church in Florence.
16. The double rainbow in Bologna in 2002.
17. Moving to Charlotte.
18. Finding this house on the first day of house hunting in October 2002.
19. Sending and receiving email.
20. The first five minutes of being in bed on a cold winter night after a busy day.
21. Experiencing God by Henry Blackaby.
22. Beth Moore: her Bible studies, poetry, and contagious energy.
23. Teaching Women of Hope in Wilton, CT.
24. Resting my head on Steve's right shoulder.
25. Sinking into a warm bath, candles burning, music down low.
26. The way Steve proposed to me: "Gail, I love you. Will you marry me?" on a hotel marquis in Reading, PA.
27. Karen's visit this past weekend: what a fabulous surprise!
28. Being present for the births of all three of Karen's children.
29. Pinnacle 2000: seeing Buenos Aires, Rio de Janeiro, and many ports in between.
30. Traveling in New York, Massachusetts, Vermont, Spain, and beyond with my children. They are such intrepid, trusting, willing, open-minded, wide-eyed adventurers.
31. Meeting and befriending Antonio Allende, my favorite Jesuit priest.
32. Listening to and singing Christmas carols with my kids while I play the piano.
33. My entire book collection: it's hard to pick a favorite.
34. Sunbathing, reading, and looking at the water off Palomino Island, Puerto Rico.
35. Settling in at a table in a restaurant or coffee shop, alone, pens and journals spread out before me.
36. Kim Hooker's trip to Spain in early June to hang out with me: so very cool!
37. Having my own bedroom and bathroom for three years of undergrad life at Williams College.
38. Explaining phrases like " the phone was off the hook" and "I must sound like a broken record" to my technologically advanced offspring.
39. Standing in front of Velazquez' painting of the Crucifixion of Christ in the Prado in Madrid. It moves me to tears every time I see it. Every single time.
40. Knowing that I could write 40 more highlights and not even skim the surface of the many blessings I have known in this life.
I have loved these days. I look forward to the days that are yet to come.
Yeah for me!
One of my favorite songs by Billy Joel is called, "I've Loved These Days." In it, he recounts friendships, loves, and other highlights of his life to that point. In my own life, there are many friendships, loves, and highlights to be grateful for. I have loved these days, these 40 years of life on the planet. As I listened to Daniel play basketball on the driveway with his friends earlier today and realized that he's been building these friendships for over three years already, as I looked into her room and watched Kristiana set up her favorite toys for visit to imaginary worlds I cannot even dream of entering, as I stare into this computer screen and try to summarize what I am feeling right here right now, then I can truthfully say, "I've loved these days."
Sometimes when I think about the things I write here on the blog, in the essays I craft, and on the pages of my journal, I criticize myself for being a little too optimistic, for seeing life through rose-colored glasses a little too often, and skimming over the more serious events too lightly. Perhaps I am too cheery for some people, but my goal in life for several years now has been to find the light at the end of every long, dark tunnel, to find the lesson in every difficulty, and to look at the world around me with eyes full of compassion, peace, and love. It's not easy sometimes, I must admit. But with all the bad news, abuse, scandals, murders, wars, and mayhem that fill the airwaves and newspapers, I cherish this outlet where I can be positive, grateful, and hopeful on a regular basis.
Looking back on my life in the past few days, I have shed tears and laughed aloud at memories that have come back to mind. In no particular order, I'd like to share 40 of my favorite people, places, events, and remembrances.
1. Giving birth to my two children.
2. Earning my Master's degree from Wesleyan University with all A's.
3. Taking Kristiana with me up to the podium to receive that degree. She was 4.
4. Being with my father when he passed away in March of 2001.
5. Meeting and marrying Steve.
6. The decision to grow dreadlocs.
7. Discovering the literature of Alice Walker.
8. Being inspired by her to begin the practice of journaling.
9. Attending Poly Prep from the 7th grade until the 12th grade. Teaching there for two years after graduating from college.
10. Running the anchor leg on relay teams both in high school and college.
11. Going to Europe in 1986, especially Ireland, England, Amsterdam and Spain.
12. Learning Political Science and so much more from Carlos Egan.
13. Learning to speak Spanish fluently.
14. Going to Italy for the first time in October 2001.
15. Sitting alone in the cloister at the Santa Croce church in Florence.
16. The double rainbow in Bologna in 2002.
17. Moving to Charlotte.
18. Finding this house on the first day of house hunting in October 2002.
19. Sending and receiving email.
20. The first five minutes of being in bed on a cold winter night after a busy day.
21. Experiencing God by Henry Blackaby.
22. Beth Moore: her Bible studies, poetry, and contagious energy.
23. Teaching Women of Hope in Wilton, CT.
24. Resting my head on Steve's right shoulder.
25. Sinking into a warm bath, candles burning, music down low.
26. The way Steve proposed to me: "Gail, I love you. Will you marry me?" on a hotel marquis in Reading, PA.
27. Karen's visit this past weekend: what a fabulous surprise!
28. Being present for the births of all three of Karen's children.
29. Pinnacle 2000: seeing Buenos Aires, Rio de Janeiro, and many ports in between.
30. Traveling in New York, Massachusetts, Vermont, Spain, and beyond with my children. They are such intrepid, trusting, willing, open-minded, wide-eyed adventurers.
31. Meeting and befriending Antonio Allende, my favorite Jesuit priest.
32. Listening to and singing Christmas carols with my kids while I play the piano.
33. My entire book collection: it's hard to pick a favorite.
34. Sunbathing, reading, and looking at the water off Palomino Island, Puerto Rico.
35. Settling in at a table in a restaurant or coffee shop, alone, pens and journals spread out before me.
36. Kim Hooker's trip to Spain in early June to hang out with me: so very cool!
37. Having my own bedroom and bathroom for three years of undergrad life at Williams College.
38. Explaining phrases like " the phone was off the hook" and "I must sound like a broken record" to my technologically advanced offspring.
39. Standing in front of Velazquez' painting of the Crucifixion of Christ in the Prado in Madrid. It moves me to tears every time I see it. Every single time.
40. Knowing that I could write 40 more highlights and not even skim the surface of the many blessings I have known in this life.
I have loved these days. I look forward to the days that are yet to come.
Yeah for me!
Saturday, December 10, 2005
Only four shopping days left...
until the Big Day! Yes, I am turning 40 on the 14th! Steve and the kids are out shopping even as I write. For the first time in many, many years, I made a list of the things I'd like for my birthday. Like most mothers, I am accustomed to receiving lists of desired gifts for my children's birthdays and for Christmas, but I have not made a list, actually written one down for decades. (It's strange that I can now use the word "decades" in reference to a time period within my own lifetime. A sign of the times, huh?) Last night I sat at my desk, pen in hand, paper before me and did a quick mental inventory of my study room, bedroom, closet, and secret stashes all around the house. I don't need more shoes, more skirts, more shirts, earrings, necklaces, or makeup. I've got plenty of pens, journals, books I haven't read, and enough bottles of cream, perfume, and nail polish to last until the next major birthday, I'm sure. I don't need a thing. Quickly, I sent up a prayer of thanks for this life that is beyond all I could ever have asked or imagined.
Forty. 40. Cuarenta.
Every few days, Steve takes my emotional temperature in relation to my birthday. The other day, he asked me what it feels like to no longer be able to say I'm "thirtysomething." I laughed. I've never referred to myself as thirtysomething. I've always freely told me age and will continue to do so. I will never be ashamed of the years I have lived. Each has brought its own set of joys, victories, and good memories. Each has also brought its own set of sorrows, pains, and losses. But each year has been a blessing, a gift, and each has transformed me and made me into the woman I am today. Last night, my daughter said that she's glad I'm not someone who is ashamed of my age. That meant a lot coming from my twelve year old daughter.
In the middle of our laughter about the "thirtysomething" reference, both Steve and I stopped middle snort and began to babble profusely about the show by that name that was on television in the late 80's or early 90's. Does anybody else remember that show about the two married couples and the two single people who were great friends in suburban Philly? One couple had two kids and was getting ready to be divorced. The other had two young children and a large house that was in constant need of repair. The two married men worked together at an ad agency that eventually went belly-up. The single guy was a college professor who slept with his students too often and wondered why he was never taken seriously by his colleagues. The single woman desperately wanted to meet the man of her dreams and wondered why her desperation was a turn off. Steve and I loved that show. We watched it with fascination. We were still in our 20's at the time with no children, or perhaps had only Kristiana but she was still a baby.
We couldn't imagine being so old, so mature, so engulfed in home ownership, advising friends with marital problems, and single friends who wanted to be married. We never thought we would ever be like them. I find it quite interesting that an entire decade of my life has passed and I don't recall thinking about that show once during our "thirtysomething" years. But I know exactly why I never thought about the show during the past ten years: We were living it out. Both of the homes we have owned during our 30's have demanded constant attention: cracks, leaks, painting, sanding, caulking, replacing, hiring workers to climb ladders and reach the things we don't dare to repair. We have cried with divorced friends, comforted their broken-hearted children, attended funerals at an increasing rate, and watched our children spring to new heights on a daily basis. Heck, we even have a dog! We really are adults now.
Almost three years ago, I made the promise to myself that when I reached my 40th birthday, I would be in the best shape of my life. At the time, I set a goal to weigh 15 pounds less than I did when I got married. I wanted six-pack abs, chiseled arms, and a sculpted back. I wanted a super modern dreadloc hairstyle, new makeup, and the best clothes money could buy. I wanted to make Steve proud to say that his wife was 40.
About three months ago, I realized that I wasn't going to weigh 15 pounds less than when I got married; ten pounds less would have to do. My arms are slender and strong. I've got nine-pack abs. And my back still supports my rather large, thickly dreadlocked head. I wear modest makeup, and I don't think I'll ever be able to justify buying a $275 pair of jeans. But I have still reached my goal of being in the best shape of my life.
I am happier with who I am now than ever before. I love my husband and children more than I ever have before. I have let go of old obsessions, fears, doubts, and worries in the past few months, all of which I thought I'd just have to live with forever. I am learning to release dying friendships, welcome new ones, and have arrived at a level of contentment with the relationships that I didn't think was possible. I am better able to listen to the problems and dilemmas of friends without taking on the responsbility to fix it all. I am more comfortable with and accepting of my body as it is than I have been for many years. I am strong of mind and spirit. I have a more fulfilling, joy-producing relationship with God than I have had before.
My greatest wish as I approach my 40th birthday is that all of these trends will continue.
In case you were wondering: A gift card from Caribou Coffee (a place kinda like Starbucks), a few colorful scarves, funky tights to wear with my skirts, and milk chocolate pecan turtles.
************************************************
To my UTTER SHOCK: My husband and children just returned from "shopping" with Karen Powell - my best buddy in the world. She flew down from Connecticut to be with me for the weekend. After I screamed and fell on my knees, she said, "You only turn 40 once. I had to come!"
Please forgive me for typos and grammatical mistakes. I've gotta go hang out with Karen!!!!!
Forty. 40. Cuarenta.
Every few days, Steve takes my emotional temperature in relation to my birthday. The other day, he asked me what it feels like to no longer be able to say I'm "thirtysomething." I laughed. I've never referred to myself as thirtysomething. I've always freely told me age and will continue to do so. I will never be ashamed of the years I have lived. Each has brought its own set of joys, victories, and good memories. Each has also brought its own set of sorrows, pains, and losses. But each year has been a blessing, a gift, and each has transformed me and made me into the woman I am today. Last night, my daughter said that she's glad I'm not someone who is ashamed of my age. That meant a lot coming from my twelve year old daughter.
In the middle of our laughter about the "thirtysomething" reference, both Steve and I stopped middle snort and began to babble profusely about the show by that name that was on television in the late 80's or early 90's. Does anybody else remember that show about the two married couples and the two single people who were great friends in suburban Philly? One couple had two kids and was getting ready to be divorced. The other had two young children and a large house that was in constant need of repair. The two married men worked together at an ad agency that eventually went belly-up. The single guy was a college professor who slept with his students too often and wondered why he was never taken seriously by his colleagues. The single woman desperately wanted to meet the man of her dreams and wondered why her desperation was a turn off. Steve and I loved that show. We watched it with fascination. We were still in our 20's at the time with no children, or perhaps had only Kristiana but she was still a baby.
We couldn't imagine being so old, so mature, so engulfed in home ownership, advising friends with marital problems, and single friends who wanted to be married. We never thought we would ever be like them. I find it quite interesting that an entire decade of my life has passed and I don't recall thinking about that show once during our "thirtysomething" years. But I know exactly why I never thought about the show during the past ten years: We were living it out. Both of the homes we have owned during our 30's have demanded constant attention: cracks, leaks, painting, sanding, caulking, replacing, hiring workers to climb ladders and reach the things we don't dare to repair. We have cried with divorced friends, comforted their broken-hearted children, attended funerals at an increasing rate, and watched our children spring to new heights on a daily basis. Heck, we even have a dog! We really are adults now.
Almost three years ago, I made the promise to myself that when I reached my 40th birthday, I would be in the best shape of my life. At the time, I set a goal to weigh 15 pounds less than I did when I got married. I wanted six-pack abs, chiseled arms, and a sculpted back. I wanted a super modern dreadloc hairstyle, new makeup, and the best clothes money could buy. I wanted to make Steve proud to say that his wife was 40.
About three months ago, I realized that I wasn't going to weigh 15 pounds less than when I got married; ten pounds less would have to do. My arms are slender and strong. I've got nine-pack abs. And my back still supports my rather large, thickly dreadlocked head. I wear modest makeup, and I don't think I'll ever be able to justify buying a $275 pair of jeans. But I have still reached my goal of being in the best shape of my life.
I am happier with who I am now than ever before. I love my husband and children more than I ever have before. I have let go of old obsessions, fears, doubts, and worries in the past few months, all of which I thought I'd just have to live with forever. I am learning to release dying friendships, welcome new ones, and have arrived at a level of contentment with the relationships that I didn't think was possible. I am better able to listen to the problems and dilemmas of friends without taking on the responsbility to fix it all. I am more comfortable with and accepting of my body as it is than I have been for many years. I am strong of mind and spirit. I have a more fulfilling, joy-producing relationship with God than I have had before.
My greatest wish as I approach my 40th birthday is that all of these trends will continue.
In case you were wondering: A gift card from Caribou Coffee (a place kinda like Starbucks), a few colorful scarves, funky tights to wear with my skirts, and milk chocolate pecan turtles.
************************************************
To my UTTER SHOCK: My husband and children just returned from "shopping" with Karen Powell - my best buddy in the world. She flew down from Connecticut to be with me for the weekend. After I screamed and fell on my knees, she said, "You only turn 40 once. I had to come!"
Please forgive me for typos and grammatical mistakes. I've gotta go hang out with Karen!!!!!
Wednesday, December 07, 2005
Christmas Queries
Driving around Charlotte this week, I have been dazed, dazzled, and confused by the explosion of holiday decorations, the countless sale signs, and the tripling of traffic on the streets at nearly every hour of the day. What used to be simple midday trips to the supermarket have been transformed into parking fiascos, emotional assaults by men and women of all ages soliciting funds for various charities, and exercises in self-restraint every time I see a display of Hershey's kisses in various flavors. I do love Christmas candy. Who am I kidding? I like all kinds of candy!!!
Earlier this evening, I nearly ran my car into a tree; I was literally driven to distraction by an overly decorated house in our neighborhood. What is it that makes completely normal, otherwise reasonable and understated people decide to pepper their lawns with enormous, backlit candy canes, inflatable Santa Claus dolls, and mechanical reindeer that bow their heads down as though they were eating the grass? Why do people hang tiny white light bulbs from their rain gutters? Do they really think they look like icicles? What are people thinking when they climb ladders, perch themselves precariously on steeply pitched roof lines, and suspend a few fragile strands of lights on window and door frames? What are people thinking?
Lest you think I am the grinch that is trying to steal the Christmas spirit, let me clarify: I am not being critical of any of the festivities. Quite frankly, the displays fascinate me. I'm one of those people that will go out of my way to look at houses and neighborhoods that take this festivals of lights stuff seriously. I pull over to curbs, turn on my flashers, and take in the entire effect as often as I can do so safely. My children and I try to guess how long it took to install the monstrosities we spot. We wonder about ensuing electric bills, the opinions the neighbors have about all the hoopla, and where all that stuff gets stored during the rest of the year. No, I'm not being critical at all. I'm just wondering. This inquiring mind just wants to know.
I wonder about something else as well. Why do so many people who otherwise have no interest in Jesus, in Christianity, or in faith of any kind make such a big deal about this time of the year? We can try to ignore the baby that was born in the manger in the city of David and say that what we are doing nowadays has nothing to do with that. Even the winter solstice is a celebration of new life, of the end of the darkness and the coming of the light. Ultimately then, we are all honoring the coming of the Light of the World. We can talk about the importance of taking time to be with family, to celebrate the end of another year, and all that jazz. Family is important and worthy of honor. I know of so many families in such deep pain right now that I cannot help but think about our fearless foursome differently these days. Simply being together for another year, still loving one another, and planning for the future together is a priceless commodity. Surviving another year, especially a year that began with the sorrow of the tsunami, has been marked by hurricanes, earthquakes, and mudslides, and strife all around the world - surviving such a year is certainly worthy of celebration.
But it has to be more than just that. I know it's more than that. The baby whose birth I am waiting to commemorate grew up to be a Man whose death I will mourn in four months' time and whose resurrection will raise my spirits anew a few sorrow-filled days later. Christmas is the beginning of the story, the never ending story, the story that is told over and over every year. This story predates our calendar; in fact, it is the standard by which our calender was created.
As I gather gifts for my husband, children, and my mother, as we put up and decorated the tree this past weekend, and Steve strung sets of lights on the bushes in front of our home, I wonder: what are people thinking? Do they wonder what all the uproar is about? Am I the only one filled with questions as the countdown to Christmas continues?
Away in a manger while sheperds watched their flocks by night, was it a holy night? Were the stars brightly shining when angels came from the realms of glory to the little town of Bethlehem? What child is this on the first noel caused good Christian men to rejoice and three kings to bear gifts as they traversed afar? Who is He in yonder stall of whom the herald angels sing? The angels we have heard on high go tell it on the mountain that Jesus Christ is born. So come all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant. Sing in exultation. Come let us adore Him, Christ the Lord.
Merry Christmas!
Earlier this evening, I nearly ran my car into a tree; I was literally driven to distraction by an overly decorated house in our neighborhood. What is it that makes completely normal, otherwise reasonable and understated people decide to pepper their lawns with enormous, backlit candy canes, inflatable Santa Claus dolls, and mechanical reindeer that bow their heads down as though they were eating the grass? Why do people hang tiny white light bulbs from their rain gutters? Do they really think they look like icicles? What are people thinking when they climb ladders, perch themselves precariously on steeply pitched roof lines, and suspend a few fragile strands of lights on window and door frames? What are people thinking?
Lest you think I am the grinch that is trying to steal the Christmas spirit, let me clarify: I am not being critical of any of the festivities. Quite frankly, the displays fascinate me. I'm one of those people that will go out of my way to look at houses and neighborhoods that take this festivals of lights stuff seriously. I pull over to curbs, turn on my flashers, and take in the entire effect as often as I can do so safely. My children and I try to guess how long it took to install the monstrosities we spot. We wonder about ensuing electric bills, the opinions the neighbors have about all the hoopla, and where all that stuff gets stored during the rest of the year. No, I'm not being critical at all. I'm just wondering. This inquiring mind just wants to know.
I wonder about something else as well. Why do so many people who otherwise have no interest in Jesus, in Christianity, or in faith of any kind make such a big deal about this time of the year? We can try to ignore the baby that was born in the manger in the city of David and say that what we are doing nowadays has nothing to do with that. Even the winter solstice is a celebration of new life, of the end of the darkness and the coming of the light. Ultimately then, we are all honoring the coming of the Light of the World. We can talk about the importance of taking time to be with family, to celebrate the end of another year, and all that jazz. Family is important and worthy of honor. I know of so many families in such deep pain right now that I cannot help but think about our fearless foursome differently these days. Simply being together for another year, still loving one another, and planning for the future together is a priceless commodity. Surviving another year, especially a year that began with the sorrow of the tsunami, has been marked by hurricanes, earthquakes, and mudslides, and strife all around the world - surviving such a year is certainly worthy of celebration.
But it has to be more than just that. I know it's more than that. The baby whose birth I am waiting to commemorate grew up to be a Man whose death I will mourn in four months' time and whose resurrection will raise my spirits anew a few sorrow-filled days later. Christmas is the beginning of the story, the never ending story, the story that is told over and over every year. This story predates our calendar; in fact, it is the standard by which our calender was created.
As I gather gifts for my husband, children, and my mother, as we put up and decorated the tree this past weekend, and Steve strung sets of lights on the bushes in front of our home, I wonder: what are people thinking? Do they wonder what all the uproar is about? Am I the only one filled with questions as the countdown to Christmas continues?
Away in a manger while sheperds watched their flocks by night, was it a holy night? Were the stars brightly shining when angels came from the realms of glory to the little town of Bethlehem? What child is this on the first noel caused good Christian men to rejoice and three kings to bear gifts as they traversed afar? Who is He in yonder stall of whom the herald angels sing? The angels we have heard on high go tell it on the mountain that Jesus Christ is born. So come all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant. Sing in exultation. Come let us adore Him, Christ the Lord.
Merry Christmas!
Saturday, December 03, 2005
I had a farm in Africa...
One of my favorite movies is "Out of Africa" with Meryl Streep and Robert Redford. The rolling Ngong hills, the countless animals on the savannah, the dinners by firelight while out on safari are almost enough to make this city girl want to camp out. Almost. Rather than the call of the wild, I know I would hear and heed the call of indoor plumbing.
Over the past two days, I have been slowly making my way through this beautiful, painful, lonely, lovely, frightening, disheartening, and deeply engaging film. I have seen it dozens of times, and every time I watch it, I find myself imagining myself right there with them, listening to her every homespun tale, looking through his binoculars out onto the horizon he has yet to explore. I know what some of you are thinking: "It's a movie, Gail. Of course it's all romantic and perfect. Real life in Africa is nothing like that." Others are wagging an accusatory finger at the computer screen and reminding me that theirs was an adulterous relationship. The argument could rightly be made that they were taking advantage of the Africans they used as servants and in some cases as lovers. Yeah, yeah, yeah... I still like the movie.
Over the past two days, I have also been engaged in the task of decorating our house for Christmas. The tree is up, but there are still a few ornaments to put on it. The candle lights are in each of the upstairs windows. Steve has strung white and green lights on the bushes out front and is at a local store at the moment buying more lights. While walking Maya in our front yard this evening, I noticed that several of our neighbors have been hard at work on their own lighting ceremonies today. On this rainy South Charlotte night, I imagine that many families are gathering around the hearth (or the television) telling (or watching) homespun (or Hollywood produced) tales. Parents are conspiring about gift purchases. Children are dreaming about gift purchases.
And we all are looking through sets of binoculars into an uncertain future. What will the new year bring? Will there finally be peace in Iraq? Will the troops begin to return home? I hesitate to offer a positive response to these questions for many reasons. Here's one: I spoke to a friend who bought a Yorkie at the pound today. Apparently, the previous owner of the dog had two Yorkies but had to make the difficult decision as to which of the two he would take with him during his deployment in Iraq! He was allowed to take only one; the other had to remain stateside. I am struck by the fact that he was able to take a dog with him to a war zone. I expect that he expects that the military leadership expects to be there for quite a while longer. But that's a whole 'nother blog...
Back to the future: will there be peace here at home? I know of yet another couple getting divorced, another child shuffled between broken homes. A teenager separated from her family is steely and tough during the day, but I bet she hugs her pillow and silently stifles her tears when she thinks of Christmas Eve festivities away from her parents and siblings. Busy parents work long hours and barely have time to enjoy the season. Hurried children are driven from one activity to another, eating in the car, doing homework between piano lessons and basketball practice. When will the silent nights, the peace on earth, and the good will come to pass?
On a more personal note, as I look towards the new year, I have a set of questions of my own. Will I return to Spain with the children for a month-long adventure this spring? They both want to go back, and I would always rather be in Spain than just about any place else. Will Steve and I reach our fifteenth wedding anniversary next June with a sigh or a shift into high gear? What will be the health status of our mothers, siblings, children, and the two of us at the end of this year and the next? Will I ever be published apart from on this blog? What lessons are left for me to learn by the end of this year? I'm sure there are many.
Isak Dinesen left her home in Denmark for an unimaginable adventure in Africa. She met a man there whose influence in her life would change her forever. She experienced a continent rich in scents, colors, people, culture, language, strife, and sorrow. She contracted an illness that nearly killed her, but ended up making her immensely stronger. Ultimately, though, she lost her farm, mourned the love of her life, and was forced to return to her native Europe monetarily poor but emotionally rich. From her years of life abroad, she gleaned stories that have ushered readers into worlds they could only imagine. I am one of those readers.
I will never have a farm in Africa. I will most likely never see the Ngong Hills. However, often I describe my life with the same adjectives I ascribed to the film I will someday soon finish watching: "beautiful, painful, lonely, lovely, frightening, disheartening, and deeply engaging." I plan to spend the rest of my days spinning tales, looking towards the distant horizon, and dreaming of broad flat houses with equally broad porches, and unexpected guests who ask for nothing more than my company, a glass of fine wine, and a conversation that lasts longer than the candles that light up the night.
Over the past two days, I have been slowly making my way through this beautiful, painful, lonely, lovely, frightening, disheartening, and deeply engaging film. I have seen it dozens of times, and every time I watch it, I find myself imagining myself right there with them, listening to her every homespun tale, looking through his binoculars out onto the horizon he has yet to explore. I know what some of you are thinking: "It's a movie, Gail. Of course it's all romantic and perfect. Real life in Africa is nothing like that." Others are wagging an accusatory finger at the computer screen and reminding me that theirs was an adulterous relationship. The argument could rightly be made that they were taking advantage of the Africans they used as servants and in some cases as lovers. Yeah, yeah, yeah... I still like the movie.
Over the past two days, I have also been engaged in the task of decorating our house for Christmas. The tree is up, but there are still a few ornaments to put on it. The candle lights are in each of the upstairs windows. Steve has strung white and green lights on the bushes out front and is at a local store at the moment buying more lights. While walking Maya in our front yard this evening, I noticed that several of our neighbors have been hard at work on their own lighting ceremonies today. On this rainy South Charlotte night, I imagine that many families are gathering around the hearth (or the television) telling (or watching) homespun (or Hollywood produced) tales. Parents are conspiring about gift purchases. Children are dreaming about gift purchases.
And we all are looking through sets of binoculars into an uncertain future. What will the new year bring? Will there finally be peace in Iraq? Will the troops begin to return home? I hesitate to offer a positive response to these questions for many reasons. Here's one: I spoke to a friend who bought a Yorkie at the pound today. Apparently, the previous owner of the dog had two Yorkies but had to make the difficult decision as to which of the two he would take with him during his deployment in Iraq! He was allowed to take only one; the other had to remain stateside. I am struck by the fact that he was able to take a dog with him to a war zone. I expect that he expects that the military leadership expects to be there for quite a while longer. But that's a whole 'nother blog...
Back to the future: will there be peace here at home? I know of yet another couple getting divorced, another child shuffled between broken homes. A teenager separated from her family is steely and tough during the day, but I bet she hugs her pillow and silently stifles her tears when she thinks of Christmas Eve festivities away from her parents and siblings. Busy parents work long hours and barely have time to enjoy the season. Hurried children are driven from one activity to another, eating in the car, doing homework between piano lessons and basketball practice. When will the silent nights, the peace on earth, and the good will come to pass?
On a more personal note, as I look towards the new year, I have a set of questions of my own. Will I return to Spain with the children for a month-long adventure this spring? They both want to go back, and I would always rather be in Spain than just about any place else. Will Steve and I reach our fifteenth wedding anniversary next June with a sigh or a shift into high gear? What will be the health status of our mothers, siblings, children, and the two of us at the end of this year and the next? Will I ever be published apart from on this blog? What lessons are left for me to learn by the end of this year? I'm sure there are many.
Isak Dinesen left her home in Denmark for an unimaginable adventure in Africa. She met a man there whose influence in her life would change her forever. She experienced a continent rich in scents, colors, people, culture, language, strife, and sorrow. She contracted an illness that nearly killed her, but ended up making her immensely stronger. Ultimately, though, she lost her farm, mourned the love of her life, and was forced to return to her native Europe monetarily poor but emotionally rich. From her years of life abroad, she gleaned stories that have ushered readers into worlds they could only imagine. I am one of those readers.
I will never have a farm in Africa. I will most likely never see the Ngong Hills. However, often I describe my life with the same adjectives I ascribed to the film I will someday soon finish watching: "beautiful, painful, lonely, lovely, frightening, disheartening, and deeply engaging." I plan to spend the rest of my days spinning tales, looking towards the distant horizon, and dreaming of broad flat houses with equally broad porches, and unexpected guests who ask for nothing more than my company, a glass of fine wine, and a conversation that lasts longer than the candles that light up the night.
Thursday, December 01, 2005
I was gonna apologize but...
then I thought about it for a while, and I realized I didn't have anything to apologize for.
Three months ago I began a writing game with a wonderful woman named Maureen Ryan Griffin. I met her last year around this time at a winter solstice writing retreat. Excellent day. Excellent woman. Check out her website at http://maureenryangriffin.com. Anyway, one of the commitments I made for this writing game we played was that I would blog at least twice per week. That was hardly a difficult assignment for me as I love to write, and I think I like blogging more than any other form of writing - except for journaling.
Over these past three months, I have been pretty faithful to my biweekly blogging schedule, but I have noticed during the past few weeks that I have tended to wait and write towards the end of the week. Here I sit on Thursday night to write my first blog of the week. It's not that I am without ideas or without incidents worth sharing; it's just that the weeks are flying by so fast that I haven't made time to sit and write until the week is nearly gone.
Tonight on my way back from seeing my awesome therapist I spent a few minutes thinking about what I'd write tonight. The first thing that came to mind was an apology. "I'm sorry that I have been waiting so late in the week to write. I'm sorry that friends come to the blog only to find that I haven't written anything new in four or five days." I made a mental review of my week, where I've been, what I've done, and I realized something else: The busyness of my life, the fullness of my schedule is not something I need to defend or apologize for. I love my life. I love the fullness of it. When I'm tired, when I'd rather be writing than driving the children from one activity to another, even though I'd rather write than cook, clean, do laundry, or just about anything else, life happens. And the writing has to wait.
Julia Cameron wrote a book entitled, "The Vein of Gold" in which she encourages and guides her readers through a process of discovering the vein of gold that is embedded within each of us, the vein that oozes with the golden ore of our lives. But in order to find that vein, we must live our lives. It's not enough to write; I must live. It is the living that fills the vein with richness, beauty, and depth.
This week, I have lived fully, passionately, and gracefully (I hope). On Monday afternoon, I took Kristiana to her horseback riding class and sat in the minivan watching Steve Martin's "Father of the Bride" with Daniel. What great laughter and discussions we shared about the antics of a goofy father and the love that drove him to do all those crazy things. Then after dinner, I took off for the final session of a writing class called "Getting Your Work Out There." I do all this writing, so why not submit a piece or two for publication or for contest consideration? I've submitted three pieces to a writing contest so far. I know that one of them didn't make the cut, but the other two are still out there.
On Tuesday afternoon, I met with Maureen and spent an hour retelling the tales of the past three months, the ways in which I have been winning this writing game, and the goals I want to reach in the future. She makes me laugh. She makes me cry. And above all, she makes me want to be a better writer. On Tuesday evening, I took Daniel to his basketball practice at 6, then drove with Kristiana to one of my favorite stores in the world: Staples. I picked up DVDs so that I can download this enormous blog onto my laptop computer, edit some of them, and launch them out into the world for wider consideration. I found some fine paper on which to print them, bought my daughter some special pens for her own writing, and enjoyed her company thoroughly as we strolled through that wonderland of writing.
Yesterday, the kids and I went uptown for the wonderful Wednesday worship service we all enjoy. Katie has begun a series of devotionals on the various characters involved in the advent, the arrival of the Christ child. Yesterday she talked about the genealogy of Christ as listed in the first chapter of Matthew. From there we were off to Sushi 101 for a lovely lunch then returned home for basketball on the driveway, walking and playing with Maya, a brief visit to the library, and dinner before heading out for more evening activities. We kept the kids up until 10 PM, irresponsible parents that we are, talking, laughing, and sharing our adventures from the day. By then, I needed to spend a few moments alone with my dear hubby, and so it was time to shuffle the little people off the bed.
Today, we left the house early to take Maya to the vet. Poor thing has been harboring a slight infection at the wound site after her spaying. Something just didn't seem right, so we drove her over. I will spare the most gruesome details, but let me say this: Maya is prone to carsickness. By the time we arrived at the vet's office, therefore, we had some clean up to do before we could hand her over to the vet's nurse. The problem? A dissolving stitch that never dissolved. Now she takes oral antibiotics twice per day as administered by my very responsible twelve year old daughter. We settled down for homeschooling at 11:30, and still managed to get most of our work done by 1 PM. After all, we had discussed the formula for the five paragraph essay on our way to the vet, so most of English was already done.
As I mentioned earlier, I had a 7 PM appointment with my therapist tonight. One of my dearest friends asked why I see a therapist. There are many answers to that question, but I will give only one: he listens to me tell the story of my life and asks great questions that help me see myself, my birth family, my immediate family, and the world in which I live more clearly, more compassionately, and with a deeper sense of clarity. Jim has helped me recognize faulty patterns in my life and in my relationships that have stunted my emotional, mental, and spiritual growth, and assists me as I either fix the patterns that are salvageable or abandon the untenable ones altogether.
This has been a full week. This has been a well-lived week. There have been tough moments, moments of frustration, dashed expectations, and lost opportunities. There have also been moments of singing, hugging, laughing, talking about antibiotics, Christmas decorations, Grammy, football, and the dangers of spraying the "Nature's Miracle" No Chewing Bitter Spray on Maya's fur.
I was gonna apologize, but then I realized that my excuse would be the fullness of my life. And I will never apologize for life.
Three months ago I began a writing game with a wonderful woman named Maureen Ryan Griffin. I met her last year around this time at a winter solstice writing retreat. Excellent day. Excellent woman. Check out her website at http://maureenryangriffin.com. Anyway, one of the commitments I made for this writing game we played was that I would blog at least twice per week. That was hardly a difficult assignment for me as I love to write, and I think I like blogging more than any other form of writing - except for journaling.
Over these past three months, I have been pretty faithful to my biweekly blogging schedule, but I have noticed during the past few weeks that I have tended to wait and write towards the end of the week. Here I sit on Thursday night to write my first blog of the week. It's not that I am without ideas or without incidents worth sharing; it's just that the weeks are flying by so fast that I haven't made time to sit and write until the week is nearly gone.
Tonight on my way back from seeing my awesome therapist I spent a few minutes thinking about what I'd write tonight. The first thing that came to mind was an apology. "I'm sorry that I have been waiting so late in the week to write. I'm sorry that friends come to the blog only to find that I haven't written anything new in four or five days." I made a mental review of my week, where I've been, what I've done, and I realized something else: The busyness of my life, the fullness of my schedule is not something I need to defend or apologize for. I love my life. I love the fullness of it. When I'm tired, when I'd rather be writing than driving the children from one activity to another, even though I'd rather write than cook, clean, do laundry, or just about anything else, life happens. And the writing has to wait.
Julia Cameron wrote a book entitled, "The Vein of Gold" in which she encourages and guides her readers through a process of discovering the vein of gold that is embedded within each of us, the vein that oozes with the golden ore of our lives. But in order to find that vein, we must live our lives. It's not enough to write; I must live. It is the living that fills the vein with richness, beauty, and depth.
This week, I have lived fully, passionately, and gracefully (I hope). On Monday afternoon, I took Kristiana to her horseback riding class and sat in the minivan watching Steve Martin's "Father of the Bride" with Daniel. What great laughter and discussions we shared about the antics of a goofy father and the love that drove him to do all those crazy things. Then after dinner, I took off for the final session of a writing class called "Getting Your Work Out There." I do all this writing, so why not submit a piece or two for publication or for contest consideration? I've submitted three pieces to a writing contest so far. I know that one of them didn't make the cut, but the other two are still out there.
On Tuesday afternoon, I met with Maureen and spent an hour retelling the tales of the past three months, the ways in which I have been winning this writing game, and the goals I want to reach in the future. She makes me laugh. She makes me cry. And above all, she makes me want to be a better writer. On Tuesday evening, I took Daniel to his basketball practice at 6, then drove with Kristiana to one of my favorite stores in the world: Staples. I picked up DVDs so that I can download this enormous blog onto my laptop computer, edit some of them, and launch them out into the world for wider consideration. I found some fine paper on which to print them, bought my daughter some special pens for her own writing, and enjoyed her company thoroughly as we strolled through that wonderland of writing.
Yesterday, the kids and I went uptown for the wonderful Wednesday worship service we all enjoy. Katie has begun a series of devotionals on the various characters involved in the advent, the arrival of the Christ child. Yesterday she talked about the genealogy of Christ as listed in the first chapter of Matthew. From there we were off to Sushi 101 for a lovely lunch then returned home for basketball on the driveway, walking and playing with Maya, a brief visit to the library, and dinner before heading out for more evening activities. We kept the kids up until 10 PM, irresponsible parents that we are, talking, laughing, and sharing our adventures from the day. By then, I needed to spend a few moments alone with my dear hubby, and so it was time to shuffle the little people off the bed.
Today, we left the house early to take Maya to the vet. Poor thing has been harboring a slight infection at the wound site after her spaying. Something just didn't seem right, so we drove her over. I will spare the most gruesome details, but let me say this: Maya is prone to carsickness. By the time we arrived at the vet's office, therefore, we had some clean up to do before we could hand her over to the vet's nurse. The problem? A dissolving stitch that never dissolved. Now she takes oral antibiotics twice per day as administered by my very responsible twelve year old daughter. We settled down for homeschooling at 11:30, and still managed to get most of our work done by 1 PM. After all, we had discussed the formula for the five paragraph essay on our way to the vet, so most of English was already done.
As I mentioned earlier, I had a 7 PM appointment with my therapist tonight. One of my dearest friends asked why I see a therapist. There are many answers to that question, but I will give only one: he listens to me tell the story of my life and asks great questions that help me see myself, my birth family, my immediate family, and the world in which I live more clearly, more compassionately, and with a deeper sense of clarity. Jim has helped me recognize faulty patterns in my life and in my relationships that have stunted my emotional, mental, and spiritual growth, and assists me as I either fix the patterns that are salvageable or abandon the untenable ones altogether.
This has been a full week. This has been a well-lived week. There have been tough moments, moments of frustration, dashed expectations, and lost opportunities. There have also been moments of singing, hugging, laughing, talking about antibiotics, Christmas decorations, Grammy, football, and the dangers of spraying the "Nature's Miracle" No Chewing Bitter Spray on Maya's fur.
I was gonna apologize, but then I realized that my excuse would be the fullness of my life. And I will never apologize for life.
Saturday, November 26, 2005
Tis the season...
I remember watching that crazy show, "Third Rock from the Sun" a few years ago and laughing at the Thanksgiving episode. The four members of that alien family discovered early in the week of Thanksgiving that in order to observe this mysterious holiday properly, they needed to find, purchase, cook, and consume a certain phenomenon known as "balls of butter." So each of them ate their own individual turkey and then were clueless as to why they all felt so sleepy. Their futile battle against the overwhelming effects of tryptophan was hilarious to watch. After waking from their long afternoon naps, they perched themselves outside on the roof overlooking their front yard and recounted the events of the day. Relieved that they had survived that gluttonous ordeal, they gave thanks that they would have plenty of time to prepare for future holidays because surely no other major holiday could follow so closely after Thanksgiving. If only...
Indeed, the preparations for another major holiday have begun. The lights are up on storefronts. Wreaths adorn street lights here in Charlotte. Trees are being sold in parking lots that only a few weeks ago were awash in pumpkins. The holiday shopping frenzy is in full swing already. Several hundred people lined up at a local shopping mall for a 1 am entrance! What could you possibly need at the mall at 1 am on the morning after Thanksgiving? What about the silent nights, the sleeping in heavenly peace? What about joy to the world and peace on earth, good will to men?
Advent season begins officially tomorrow, and there is much to look forward to in the next 40 days. I look forward to cuddling in front of the fireplace with Steve and the children, hot cocoa, popcorn, and visions of fruitcake dancing in our heads. I look forward to the plate of cookies my neighbor's daughter brings to our back door every Christmas eve and the batches of our own cookies that will add to my already expanded holiday girth. I look forward to putting up our tree, the light of electric candles in our windows, and wearing my sparkly red turtleneck sweater to church on Christmas eve. I look forward to singing Christmas carols around the piano with the kids, reading the story of the birth of Christ on Christmas eve, and awakening on Christmas morning to the smell of the breakfast casserole in the oven, the sight of presents under the tree, and the music of my friend, Rob Mathes as he sings my favorite line of all: "I'm waiting here for love again to be born." That's what it all leads to: Love. Born anew. Joy. Silent wonder. The star of David. Wonderful Counselor. Mighty God. Prince of Peace. Peace that surpasses all understanding, explanation, and over-commercialization.
As much as I look forward to my 40th birthday on the 14th of December (Have no fear: there's still plenty of time to compose poetry or song lyrics, string pearls and crystals into one-of-a-kind necklaces, and get them in the mail for a timely arrival...), as much as I look forward to watching the children open their gifts and scream with delight, and as much as I look forward to letting my tears flow every time I hear "O Come All Ye Faithful," I know that the real reason for the season is that baby that was born in the manger over 2000 years ago, the baby that grew up, became a man, died, was buried, and rose again.
The Christmas season officially begins tomorrow.
Tis the season to await the soon coming baby.
The soon coming healer.
The soon coming Rabbi.
The soon coming King.
Joy to the world, indeed.
Indeed, the preparations for another major holiday have begun. The lights are up on storefronts. Wreaths adorn street lights here in Charlotte. Trees are being sold in parking lots that only a few weeks ago were awash in pumpkins. The holiday shopping frenzy is in full swing already. Several hundred people lined up at a local shopping mall for a 1 am entrance! What could you possibly need at the mall at 1 am on the morning after Thanksgiving? What about the silent nights, the sleeping in heavenly peace? What about joy to the world and peace on earth, good will to men?
Advent season begins officially tomorrow, and there is much to look forward to in the next 40 days. I look forward to cuddling in front of the fireplace with Steve and the children, hot cocoa, popcorn, and visions of fruitcake dancing in our heads. I look forward to the plate of cookies my neighbor's daughter brings to our back door every Christmas eve and the batches of our own cookies that will add to my already expanded holiday girth. I look forward to putting up our tree, the light of electric candles in our windows, and wearing my sparkly red turtleneck sweater to church on Christmas eve. I look forward to singing Christmas carols around the piano with the kids, reading the story of the birth of Christ on Christmas eve, and awakening on Christmas morning to the smell of the breakfast casserole in the oven, the sight of presents under the tree, and the music of my friend, Rob Mathes as he sings my favorite line of all: "I'm waiting here for love again to be born." That's what it all leads to: Love. Born anew. Joy. Silent wonder. The star of David. Wonderful Counselor. Mighty God. Prince of Peace. Peace that surpasses all understanding, explanation, and over-commercialization.
As much as I look forward to my 40th birthday on the 14th of December (Have no fear: there's still plenty of time to compose poetry or song lyrics, string pearls and crystals into one-of-a-kind necklaces, and get them in the mail for a timely arrival...), as much as I look forward to watching the children open their gifts and scream with delight, and as much as I look forward to letting my tears flow every time I hear "O Come All Ye Faithful," I know that the real reason for the season is that baby that was born in the manger over 2000 years ago, the baby that grew up, became a man, died, was buried, and rose again.
The Christmas season officially begins tomorrow.
Tis the season to await the soon coming baby.
The soon coming healer.
The soon coming Rabbi.
The soon coming King.
Joy to the world, indeed.
Thursday, November 24, 2005
Happy Thanksliving! (nope, that's not a typo)
I just came in from an early morning walk with Maya. What a glorious morning! The sky is a rich, deep blue, streaked with pink clouds. As I stood and gazed up in wonder and the sun continued it ascent into the Carolina sky, the clouds faded to a rich, deep orange. Almost directly overhead, the half moon took its last glance at the rising sun and smiled its ever-white smile in its direction. Even Maya stopped her incessant sniffing and looked up for a few seconds.
The street is quiet. Cars are not pulling out of driveways and heading uptown to park beneath the many banks that dot the Charlotte skyline. Front doors are not banging shut behind children heading for the bus stop at the corner. Dogs aren't even barking this morning. Birds, however, are singing their usual songs of greeting to the morning light - and warning each other that the crazy little dog from 8724 is out again.
She can barely jump up and reach my kneecap, but Maya is crazy about chasing birds. Across the street from us, our neighbors have a grove of very low bushes flanking their front walk, and there must be 50 birds living in those bushes. They cluck and squeak and rustle the branches. They preen their feathers and stretch their wings and hop around on the grass on either side of the path. And it all drives Maya absolutely bonkers. My poor little hunting dog has absolutely no genetic choice but to do all within her power to empty those bushes of those birds. Once she hones in on them, no amount of Alpha Dog correction on my part can divert her attention. So on the odd morning, I allow her to pull me across the street where she noses around underneath the leaves, sniffs, stretches her tiny neck, and sets her sights on liberating the Ayers family from the captivity of "The Birds." She'd like to eat them, but she gladly settles for scaring a few of them and watching them fly away.
This morning, however, we stayed on our side of the street, and I contemplated the events of this Thanksgiving Day. I imagined hundreds of men and women checking on their slow-roasting oversized turkeys during the morning hours. Stuffings are being prepared, cranberry sauces slow simmered - that is, unless they are being cut out of cans... Gravies, sweet potatoes, salads, and pork roasts will soon be cooked to perfection.
Yup, you read it right: pork roasts. Much to the chagrin of my mother and mother-in-law, we will be dining on pork today. I don't like turkey. I never have. Well, that's not entirely true. The only part of the turkey I like is the thigh, the dark, fatty, juicy meat of the turkey thigh. But since supermarkets carry only whole birds, breasts, or legs, I am plum out of turkey thigh luck. True to my ingrained rebellious nature, I refuse to be coerced by society, tradition, or my mother-in-law into cooking an entire, dusty, dry bird in order to nibble on a few bites of a thigh.
I've been told countless times by friends, acquaintances, and enemies alike that there are ways to keep a turkey from getting dry, but I've never had the pleasure of eating a slice of turkey breast that wasn't dry. So today we will eat pork tenderloin. There will be stuffing, cranberry sauce, and my mother's candied yams. In an effort to honor the traditional consumption of food with feathers on Thanksgiving, my mother is also bringing her famous fried chicken. Now that's a bird I can eat with gusto.
We will eat at noon. Yup, you read it right. Why wait until 3 or 4 in the afternoon when everybody's gotta eat lunch anyway? I figure we may as well eat the real deal early and have dessert as the main course at 5 pm. In fact, we've been invited to two Thanksgiving desserts: one at 5 and the other at 7:30 this evening. This is my kind of day: breakfast, lunch, and two rounds of dessert, all washed down with sparkling cider, sweet tea, and wine. For this great bounty, I am indeed thankful.
What else am I thankful for today?
* this morning's beautiful sky.
* baking and cooking these past two days with the children: chocolate chip cookies, a lemon pound cake, stuffing with pork sausage, and cranberry sauce made from fresh cranberries.
* the sounds of my home this morning as the heat kicks in, the hamster wakes up, and my son tunes into SportsCenter on ESPN.
* the quiet breathing of my daughter and my husband as they sleep.
* the anticipation of reading the notes of thanksgiving we've written this week and placed in a beautiful shoe box. We will read the notes one by one over the course of the day. The goal is to guess who wrote each one, but the real joy will be in conspiring (as in "breathing together") on prayers of thanks.
* lengthy conversations with three of my best buddies yesterday. I sat at Starbucks with one friend and talked for two hours while we nursed peppermint mochas and flipped through a book of Caravaggio's paintings. Such good memories I have of seeing his works in London, Rome, Florence, New York, and one right here in Charlotte!
* listening to the pastor talk about the importance of "thanksliving," not just this week, but always. May it be a way of life, not a single day of overindulgence with a brief prayer of thanks thrown in for good measure.
* listening to that same pastor sing a song about all that God has done for him.
* watching a video at the same service about a young man from our church who'd had a terrible dirt bike accident nearly two months ago. His helmet came off during the incident, and he suffered a very serious head injury. After his parents had been briefed and prepared for a recovery time of three to twelve months, one month and one day after the crash, he walked out of the hospital, completely restored, both physically and mentally. My son and I approached him on Tuesday night after the service and told him how much we'd been praying for him during the time of his chemically-induced coma. He thanked us, smiled his wide braces-bound smile, and went back to sipping his hot cider. Young Aaron is a living, breathing, walking, smiling testimony to the power of love, friendship, medical technology, and pure, old-fashioned prayer.
* I am thankful that another year has passed and we remain in good health. We are still together as a family. We haven't lost anyone to death, serious illness, or accident. We have so much for which to give thanks.
So here's to eating, drinking, laughing, looking around the table today at family and friends, and giving thanks for their presence, for their love, and for their willingness to share this day with us.
Here's to raising a toast to far away family, friends and loved ones who are not with us in body, but who are always with us in spirit. I will give thanks for all of you as well.
And finally, here's to remembering the one who aren't with us anymore: my father, my father-in-law, all four sets of our grandparents, Jill's father, Cindy's uncle, Suzanne's son, Ida, Leza, and countless others whose names I don't remember and probably never know. You are sorely missed, but we give thanks for all that you gave us while you were here.
Happy Thanksgiving.
Happy Thanksliving.
The street is quiet. Cars are not pulling out of driveways and heading uptown to park beneath the many banks that dot the Charlotte skyline. Front doors are not banging shut behind children heading for the bus stop at the corner. Dogs aren't even barking this morning. Birds, however, are singing their usual songs of greeting to the morning light - and warning each other that the crazy little dog from 8724 is out again.
She can barely jump up and reach my kneecap, but Maya is crazy about chasing birds. Across the street from us, our neighbors have a grove of very low bushes flanking their front walk, and there must be 50 birds living in those bushes. They cluck and squeak and rustle the branches. They preen their feathers and stretch their wings and hop around on the grass on either side of the path. And it all drives Maya absolutely bonkers. My poor little hunting dog has absolutely no genetic choice but to do all within her power to empty those bushes of those birds. Once she hones in on them, no amount of Alpha Dog correction on my part can divert her attention. So on the odd morning, I allow her to pull me across the street where she noses around underneath the leaves, sniffs, stretches her tiny neck, and sets her sights on liberating the Ayers family from the captivity of "The Birds." She'd like to eat them, but she gladly settles for scaring a few of them and watching them fly away.
This morning, however, we stayed on our side of the street, and I contemplated the events of this Thanksgiving Day. I imagined hundreds of men and women checking on their slow-roasting oversized turkeys during the morning hours. Stuffings are being prepared, cranberry sauces slow simmered - that is, unless they are being cut out of cans... Gravies, sweet potatoes, salads, and pork roasts will soon be cooked to perfection.
Yup, you read it right: pork roasts. Much to the chagrin of my mother and mother-in-law, we will be dining on pork today. I don't like turkey. I never have. Well, that's not entirely true. The only part of the turkey I like is the thigh, the dark, fatty, juicy meat of the turkey thigh. But since supermarkets carry only whole birds, breasts, or legs, I am plum out of turkey thigh luck. True to my ingrained rebellious nature, I refuse to be coerced by society, tradition, or my mother-in-law into cooking an entire, dusty, dry bird in order to nibble on a few bites of a thigh.
I've been told countless times by friends, acquaintances, and enemies alike that there are ways to keep a turkey from getting dry, but I've never had the pleasure of eating a slice of turkey breast that wasn't dry. So today we will eat pork tenderloin. There will be stuffing, cranberry sauce, and my mother's candied yams. In an effort to honor the traditional consumption of food with feathers on Thanksgiving, my mother is also bringing her famous fried chicken. Now that's a bird I can eat with gusto.
We will eat at noon. Yup, you read it right. Why wait until 3 or 4 in the afternoon when everybody's gotta eat lunch anyway? I figure we may as well eat the real deal early and have dessert as the main course at 5 pm. In fact, we've been invited to two Thanksgiving desserts: one at 5 and the other at 7:30 this evening. This is my kind of day: breakfast, lunch, and two rounds of dessert, all washed down with sparkling cider, sweet tea, and wine. For this great bounty, I am indeed thankful.
What else am I thankful for today?
* this morning's beautiful sky.
* baking and cooking these past two days with the children: chocolate chip cookies, a lemon pound cake, stuffing with pork sausage, and cranberry sauce made from fresh cranberries.
* the sounds of my home this morning as the heat kicks in, the hamster wakes up, and my son tunes into SportsCenter on ESPN.
* the quiet breathing of my daughter and my husband as they sleep.
* the anticipation of reading the notes of thanksgiving we've written this week and placed in a beautiful shoe box. We will read the notes one by one over the course of the day. The goal is to guess who wrote each one, but the real joy will be in conspiring (as in "breathing together") on prayers of thanks.
* lengthy conversations with three of my best buddies yesterday. I sat at Starbucks with one friend and talked for two hours while we nursed peppermint mochas and flipped through a book of Caravaggio's paintings. Such good memories I have of seeing his works in London, Rome, Florence, New York, and one right here in Charlotte!
* listening to the pastor talk about the importance of "thanksliving," not just this week, but always. May it be a way of life, not a single day of overindulgence with a brief prayer of thanks thrown in for good measure.
* listening to that same pastor sing a song about all that God has done for him.
* watching a video at the same service about a young man from our church who'd had a terrible dirt bike accident nearly two months ago. His helmet came off during the incident, and he suffered a very serious head injury. After his parents had been briefed and prepared for a recovery time of three to twelve months, one month and one day after the crash, he walked out of the hospital, completely restored, both physically and mentally. My son and I approached him on Tuesday night after the service and told him how much we'd been praying for him during the time of his chemically-induced coma. He thanked us, smiled his wide braces-bound smile, and went back to sipping his hot cider. Young Aaron is a living, breathing, walking, smiling testimony to the power of love, friendship, medical technology, and pure, old-fashioned prayer.
* I am thankful that another year has passed and we remain in good health. We are still together as a family. We haven't lost anyone to death, serious illness, or accident. We have so much for which to give thanks.
So here's to eating, drinking, laughing, looking around the table today at family and friends, and giving thanks for their presence, for their love, and for their willingness to share this day with us.
Here's to raising a toast to far away family, friends and loved ones who are not with us in body, but who are always with us in spirit. I will give thanks for all of you as well.
And finally, here's to remembering the one who aren't with us anymore: my father, my father-in-law, all four sets of our grandparents, Jill's father, Cindy's uncle, Suzanne's son, Ida, Leza, and countless others whose names I don't remember and probably never know. You are sorely missed, but we give thanks for all that you gave us while you were here.
Happy Thanksgiving.
Happy Thanksliving.
Saturday, November 19, 2005
Why can't we all just get along?
My dear, sweet little Maya is recovering quickly from being spayed. Poor thing - she ran around the house with seven staples in her abdomen for nine days. Those miniscule pain pills she was taking must have worked very well because the day that we brought her home from the surgery, she ran up the stairs without stumbling even once. I had to chase her, grab her (gently) and put her in her crate; clearly, she was in no pain, but I was concerned that one of those staples was going to come out. Last Friday they were taken out, and she has continued to heal nicely. All in all, she did quite well.
Just a few minutes ago, I took her outside for a walk - and she peed and pooped without delay! (This is one smart dog!) Once she was done with her business, she took to chasing leaves, birds, and anything else that moved... including the 50 pound chocolate lab that lives next door. That dog could easily knock down the average person if she got up to speed and charged. I know that because she has gotten up and speed and charged me more than once - I thank God that I'm larger than average!
Anyway, Buddy (the neighbor dog) had just come back from her walk, and Maya ran right up to her and started sniffing her, chasing her, and playing with her. Of course, they bowed to each other, rubbed noses, and sniffed each other's private parts first. Fascinating ritual, isn't it? (Brief aside here: My daughter and I flipped through a doggie comic book at the pet store the other day and found one that showed two dogs in that head to tail stance. One said to the other, "We've gotta come up with a different way to greet each other.") As Maya and Buddy were being reacquainted, my neighbor Cliff told me about the doggie training class they take Buddy to on Mondays. He laughed as he described the way that the dogs greet each other every week.
"They lick, sniff, nip at each other's heels, grab each other by the throat, and wag their tails. All the while," he imagined, "they are probably asking each other how last week went, what was new with their owners, that sort of thing. Every now and then, one dog will get a little too rowdy and sink the teeth in a little too deeply, and a little scuffle ensues. A few growls, a few nudges, a hard stare - and then it's over. Maybe the following week, one dog has to be a little more submissive than usual at the start of the class, but then the issue is settled once and for all."
Then Cliff asked the pet-related parallel to the infamous Rodney King question: "Why can't we all just get along like dogs do? It doesn't matter which dog is bigger, which is pure bred, what they eat, where they poop, or how bad their breath is. They greet each other, kiss, sniff, lick, and then they get on with the business of being friends. Grudges are settled quickly, efficiently, and then forgotten."
Good question, Cliff. Dogs know how to deal with each other. Alpha dog status is quickly established. Boundaries are clear. Dogs know their place. Occasionally there is the scuffle that draws blood. Sometimes stitches are needed. But for the most part, dogs are forgiving, loving, accepting, tolerant animals. They look at their owners with unconditional love, with unwavering longing, and with unquestioned loyalty. Maya literally eats the socks I sweat in. She devours the hairy ends of carrots that I drop on the floor. She bows her head and wags her tail everytime I enter the room.
What a different world we would have if we learned to honor each other in a similar way! What if managed to overlook bad breath, smelly bottoms, and the fact so many of us are mutts? What if we found more reason to love and accept each other than to reject each other? What if we didn't care who had fleas and who had lost some teeth? What if we had our tussles, settled the matter, and then were determined not to bring it up again?
I know there are some misbehaviors that defy easy dismissal. Infidelity, violent episodes, abandonment, neglect, and abuse are tough to forgive and impossible to forget. Those are the biggies.
But let's face it; most of the things that we hold grudges for are not the biggies. Somebody borrowed $20 that they didn't return. Or maybe as much as $200. Someone forgot my birthday. Someone didn't send a thank you card for the gift I patiently chose, purchased, wrapped, and delivered. Someone criticized something I wrote or wore or said. She didn't return my email. He didn't return my call. She forgot the date we'd made to have lunch and stood me up. He rode his bike into my car and left a ding. She lost my sweater at the movie theater. They showed up late for the dinner we planned and painstakingly created. No one thanked me for the dinner I spent hours preparing. On and on goes the list of grievances. On and on goes the bitterness. And absolutely none of these things are worth the loss of a friendship or even an acquaintance.
We were dog snobs in our search process. My son Daniel and I are both allergic to dog fur, so when Kristiana did the research on which dogs we could own, the list was pretty short. When we began the search in earnest, we had to be sure that we were dealing with a purebred dog because we didn't want to take the chance of running into a dog that had a shedding gene in the mix. We chose a Yorkie because it has hair, not fur, it doesn't shed, and it will remain very small. No seventy-five pound hairball factories for us, thank you very much!
What if we could figure out a way to downplay the purebreed issue among the human species? Thankfully, my friends didn't exhibit the same pickiness when they chose me. I recognize and fully admit to the impurity of my bloodline: I can be moody, selfish, and snappy. I have been known to shed my anger and self-righteousness under every chair in my vicinity. I am suddenly needy and whiny, and often I leave smelly piles of self-importance in my wake. I thank God for my dear, forgiving, friends. They must strong stomachs in order to clean up after me and still tell me that I'm a good girl all these years. I thank them all for patiently training me to be a better wife, mother, daughter, sister, and friend. Okay, maybe I took that analogy too far, but here's the point: why can't we all just get along? And why can't I be equally accepting when I choose my friends?
Yet again, I will endeavor to follow Maya's noble example. Weighing in at a scant 4.1 pounds, every time Maya finishes her first order of business on the lawn, she sprints to the homes of her canine companions on the block, one after the other: the chocolate lab on one side, the mixed breed pointer on the other, the black lab across the street, and the house up the block that now has five dogs (they belong to Rob and Jen, the couple whose wedding reception we went to a few weeks back). Even though nearly every one of those dogs has knocked her over, barked at her, and tried in every possible doggie way to intimidate her, Maya is fearless in her approach. She has obviously forgotten their earlier antics and moved into the friendship phase of the relationship. With each furious wag of her tiny body, she screams: "Bygones are gone good-bye. Today's a new day; let's play."
Well, I'd better go. I'm gonna head downstairs and give my favorite teacher a dental treat; she likes those more than apples!
Just a few minutes ago, I took her outside for a walk - and she peed and pooped without delay! (This is one smart dog!) Once she was done with her business, she took to chasing leaves, birds, and anything else that moved... including the 50 pound chocolate lab that lives next door. That dog could easily knock down the average person if she got up to speed and charged. I know that because she has gotten up and speed and charged me more than once - I thank God that I'm larger than average!
Anyway, Buddy (the neighbor dog) had just come back from her walk, and Maya ran right up to her and started sniffing her, chasing her, and playing with her. Of course, they bowed to each other, rubbed noses, and sniffed each other's private parts first. Fascinating ritual, isn't it? (Brief aside here: My daughter and I flipped through a doggie comic book at the pet store the other day and found one that showed two dogs in that head to tail stance. One said to the other, "We've gotta come up with a different way to greet each other.") As Maya and Buddy were being reacquainted, my neighbor Cliff told me about the doggie training class they take Buddy to on Mondays. He laughed as he described the way that the dogs greet each other every week.
"They lick, sniff, nip at each other's heels, grab each other by the throat, and wag their tails. All the while," he imagined, "they are probably asking each other how last week went, what was new with their owners, that sort of thing. Every now and then, one dog will get a little too rowdy and sink the teeth in a little too deeply, and a little scuffle ensues. A few growls, a few nudges, a hard stare - and then it's over. Maybe the following week, one dog has to be a little more submissive than usual at the start of the class, but then the issue is settled once and for all."
Then Cliff asked the pet-related parallel to the infamous Rodney King question: "Why can't we all just get along like dogs do? It doesn't matter which dog is bigger, which is pure bred, what they eat, where they poop, or how bad their breath is. They greet each other, kiss, sniff, lick, and then they get on with the business of being friends. Grudges are settled quickly, efficiently, and then forgotten."
Good question, Cliff. Dogs know how to deal with each other. Alpha dog status is quickly established. Boundaries are clear. Dogs know their place. Occasionally there is the scuffle that draws blood. Sometimes stitches are needed. But for the most part, dogs are forgiving, loving, accepting, tolerant animals. They look at their owners with unconditional love, with unwavering longing, and with unquestioned loyalty. Maya literally eats the socks I sweat in. She devours the hairy ends of carrots that I drop on the floor. She bows her head and wags her tail everytime I enter the room.
What a different world we would have if we learned to honor each other in a similar way! What if managed to overlook bad breath, smelly bottoms, and the fact so many of us are mutts? What if we found more reason to love and accept each other than to reject each other? What if we didn't care who had fleas and who had lost some teeth? What if we had our tussles, settled the matter, and then were determined not to bring it up again?
I know there are some misbehaviors that defy easy dismissal. Infidelity, violent episodes, abandonment, neglect, and abuse are tough to forgive and impossible to forget. Those are the biggies.
But let's face it; most of the things that we hold grudges for are not the biggies. Somebody borrowed $20 that they didn't return. Or maybe as much as $200. Someone forgot my birthday. Someone didn't send a thank you card for the gift I patiently chose, purchased, wrapped, and delivered. Someone criticized something I wrote or wore or said. She didn't return my email. He didn't return my call. She forgot the date we'd made to have lunch and stood me up. He rode his bike into my car and left a ding. She lost my sweater at the movie theater. They showed up late for the dinner we planned and painstakingly created. No one thanked me for the dinner I spent hours preparing. On and on goes the list of grievances. On and on goes the bitterness. And absolutely none of these things are worth the loss of a friendship or even an acquaintance.
We were dog snobs in our search process. My son Daniel and I are both allergic to dog fur, so when Kristiana did the research on which dogs we could own, the list was pretty short. When we began the search in earnest, we had to be sure that we were dealing with a purebred dog because we didn't want to take the chance of running into a dog that had a shedding gene in the mix. We chose a Yorkie because it has hair, not fur, it doesn't shed, and it will remain very small. No seventy-five pound hairball factories for us, thank you very much!
What if we could figure out a way to downplay the purebreed issue among the human species? Thankfully, my friends didn't exhibit the same pickiness when they chose me. I recognize and fully admit to the impurity of my bloodline: I can be moody, selfish, and snappy. I have been known to shed my anger and self-righteousness under every chair in my vicinity. I am suddenly needy and whiny, and often I leave smelly piles of self-importance in my wake. I thank God for my dear, forgiving, friends. They must strong stomachs in order to clean up after me and still tell me that I'm a good girl all these years. I thank them all for patiently training me to be a better wife, mother, daughter, sister, and friend. Okay, maybe I took that analogy too far, but here's the point: why can't we all just get along? And why can't I be equally accepting when I choose my friends?
Yet again, I will endeavor to follow Maya's noble example. Weighing in at a scant 4.1 pounds, every time Maya finishes her first order of business on the lawn, she sprints to the homes of her canine companions on the block, one after the other: the chocolate lab on one side, the mixed breed pointer on the other, the black lab across the street, and the house up the block that now has five dogs (they belong to Rob and Jen, the couple whose wedding reception we went to a few weeks back). Even though nearly every one of those dogs has knocked her over, barked at her, and tried in every possible doggie way to intimidate her, Maya is fearless in her approach. She has obviously forgotten their earlier antics and moved into the friendship phase of the relationship. With each furious wag of her tiny body, she screams: "Bygones are gone good-bye. Today's a new day; let's play."
Well, I'd better go. I'm gonna head downstairs and give my favorite teacher a dental treat; she likes those more than apples!
Wednesday, November 16, 2005
Whose approval do I seek?
There are certain people in my life whose approval I seek.
There are some whose opinion on my writing means a tremendous amount to me. I look for their names in the comments section here on the blog. I look for their names in my inbox at yahoo.com. I read between the lines of their remarks. I look words up in both the dictionary and the thesaurus in order to tease as much meaning as possible from their responses. I crave their affirmation for the way I express myself in words.
There are others whose opinion of my style of dress and accessorizing is paramount in my mind as I pull my outfits together. What would ----- think of this combination of colors? I often wonder what Stacy and Clinton, of What Not to Wear fame, would think of my high-waisted straight leg jeans. I have a ready explanation for them (or for those two English women whose show Stacy and Clinton have replicated) if they should appear behind me someday and take pictures of my ample behind in my jeans: "I have a 36 inch inseam, and NO women's jeans in the world have a 36 inch inseam. So I am forced to order my jeans from the men's section at LL Bean and cover the high waist with long sweaters. It's really not my fault. It's the fault of the fashion industry that doesn't cater to us tall women." That's my story, and I'm sticking to it. In fact, the inseam issue was a major contributing factor in my recent decision to wear a skirt nearly every day.
On a more serious note, when I am standing next to the pastor on the pulpit and translating his sermon from Spanish into English on Sunday mornings, there are certain people in the congregation whose nods of approval keep my spirits high. As long as those few people are smiling and nodding, I'm proud of my work. But when they turn their heads a little to the side or look away when I glance in their direction, I know I've made a mistake.
Finally, there are two or three extra special friends, the true insiders whose tone of voice, whose choice of words, whose opinions about any and every aspect of my life can either make or break my mood in an instant. To get the long-awaited phone call, to see the much anticipated email, to receive the long overdue snail mail missive --> for me, that is the stuff that causes me to stand a little taller, walk a little more proudly, and laugh a little more loudly. On the other hand, their disapproval and, even worse, their silence cause me to doubt my significance.
This past week I have spent a lot of time wondering whose approval of me ought to matter most. Whose opinion deserves to carry enough weight that I should change my behavior, my style, my reason for living as I live based on what they think? What would happen to me, to my heart, to my spirit if these all-important critics of the movie that is my life stopped sending their reivews? Who would I be if they stopped writing or calling or telling me what I mean to them? What would I be worth then?
Yesterday I smacked myself in the forehead and kicked myself in the ample behind. "Take a deep breath, Gail. You need to rethink and reconstruct this line of questioning right now!" How long will it be before I stop chasing the ultimate compliment that is never going to come? When will I step off the roller coaster ride that is so closely associated with this vain pursuit of validation? When will I remember that most people are far too busy looking out for their own welfare, hiding their own faults, and pretending that they don't need anybody else's approval to pay attention to me?
It occurred to me that I will never receive from anyone else what they do not have. For who among us feels unconditionally loved, approved, and affirmed? Who among us has enough love and encouragement to spare that we can give it freely and unexpectantly to others?
Today I was reminded over and over that there is A Friend who sticks closer than a brother. There is One whose mercies are new every morning, whose faithfulness is great, whose love is everlasting. I am grateful for the incomparable creativity and glorious love that God shows through the beauty of the leaves as they change colors and dot our thick green lawn, the sight and sounds of the geese flying overhead (I wondered if any of them had begun their journey up in Connecticut, my old stomping ground), and the undeniable love of my dear little dog, Maya, who cannot seem to stop her squirming and licking and tail wagging when she is in my presence.
Tonight as I listened to some new friends share accounts of miraculous healings, divine provision at critical moments, and unmistakable touches of grace, I was humbled by each story and grateful for each reminder of God's love for all of us. I've already been approved, affirmed, and richly blessed in ways that far exceed all I could ever have asked or imagined. Why do I keep seeking the approval of everyone but God, the only one whose approval I already have?
Good question. But still...
I have to be honest: there are times when I need friends "with skin on." There are times when I just want to be hugged, kissed, and held for a while. There are times when a well-timed joke, a well-constructed email, or a warm cup of tea at a friend's kitchen counter send me clear over the full moon itself! Can I get a witness?
There are some whose opinion on my writing means a tremendous amount to me. I look for their names in the comments section here on the blog. I look for their names in my inbox at yahoo.com. I read between the lines of their remarks. I look words up in both the dictionary and the thesaurus in order to tease as much meaning as possible from their responses. I crave their affirmation for the way I express myself in words.
There are others whose opinion of my style of dress and accessorizing is paramount in my mind as I pull my outfits together. What would ----- think of this combination of colors? I often wonder what Stacy and Clinton, of What Not to Wear fame, would think of my high-waisted straight leg jeans. I have a ready explanation for them (or for those two English women whose show Stacy and Clinton have replicated) if they should appear behind me someday and take pictures of my ample behind in my jeans: "I have a 36 inch inseam, and NO women's jeans in the world have a 36 inch inseam. So I am forced to order my jeans from the men's section at LL Bean and cover the high waist with long sweaters. It's really not my fault. It's the fault of the fashion industry that doesn't cater to us tall women." That's my story, and I'm sticking to it. In fact, the inseam issue was a major contributing factor in my recent decision to wear a skirt nearly every day.
On a more serious note, when I am standing next to the pastor on the pulpit and translating his sermon from Spanish into English on Sunday mornings, there are certain people in the congregation whose nods of approval keep my spirits high. As long as those few people are smiling and nodding, I'm proud of my work. But when they turn their heads a little to the side or look away when I glance in their direction, I know I've made a mistake.
Finally, there are two or three extra special friends, the true insiders whose tone of voice, whose choice of words, whose opinions about any and every aspect of my life can either make or break my mood in an instant. To get the long-awaited phone call, to see the much anticipated email, to receive the long overdue snail mail missive --> for me, that is the stuff that causes me to stand a little taller, walk a little more proudly, and laugh a little more loudly. On the other hand, their disapproval and, even worse, their silence cause me to doubt my significance.
This past week I have spent a lot of time wondering whose approval of me ought to matter most. Whose opinion deserves to carry enough weight that I should change my behavior, my style, my reason for living as I live based on what they think? What would happen to me, to my heart, to my spirit if these all-important critics of the movie that is my life stopped sending their reivews? Who would I be if they stopped writing or calling or telling me what I mean to them? What would I be worth then?
Yesterday I smacked myself in the forehead and kicked myself in the ample behind. "Take a deep breath, Gail. You need to rethink and reconstruct this line of questioning right now!" How long will it be before I stop chasing the ultimate compliment that is never going to come? When will I step off the roller coaster ride that is so closely associated with this vain pursuit of validation? When will I remember that most people are far too busy looking out for their own welfare, hiding their own faults, and pretending that they don't need anybody else's approval to pay attention to me?
It occurred to me that I will never receive from anyone else what they do not have. For who among us feels unconditionally loved, approved, and affirmed? Who among us has enough love and encouragement to spare that we can give it freely and unexpectantly to others?
Today I was reminded over and over that there is A Friend who sticks closer than a brother. There is One whose mercies are new every morning, whose faithfulness is great, whose love is everlasting. I am grateful for the incomparable creativity and glorious love that God shows through the beauty of the leaves as they change colors and dot our thick green lawn, the sight and sounds of the geese flying overhead (I wondered if any of them had begun their journey up in Connecticut, my old stomping ground), and the undeniable love of my dear little dog, Maya, who cannot seem to stop her squirming and licking and tail wagging when she is in my presence.
Tonight as I listened to some new friends share accounts of miraculous healings, divine provision at critical moments, and unmistakable touches of grace, I was humbled by each story and grateful for each reminder of God's love for all of us. I've already been approved, affirmed, and richly blessed in ways that far exceed all I could ever have asked or imagined. Why do I keep seeking the approval of everyone but God, the only one whose approval I already have?
Good question. But still...
I have to be honest: there are times when I need friends "with skin on." There are times when I just want to be hugged, kissed, and held for a while. There are times when a well-timed joke, a well-constructed email, or a warm cup of tea at a friend's kitchen counter send me clear over the full moon itself! Can I get a witness?
Friday, November 11, 2005
"Go to the ant...
Consider its way and be wise:
It has no commander, no overseer, no ruler,
yet it stores its provisions in summer and
gathers its food at harvest."
I have learned several lessons from ants this week. Quite frankly, I wish I had thought of these things without having to battle the little things on my home turf. But sometimes it takes an up-close encounter to learn the lessons properly. So here goes:
First of all, ants work together as a team on every project. They are perhaps the best example we have of how to play "follow the leader." One ant finds a treasure of sugar, lays down a line of ant-scent, and everyone else in the nest follows that leader. If one ant veers to the right or to the left, the others will follow. Each ant can make hundreds of trips back and forth between the nest and the object of its desire. Very little will deter an ant from carrying out its purpose. The problem arises when the ants come across a bait laid out by an irate home owner. The trail of ants continues, but instead of bringing home food that nourishes, they bring home poison that eventually kills all the members of the ant clan.
When we choose to do so, people work well as teams also and follow well-made trails that lead us to great treasure. When the Pilgrims set out from the shores of England several hundred years ago, they laid a trail to religious freedom, a trail that many followed. Many trips were made back and forth across the Atlantic even though the way was certainly trecherous. For those seeking religious asylum, that trail was well worth following. When the late Rosa Parks decided to not give her seat up on the bus fifty years ago, she laid down the scent of racial and social freedom that thousands have followed in the decades that have passed since then. If she had not stayed seated on that bus, my inter-racial marriage would be illegal in the state in which I now reside.
On the other hand, problems arose when settlers from foreign lands followed each others' scents across the Atlantic Ocean carrying slaves in the holds of their ships. Problems have arisen as alcohol, drugs, pornography, guns, and tobacco became the target of thousands of trips back and forth across our streets, our school yards, our nation, and our world. Entire generations of people are dying of AIDS/HIV the world over because of the trail laid by thousands of people who have spread that dreaded virus. Gang, family, and government-sanctioned violence kills millions around the world every year; one ant gets hurt, gets indignant, decides to seek revenge, and countless followers march off to their deaths. This nest that we call planet earth has been repeatedly infected with these and other venoms, and far too often the poison spreads far too quickly for anyone to stop it.
What if we decided to lay down different trails? What if we laid a trail of conservation, recycling, reduction of pollution, and environmental concern that subsequent generations can follow in order to slow down the destruction of our planet? What if the trails we laid were scented with forgiveness for wrongdoing instead of bitterness and retaliation, with graceful acceptance instead of prejudice and intolerance? How different would our homes be if we carried the cargo of laughter and loving embraces into the nest rather than a cold shoulder, a pointed finger, or a clenched fist? What if we took the nectar of joy that we harvest in our homes and carried it into our schools, our work places, and even our churches?
Another analogy came to mind after the Terminix lady explained that another way that ants are killed is through the powder that is laid on their trails. Later on when they groom each other they coat each other with that toxic substance and die soon thereafter.
I had to consider what is on my hands and on my heart when I groom my husband, my children, and the other people I love and care for. Do I clean them with kind and encouraging words? Or am I rubbing the salt of criticism and sarcasm into wounds that are so often inflicted on them by the world? Can they trust that the lotion, the powders, and the oils I rub on their tender spiritual and emotional underbellies are made up of soothing sentiments? Am I careful to handle healing balms when I groom myself or am I exposed to ways of thinking, patterns of living, and belief systems that will eventually maim and kill me, those around me, and those who share the world in which I live and move?
One more lesson from the ants: Don't use pumps with Starbucks syrup bottles. That's the same as leaving the bottle wide open.
I am grateful for everything those tiny sugar ants taught me.
I am more grateful for the kind Terminix woman who came to our house the other day, explained the life cycle of the ants to me, and then laid down a trail that will lead them out of my house and keep them out.
It has no commander, no overseer, no ruler,
yet it stores its provisions in summer and
gathers its food at harvest."
I have learned several lessons from ants this week. Quite frankly, I wish I had thought of these things without having to battle the little things on my home turf. But sometimes it takes an up-close encounter to learn the lessons properly. So here goes:
First of all, ants work together as a team on every project. They are perhaps the best example we have of how to play "follow the leader." One ant finds a treasure of sugar, lays down a line of ant-scent, and everyone else in the nest follows that leader. If one ant veers to the right or to the left, the others will follow. Each ant can make hundreds of trips back and forth between the nest and the object of its desire. Very little will deter an ant from carrying out its purpose. The problem arises when the ants come across a bait laid out by an irate home owner. The trail of ants continues, but instead of bringing home food that nourishes, they bring home poison that eventually kills all the members of the ant clan.
When we choose to do so, people work well as teams also and follow well-made trails that lead us to great treasure. When the Pilgrims set out from the shores of England several hundred years ago, they laid a trail to religious freedom, a trail that many followed. Many trips were made back and forth across the Atlantic even though the way was certainly trecherous. For those seeking religious asylum, that trail was well worth following. When the late Rosa Parks decided to not give her seat up on the bus fifty years ago, she laid down the scent of racial and social freedom that thousands have followed in the decades that have passed since then. If she had not stayed seated on that bus, my inter-racial marriage would be illegal in the state in which I now reside.
On the other hand, problems arose when settlers from foreign lands followed each others' scents across the Atlantic Ocean carrying slaves in the holds of their ships. Problems have arisen as alcohol, drugs, pornography, guns, and tobacco became the target of thousands of trips back and forth across our streets, our school yards, our nation, and our world. Entire generations of people are dying of AIDS/HIV the world over because of the trail laid by thousands of people who have spread that dreaded virus. Gang, family, and government-sanctioned violence kills millions around the world every year; one ant gets hurt, gets indignant, decides to seek revenge, and countless followers march off to their deaths. This nest that we call planet earth has been repeatedly infected with these and other venoms, and far too often the poison spreads far too quickly for anyone to stop it.
What if we decided to lay down different trails? What if we laid a trail of conservation, recycling, reduction of pollution, and environmental concern that subsequent generations can follow in order to slow down the destruction of our planet? What if the trails we laid were scented with forgiveness for wrongdoing instead of bitterness and retaliation, with graceful acceptance instead of prejudice and intolerance? How different would our homes be if we carried the cargo of laughter and loving embraces into the nest rather than a cold shoulder, a pointed finger, or a clenched fist? What if we took the nectar of joy that we harvest in our homes and carried it into our schools, our work places, and even our churches?
Another analogy came to mind after the Terminix lady explained that another way that ants are killed is through the powder that is laid on their trails. Later on when they groom each other they coat each other with that toxic substance and die soon thereafter.
I had to consider what is on my hands and on my heart when I groom my husband, my children, and the other people I love and care for. Do I clean them with kind and encouraging words? Or am I rubbing the salt of criticism and sarcasm into wounds that are so often inflicted on them by the world? Can they trust that the lotion, the powders, and the oils I rub on their tender spiritual and emotional underbellies are made up of soothing sentiments? Am I careful to handle healing balms when I groom myself or am I exposed to ways of thinking, patterns of living, and belief systems that will eventually maim and kill me, those around me, and those who share the world in which I live and move?
One more lesson from the ants: Don't use pumps with Starbucks syrup bottles. That's the same as leaving the bottle wide open.
I am grateful for everything those tiny sugar ants taught me.
I am more grateful for the kind Terminix woman who came to our house the other day, explained the life cycle of the ants to me, and then laid down a trail that will lead them out of my house and keep them out.
Thursday, November 10, 2005
Mea Culpa
I got up at 6:03 am.
I walked the dog.
I did some journaling, reading, and praying.
I made oatmeal and ate it with the children.
I did some homeschooling with the kids.
We raked and bagged leaves.
We met some other homeschoolers at a museum where we walked and talked our way through an awesome exhibit called, "Renaissance to Rococo."
I came home, sat down to read, and fell asleep on the couch.
I got up and cooked dinner.
We ate.
I washed the dishes.
I walked the dog.
I went to a 7 pm appointment with my therapist - great session!
I went to the supermarket on the way home.
I gave my son Motrin for a headache. I hope he's not coming down with something.
I sat down to blog - it's 9:28 pm.
My eyes can barely focus, and my fingers are hitting the wrong keys.
I will continue the story of the ants tomorrow.
Mea Culpa - my fault.
I walked the dog.
I did some journaling, reading, and praying.
I made oatmeal and ate it with the children.
I did some homeschooling with the kids.
We raked and bagged leaves.
We met some other homeschoolers at a museum where we walked and talked our way through an awesome exhibit called, "Renaissance to Rococo."
I came home, sat down to read, and fell asleep on the couch.
I got up and cooked dinner.
We ate.
I washed the dishes.
I walked the dog.
I went to a 7 pm appointment with my therapist - great session!
I went to the supermarket on the way home.
I gave my son Motrin for a headache. I hope he's not coming down with something.
I sat down to blog - it's 9:28 pm.
My eyes can barely focus, and my fingers are hitting the wrong keys.
I will continue the story of the ants tomorrow.
Mea Culpa - my fault.
Wednesday, November 09, 2005
I hate ants!
Well, it's not that I hate ants so much as I hate seeing ants in my house. They are welcome to eat, breed, and be happy in the great outdoors, but stay out of my house, please!!!
The first run-in I had with ants in my house was a little over two years ago. Our church was having its annual picnic that day, and I was preparing to leave. Happily gathering goodies to put in our picnic basket, I was stopped in my tracks at the door of the pantry when I noticed several ants crawling around on one of the shelves. I killed them. Then I looked a little more closely and noticed a few more. I stood up straight, looked at the back wall of the pantry, and realized I was under a full scale attack. They were everywhere, all over everything, crawling in, out, up, and all around all of my food.
Lest anyone think that I am not a serious housecleaner or that I only rarely go into my pantry, I want to set the record straight. I keep a very clean home. I believe that my house should be presentable at all times. Anyone should be able to come over at anytime and I ought to be comfortable with how my house looks. I sweep, dust (yes, Karen, my dusting skills have improved tremendously since moving down here!), vacuum, mop, do laundry on a weekly basis. So that Sunday afternoon appearance of the sugar ants was quite a shock to me.
For those of you unfamiliar with the term, "sugar ants," I will explain. Down here in the South (and in other critter friendly environments) there are several varieties of ants. There are the biting, horrifying red ants. There are the huge black ants, the ones that look like they are ants on steroids. There are the regular black ants. And then there are sugar ants. They are about half the size of regular ants, and they move in legions. Tiny little things that suddenly appear out of no where and seem to have taken over before you realize it.
Well, that lazy Sunday afternoon quickly became an all-out defensive. I recruited my husband, the kids, and a friend who was at our house at the time to help me empty everything out of the pantry. Everything. A few weeks ago I wrote a blog about my tendency to buy things in multiples. Food is no exception. So my many bottles of olive oil, pancake syrup, boxes of cereal, oatmeal, and Swiffer sheets all had to come out. Anything that had ants on it had to go - unless it hadn't yet been opened, in which case it was washed off and set on the dining room table. We cleared out the entire pantry. I sprayed a lot of bug spray. I wiped down the shelves. Then I took the shelves out. I wiped down the walls. And the next day, Steve sealed up every visible crack and crevice, then proceeded to paint the walls of the pantry.
It turns out that the guy who installed our alarm system had drilled a hole in the floor of the pantry to run the wire under the house and failed to seal the hole. The ants accepted the "open invitation" to invade our home and couldn't believe their luck: the door led directly into the main food source in our house. We closed, locked, and sealed that door.
A few weeks ago now as I chatted on the telephone in the kitchen, I looked up at the two bottle of Starbucks syrup on top of our refrigerator (we make frappaccinos and all kinds of coffee drinks here at home) and noticed that they were darkened and swarmed by the moving, feasting bodies of sugar ants. "Oh crap!" I thought to myself. "Here we go again." I had to throw the two bottles away, spray all around and on top of the fridge, and clean up the mess again.
Did I mention that I hate ants?
Again, how did I miss them? How did they take over so fast? I knew that it hadn't been more than a day or two since the last time we'd used the syrup. I ended up having to throw away several other things that were stored on top of the fridge as the ants had made that whole area their new home. I pulled the fridge out of its alcove and discovered that the ants were coming in from a crack in the floor of the kitchen! There is simply no hole too small for those little creatures to squeeze through. Yuck, yuck, double yuck!
At great risk of freaking out all the people I know who are anti-chemical - I even count myself among their number - I will continue with my story. We are members of the "just call Terminix" club. Down here in the South, the critters are far too overwhelming to take lightly. I am no fan of pesticides on the lawn or spraying toxic substances willy-nilly on the property line in order to kill every living thing within 100 feet of our house. All I ask is that the animals that belong outside stay outside. Within these four walls, I will admit no multilegged creatures that we haven't paid good money for!
So I called Terminix and asked them to make an emergency visit. A sweet woman came yesterday and explained something absolutely fascinating to me. She said that sugar ants lay trails as they walk. If the first one veers to the right, all the rest of them will also. As soon as one ant finds a source of sugar, thousands will follow. And each ant will make hundreds of trips on the same ant-made trail. In order to get rid of them effectively, there are several steps to take.
The first one, she said, is to not spray bug spray on them. (My first thought was, "She's nuts.") She said to use Windex. It kills the ants I see, but doesn't kill the scent trail. Then I should call Terminix and have them come put out bait for the ants. (My second thought quickly morphed into a question: "But isn't bait meant to attract them? Why would I want to attract them INTO my house?) She said that the reason for bait was the attract the ants to the sweet poison which they take back to the nest and feed to each other thereby eventually killing the nest. The toughest part, she said, is seeing the ants swarm to the bait in the first 24 to 48 hours. But once that time passes, the numbers will dwindle as the nest is destroyed by its own hard-working inhabitants.
A second line of defense, she went on, is a powder the Terminix people lay down. The ants walk through the powder and take it back to their nests on their feet. Then during the communal cleaning and grooming process, they spread the poison to each other and die that way.
I realize that this is quite the gruesome explanation of ridding ourselves of small, defenseless, hard-working creatures that God created. I feel awful about allowing big, bad chemical companies to spread their ghastly liquids and powders in my home. In my defense, I will say that I tried several all natural products before calling in the big boys, but they didn't seem to get the problem under control. I just cannot stand seeing ants, bugs, flying things, or anything with more than the four cute little legs Maya scampers around on IN MY HOUSE.
After her thorough and eye-popping explanation, the very kind woman from Terminix proceeded to inspect the outside of our home to try to find where the ants were coming in. As it turned out, they were congregating and entering through the crawl space door.
Another explanation may be necessary here: because of the nature of the landscaped here in NC, basements are rare. The infamous red clay of the South cannot support the walls of basements, so houses tend to be built on cinderblock and cement foundations with crawl spaces. Those spaces tend to be about four feet in height, big enough to get into in order to repair plumbing or electrical issues under the house, but not big enough to expand into useable living space. Big enough for all the bugs in the county to congregate but not big enough for a family to hide in the event of a tornado. By the way, I hope I never have to test out the validity of that last statement!
Yes, the ants had found a way into the crawl space, a crevice in the floor below the house, and were apparently planning another invasion. She said she powdered them, sprayed them, and used all the other weapons at her disposal to discourage them from continuing with their assault. I thanked her, asked God to protect us from any long-term effects of our exposure to only He-knows-what, and breathed a sigh of relief.
Within moments of her departure, a spiritual analogy flashed through my mind.
I'll share it tomorrow.
The first run-in I had with ants in my house was a little over two years ago. Our church was having its annual picnic that day, and I was preparing to leave. Happily gathering goodies to put in our picnic basket, I was stopped in my tracks at the door of the pantry when I noticed several ants crawling around on one of the shelves. I killed them. Then I looked a little more closely and noticed a few more. I stood up straight, looked at the back wall of the pantry, and realized I was under a full scale attack. They were everywhere, all over everything, crawling in, out, up, and all around all of my food.
Lest anyone think that I am not a serious housecleaner or that I only rarely go into my pantry, I want to set the record straight. I keep a very clean home. I believe that my house should be presentable at all times. Anyone should be able to come over at anytime and I ought to be comfortable with how my house looks. I sweep, dust (yes, Karen, my dusting skills have improved tremendously since moving down here!), vacuum, mop, do laundry on a weekly basis. So that Sunday afternoon appearance of the sugar ants was quite a shock to me.
For those of you unfamiliar with the term, "sugar ants," I will explain. Down here in the South (and in other critter friendly environments) there are several varieties of ants. There are the biting, horrifying red ants. There are the huge black ants, the ones that look like they are ants on steroids. There are the regular black ants. And then there are sugar ants. They are about half the size of regular ants, and they move in legions. Tiny little things that suddenly appear out of no where and seem to have taken over before you realize it.
Well, that lazy Sunday afternoon quickly became an all-out defensive. I recruited my husband, the kids, and a friend who was at our house at the time to help me empty everything out of the pantry. Everything. A few weeks ago I wrote a blog about my tendency to buy things in multiples. Food is no exception. So my many bottles of olive oil, pancake syrup, boxes of cereal, oatmeal, and Swiffer sheets all had to come out. Anything that had ants on it had to go - unless it hadn't yet been opened, in which case it was washed off and set on the dining room table. We cleared out the entire pantry. I sprayed a lot of bug spray. I wiped down the shelves. Then I took the shelves out. I wiped down the walls. And the next day, Steve sealed up every visible crack and crevice, then proceeded to paint the walls of the pantry.
It turns out that the guy who installed our alarm system had drilled a hole in the floor of the pantry to run the wire under the house and failed to seal the hole. The ants accepted the "open invitation" to invade our home and couldn't believe their luck: the door led directly into the main food source in our house. We closed, locked, and sealed that door.
A few weeks ago now as I chatted on the telephone in the kitchen, I looked up at the two bottle of Starbucks syrup on top of our refrigerator (we make frappaccinos and all kinds of coffee drinks here at home) and noticed that they were darkened and swarmed by the moving, feasting bodies of sugar ants. "Oh crap!" I thought to myself. "Here we go again." I had to throw the two bottles away, spray all around and on top of the fridge, and clean up the mess again.
Did I mention that I hate ants?
Again, how did I miss them? How did they take over so fast? I knew that it hadn't been more than a day or two since the last time we'd used the syrup. I ended up having to throw away several other things that were stored on top of the fridge as the ants had made that whole area their new home. I pulled the fridge out of its alcove and discovered that the ants were coming in from a crack in the floor of the kitchen! There is simply no hole too small for those little creatures to squeeze through. Yuck, yuck, double yuck!
At great risk of freaking out all the people I know who are anti-chemical - I even count myself among their number - I will continue with my story. We are members of the "just call Terminix" club. Down here in the South, the critters are far too overwhelming to take lightly. I am no fan of pesticides on the lawn or spraying toxic substances willy-nilly on the property line in order to kill every living thing within 100 feet of our house. All I ask is that the animals that belong outside stay outside. Within these four walls, I will admit no multilegged creatures that we haven't paid good money for!
So I called Terminix and asked them to make an emergency visit. A sweet woman came yesterday and explained something absolutely fascinating to me. She said that sugar ants lay trails as they walk. If the first one veers to the right, all the rest of them will also. As soon as one ant finds a source of sugar, thousands will follow. And each ant will make hundreds of trips on the same ant-made trail. In order to get rid of them effectively, there are several steps to take.
The first one, she said, is to not spray bug spray on them. (My first thought was, "She's nuts.") She said to use Windex. It kills the ants I see, but doesn't kill the scent trail. Then I should call Terminix and have them come put out bait for the ants. (My second thought quickly morphed into a question: "But isn't bait meant to attract them? Why would I want to attract them INTO my house?) She said that the reason for bait was the attract the ants to the sweet poison which they take back to the nest and feed to each other thereby eventually killing the nest. The toughest part, she said, is seeing the ants swarm to the bait in the first 24 to 48 hours. But once that time passes, the numbers will dwindle as the nest is destroyed by its own hard-working inhabitants.
A second line of defense, she went on, is a powder the Terminix people lay down. The ants walk through the powder and take it back to their nests on their feet. Then during the communal cleaning and grooming process, they spread the poison to each other and die that way.
I realize that this is quite the gruesome explanation of ridding ourselves of small, defenseless, hard-working creatures that God created. I feel awful about allowing big, bad chemical companies to spread their ghastly liquids and powders in my home. In my defense, I will say that I tried several all natural products before calling in the big boys, but they didn't seem to get the problem under control. I just cannot stand seeing ants, bugs, flying things, or anything with more than the four cute little legs Maya scampers around on IN MY HOUSE.
After her thorough and eye-popping explanation, the very kind woman from Terminix proceeded to inspect the outside of our home to try to find where the ants were coming in. As it turned out, they were congregating and entering through the crawl space door.
Another explanation may be necessary here: because of the nature of the landscaped here in NC, basements are rare. The infamous red clay of the South cannot support the walls of basements, so houses tend to be built on cinderblock and cement foundations with crawl spaces. Those spaces tend to be about four feet in height, big enough to get into in order to repair plumbing or electrical issues under the house, but not big enough to expand into useable living space. Big enough for all the bugs in the county to congregate but not big enough for a family to hide in the event of a tornado. By the way, I hope I never have to test out the validity of that last statement!
Yes, the ants had found a way into the crawl space, a crevice in the floor below the house, and were apparently planning another invasion. She said she powdered them, sprayed them, and used all the other weapons at her disposal to discourage them from continuing with their assault. I thanked her, asked God to protect us from any long-term effects of our exposure to only He-knows-what, and breathed a sigh of relief.
Within moments of her departure, a spiritual analogy flashed through my mind.
I'll share it tomorrow.
Friday, November 04, 2005
Dancing in the Light
Today I am going to share a story I read on a favorite website this morning. Please excuse my blatant plagiarism, but indulge me as well. This account reminded me of the piece I wrote earlier this week about heartburn. I hope you enjoy it. I certainly did. Peace, Gail
********************
"Heliopher" is based on a Russian legend recounted by Maxim Gorky.
Once upon a time there was a race which was lost in a great, dark forest. The trees stood so close together that the light of the sun could not penetrate the thickly entwined branches. There were also numerous wild animals which fell upon the people, especially the children, when they wandered too far from their parents while they were playing. So everyone lived in a constant state of fear of death and destruction, and a hopeless despair took hold of the hearts of the folk.
Continuous black darkness had strangled all the light in their hearts. They could not love one another any more. They even hated and murdered one another in their rage. Yet they were forced to remain together, for it was impossible for any single man to defend himself against the attacks of the wild beasts. They had lost all hope of ever finding their way out of the forest. Many of the young people did not believe in the light they had never seen, and they mocked their elders, when, with a last weak light gleaming in their dim eyes, they recounted tales of the festive, sunny days of their youth.
Among the people however, there was a young man called Heliopher. He was very much alone, grieving over the misery of his people, and seeking a way of salvation. He bore in his heart an endless longing for light and love in the desolation which surrounded him. Heliopher left his people to seek the sun. For many months and years he wandered through the dangers of the forest and of his own soul, and often, very often, nearly lost all hope and confidence. But Heliopher bravely withstood his enemies, whether within himself or around him, and at last he reached the edge of the forest and saw the light of the sun. In terrible amazement he fell into a swoon, and when he awoke he saw in the twilight that he was watched over in his slumber by beautiful people. In the green meadows stood the simple huts of the sun-people, and Heliopher lived with them in peace and endless joy as the most beloved amongst living men.
Then Heliopher went back to the forest to seek his people. “Come, brothers and sisters,” he said to them, “I will lead you to the light.” At this there was murmuring and frowning, wavering and hesitation, wonder and questioning, incredulous laughter, and finally a jubilant “Yes!” And then, at last, the longed-for departure.
Then the light of the sun shone in Heliopher’s eyes, but the way was long and difficult, and demanded much suffering and sacrifice, and murmuring arose among the people. Some spoke and said, “Let us murder him, the betrayer of the people!” And the dark glow of hatred was in their eyes. Others were wiser and said, “No! let us judge him in the presence of all, for it is dangerous to give the people a martyr.” And Heliopher spoke to his people, and talked about light and love. But the wise ones answered, “You lie! There is no light, there is no sun, there is no love. Let us be darker than the forest and more cruel than the wild beasts. Then we shall be masters of the forest!”
Heliopher answered in great pain, “O believe not, ye wise men, that ye can be victorious over darkness by being more dark, that ye can overcome the wild beasts by being more beastly. Only love is stronger. Only the light of the sun can drive away darkness.”
“Be silent!” said the wise men. “There is no light, there is no sun!”
And the people shouted, flinging their arms about in raging despair, “There is no light, there is no sun!”
But Heliopher called out, “Follow me!” Then, with his nails, he tore open his breast, and his heart burned with love, and it glowed and shed its beams through the dark forest. He took it in both hands, held it high over his head, and strode forth in front of the people.
In reverent wonder and silence the multitude followed the burning heart. (Emphasis mine.)
As they came out of the forest, the people ran in jubilation towards the sun, dancing in its loving rays, and loving one another. But Heliopher knelt down at the edge of the forest, and with the last strength of his outstretched arms he held up his loving, pulsing heart to the light of heaven, and gave his last smile to his people.
*********************
Did you feel it? Did you feel Heliopher's deep love and desire to lead his people from darkness into light? Did you see the truth of how love is stronger than war and pain and the enemies that try to drag us into the darkness? When will we stop killing ourselves and each other with our anger and jealousy and fear? When will we stop calling ourselves "wise" and pay attention to those who walk with the light of love, peace, grace, and mercy as their guides? When will we stop the arguing and one-upsmanship long enough to notice that there is a burning heart of love to follow out of the dark forest?
I believe that love and joy and fellowship are possible in this world. But in order to get there, I must be willing to lay down my prejudices and personal vendettas. I must be willing to forgive those who have called me crazy and foolish and naive. I must continue to seek peace and pursue it. I must receive the love of God and then share it with others. I must never stop crying out in the midst of the chaos and fear, the anger and bitterness, the finger-pointing and shouting - crying out that there is another way. There is Light. There is Love. There is Peace. There is Laughter. There is all this and more - more than enough for everyone who cares to imbibe. There is a Fellowship of The Burning Heart that welcomes each of us to enter.
The truth is that none of our worldly goods, none of the physical or financial wealth can protect us from the sorrow, the doubt, the self-loathing, and the despair that we all face in the car, in the office, in the shower, in the closet, at the table in the fine restaurant, at our own kitchen tables, at the mall, in the museum, at our desks, at our easels, and in the dark when we think everyone else is asleep. If our wallets, bank accounts, and pantries are full, why do we still feel so empty? If our waistlines, double chins, and thighs are so large, why do we still feel so small? With such neat answers to life's tough questions, why do we still feel so messy? If none of the old ways, the old goals, the old ideals are working for us, why not consider a new way?
I pray that I will be willing to live as Heliopher did. May I be willing to wander away from the crowds, follow the dappled beams of light back to the Source, and then be willing to return to those still fighting so fiercely in the dark to lead them home. May I be willing to rip out my own heart again and again, and hold it up for the world to see the love, the strength, and the beauty that resides within because of the Light that has shone down on me. May my final act on this earth, like Heliopher's, be to point people towards the light of the Son, the open fields of grace, and the eternal dance that we all long to join.
"I hope you'll dance."
********************
"Heliopher" is based on a Russian legend recounted by Maxim Gorky.
Once upon a time there was a race which was lost in a great, dark forest. The trees stood so close together that the light of the sun could not penetrate the thickly entwined branches. There were also numerous wild animals which fell upon the people, especially the children, when they wandered too far from their parents while they were playing. So everyone lived in a constant state of fear of death and destruction, and a hopeless despair took hold of the hearts of the folk.
Continuous black darkness had strangled all the light in their hearts. They could not love one another any more. They even hated and murdered one another in their rage. Yet they were forced to remain together, for it was impossible for any single man to defend himself against the attacks of the wild beasts. They had lost all hope of ever finding their way out of the forest. Many of the young people did not believe in the light they had never seen, and they mocked their elders, when, with a last weak light gleaming in their dim eyes, they recounted tales of the festive, sunny days of their youth.
Among the people however, there was a young man called Heliopher. He was very much alone, grieving over the misery of his people, and seeking a way of salvation. He bore in his heart an endless longing for light and love in the desolation which surrounded him. Heliopher left his people to seek the sun. For many months and years he wandered through the dangers of the forest and of his own soul, and often, very often, nearly lost all hope and confidence. But Heliopher bravely withstood his enemies, whether within himself or around him, and at last he reached the edge of the forest and saw the light of the sun. In terrible amazement he fell into a swoon, and when he awoke he saw in the twilight that he was watched over in his slumber by beautiful people. In the green meadows stood the simple huts of the sun-people, and Heliopher lived with them in peace and endless joy as the most beloved amongst living men.
Then Heliopher went back to the forest to seek his people. “Come, brothers and sisters,” he said to them, “I will lead you to the light.” At this there was murmuring and frowning, wavering and hesitation, wonder and questioning, incredulous laughter, and finally a jubilant “Yes!” And then, at last, the longed-for departure.
Then the light of the sun shone in Heliopher’s eyes, but the way was long and difficult, and demanded much suffering and sacrifice, and murmuring arose among the people. Some spoke and said, “Let us murder him, the betrayer of the people!” And the dark glow of hatred was in their eyes. Others were wiser and said, “No! let us judge him in the presence of all, for it is dangerous to give the people a martyr.” And Heliopher spoke to his people, and talked about light and love. But the wise ones answered, “You lie! There is no light, there is no sun, there is no love. Let us be darker than the forest and more cruel than the wild beasts. Then we shall be masters of the forest!”
Heliopher answered in great pain, “O believe not, ye wise men, that ye can be victorious over darkness by being more dark, that ye can overcome the wild beasts by being more beastly. Only love is stronger. Only the light of the sun can drive away darkness.”
“Be silent!” said the wise men. “There is no light, there is no sun!”
And the people shouted, flinging their arms about in raging despair, “There is no light, there is no sun!”
But Heliopher called out, “Follow me!” Then, with his nails, he tore open his breast, and his heart burned with love, and it glowed and shed its beams through the dark forest. He took it in both hands, held it high over his head, and strode forth in front of the people.
In reverent wonder and silence the multitude followed the burning heart. (Emphasis mine.)
As they came out of the forest, the people ran in jubilation towards the sun, dancing in its loving rays, and loving one another. But Heliopher knelt down at the edge of the forest, and with the last strength of his outstretched arms he held up his loving, pulsing heart to the light of heaven, and gave his last smile to his people.
*********************
Did you feel it? Did you feel Heliopher's deep love and desire to lead his people from darkness into light? Did you see the truth of how love is stronger than war and pain and the enemies that try to drag us into the darkness? When will we stop killing ourselves and each other with our anger and jealousy and fear? When will we stop calling ourselves "wise" and pay attention to those who walk with the light of love, peace, grace, and mercy as their guides? When will we stop the arguing and one-upsmanship long enough to notice that there is a burning heart of love to follow out of the dark forest?
I believe that love and joy and fellowship are possible in this world. But in order to get there, I must be willing to lay down my prejudices and personal vendettas. I must be willing to forgive those who have called me crazy and foolish and naive. I must continue to seek peace and pursue it. I must receive the love of God and then share it with others. I must never stop crying out in the midst of the chaos and fear, the anger and bitterness, the finger-pointing and shouting - crying out that there is another way. There is Light. There is Love. There is Peace. There is Laughter. There is all this and more - more than enough for everyone who cares to imbibe. There is a Fellowship of The Burning Heart that welcomes each of us to enter.
The truth is that none of our worldly goods, none of the physical or financial wealth can protect us from the sorrow, the doubt, the self-loathing, and the despair that we all face in the car, in the office, in the shower, in the closet, at the table in the fine restaurant, at our own kitchen tables, at the mall, in the museum, at our desks, at our easels, and in the dark when we think everyone else is asleep. If our wallets, bank accounts, and pantries are full, why do we still feel so empty? If our waistlines, double chins, and thighs are so large, why do we still feel so small? With such neat answers to life's tough questions, why do we still feel so messy? If none of the old ways, the old goals, the old ideals are working for us, why not consider a new way?
I pray that I will be willing to live as Heliopher did. May I be willing to wander away from the crowds, follow the dappled beams of light back to the Source, and then be willing to return to those still fighting so fiercely in the dark to lead them home. May I be willing to rip out my own heart again and again, and hold it up for the world to see the love, the strength, and the beauty that resides within because of the Light that has shone down on me. May my final act on this earth, like Heliopher's, be to point people towards the light of the Son, the open fields of grace, and the eternal dance that we all long to join.
"I hope you'll dance."
Wednesday, November 02, 2005
Sometimes heartburn is a good thing...
Earlier today, one of my favorite pastors gave a sermon on one of my favorite passages of Scripture. Following the death, burial, and resurrection of Christ, He joined two of his disciples as they make their way from Jerusalem, the city where all the events surrounding His death took place, back to their homes in Emmaus. In Luke chapter 24, we read that as they walked, He joined them and asked what they were talking about as they journeyed. They were astonished that He didn't know all that had happened in Jerusalem, so they proceeded to tell him the story of His own death. In response, He explained to them all that the Scripture had predicted would take place, shared dinner with them, and when He broke the bread and began to give it to them, their eyes were opened. They finally recognized Him. Then He disappeared from their sight. I love the question they asked each other once He was gone: "Were not our hearts burning within us while he talked with us on the road and opened the Scriptures to us?"
I love "aha" moments. Those moments when all of a sudden it makes sense. Whatever "it" is. I remember waking up in Spain one morning during the fall of 1986 and realized I had dreamt in Spanish the night before. "Yes," I thought, "now I get it. Now I see. Spanish makes sense to me now." I had years of learning ahead of me, years of figuring out how to conjugate and use verbs properly, but at least and at last, my eyes were finally opened. I remember early on in my self-guided course through European art how excited I was when I would enter a room in a museum and correctly identify a painting by its artist and theme. Finally, all the books I'd read, all the videos I'd watched, all the conversations I'd eavesdropped on in galleries had paid off, and my eyes were opened. Just a few weeks ago, I had an "aha" moment when I realized that Maya could so easily be trained to "come, sit, stay" - all I needed was a sizeable handful of treats.
It is hopelessly naive and presumptuous of me to compare my epiphany moments to the discovery those two disciples made that fateful night at their supper table in the dusty town of Emmaus over 2000 years ago. The Risen Lord, the one they spoke of wistfully in Luke 24:21 ["We had hoped that he was the one who was going to redeem Israel"], had walked with them, talked with them, and given them a personal lesson into all that He'd done in their midst.
I've had those moments of wishing, hoping "he was the one." Romantically, of course, that happened a couple of times before I met Steve. I have met men and women whose intellectual sensibilities have mirrored mine in remarkable ways. There are those who share my love of art, books, and travel. There are others with whom I can have endless conversations about politics and world events. Still others are perfect for analyzing marriage issues and parenting situations. I have made soul connections that seemed unbreakable, inviolable, only to watch the relationship "fade to black." I have had friends who have called, written, visited, or emailed with regularity suddenly disappear from my life without explanation or farewell. And each time, the pain is real and acute. Because I had hoped he or she was "the one." Like those disciples, I too am destined to have times when just as I "get it," the teacher, the message bearer disappears. I pray to be wise enough to learn when to let the messenger go but never relinquish the message.
Fortunately, there are many friends and co-travelers on this road of life who have stuck with me for years. I especially value a handful of dear ones who have come alongside me more recently and asked questions similar to the one Christ asked the two men in this story. "Gail, what are you thinking about, what are you journaling about, what are you talking about these days as you walk along your way?" Last Wednesday, the same pastor I mentioned at the beginning of this blog approached me at the end of the service and asked me if something was wrong. She could tell from the pulpit, she said, that something was bothering me. Thanks, Katie, for noticing my distress, for asking about its cause, and for starting me down the road to recovery from some deeply rooted painful stuff I've needed to deal with for a very long time.
Here's the bad news: friends are always going to let me down. I will attach myself to a new person, latch onto a new friend, and he or she will disappoint me. I will make telephone calls that go unreturned. I will send notes that go unanswered. I will issue invitations that are unanswered. I will transplant my hopes and dreams onto my children and watch them pursue something entirely different from what I have in mind. Pastors whose teaching I benefit from will leave and work at other churches. Friends whose presence in my life motivates to be a better person will move to faraway cities and even more distant nations. Family members and other loved ones will get sick and die. My heart burns not only every time one of those relationships begins, but also every time one ends.
Fortunately, there is also good news: for every dashed hope, for unmet expectation, and for all the unrequited love I have experienced, I also have countless moments of "heartburn" that I hope will last indefinitely. Making a new friend in the library, running into an acquaintance at a restaurant, listening to someone explain a painting I admired or formulate a question about homeschooling at a lecture I attended - in each of those encounters, there was a moment when I felt my heart burn within me, when I felt an unusual connection with another person. I am so glad that I didn't ignore the symptoms on any of those occasions and came away richer and more joyful because of my willingness to act upon that feeling. At those moments, heartburn was a good thing.
Henri Nouwen wrote a truly remarkable book called With Burning Hearts on this same Scripture passage. In essence Nouwen's point was this: when we allow ourselves to fall into step with Christ on the road of our lives, we are able to enter into what he calls "the Eucharistic life." We get to dine on the rich Bread of Life and drink the Water that gives us new life. We receive from His hand and His Word the food we need to feed our hungry and thirsty souls. We are all hungry; the question is, "What are we dining on?" But Nouwen goes further. He posits that we must take that spirit of sharing the table into the world. I can share what I am learning, my "aha" moments with others. I can ask them what they are feeding on and how it's working for them. I can sit down with strangers and friends alike and share food, share fellowship, share life.
An extraordinary and momentous thing happens every time I allow myself to be open, to be vulnerable, to be honest about my hunger and thirst, about my loneliness and my needs, about my fears and desires: I am transformed. My soul's pain is soothed, and its hunger is sated. My eyes and my heart are opened not only to God and what He wants to speak into my life, but also to those around me, those with whom I share this peculiar form of heartburn. The richness, grace, and beauty that comes to me through friends and loved ones is immeasurable.
Near the end of the book, Nouwen wrote the following: "Having entered into communion with Jesus and created community with those who know that he is alive, we now can go and join the many lonely travelers and help them discover that they too have the gift of love to share. We are no longer afraid of their sadness and pain, but can ask them simply: 'What are you talking about as you walk along the road?' And we will hear stories of immense loneliness, fear, rejection, abandonment, and sadness." Some of my best conversations are with other travelers who are willing to share a little of the loneliness, the fear, and the sadness, and together we live out the truth of the adage: "A sorrow shared is but half a sorrow. A joy shared is a joy made double."
I am disturbed by the ads on television for heartburn medications that are meant to ease the pain that comes from eating foods that upset our digestive systems. There is one that shows a man at an airport eating spicy sausage that his family thinks will be his demise. There is another one about the man at the restaurant buffet, loading up a second plate, but pounding on his chest hoping to beat the pain back. Here's what I always want to ask the pasty-faced, pudgy men who are eating their way into an early grave: "Why not just avoid the food that causes the heartburn, acid reflux, and chest pain? Just back away from the table, big guy. Better yet, avoid all buffets at all restaurants."
The kind of heartburn the disciples diagnosed at the end of the book of Luke, the kind that comes from being cared for by observant friends like Katie, and the kind that I'm developing after meeting three people at church who are quickly becoming good friends - this is the kind of heartburn that should never be avoided. This is the kind of chest pressure that makes me want to keep going back to the table, keep loading up my plate, and never back away. Sometimes heartburn is a good thing.
I love "aha" moments. Those moments when all of a sudden it makes sense. Whatever "it" is. I remember waking up in Spain one morning during the fall of 1986 and realized I had dreamt in Spanish the night before. "Yes," I thought, "now I get it. Now I see. Spanish makes sense to me now." I had years of learning ahead of me, years of figuring out how to conjugate and use verbs properly, but at least and at last, my eyes were finally opened. I remember early on in my self-guided course through European art how excited I was when I would enter a room in a museum and correctly identify a painting by its artist and theme. Finally, all the books I'd read, all the videos I'd watched, all the conversations I'd eavesdropped on in galleries had paid off, and my eyes were opened. Just a few weeks ago, I had an "aha" moment when I realized that Maya could so easily be trained to "come, sit, stay" - all I needed was a sizeable handful of treats.
It is hopelessly naive and presumptuous of me to compare my epiphany moments to the discovery those two disciples made that fateful night at their supper table in the dusty town of Emmaus over 2000 years ago. The Risen Lord, the one they spoke of wistfully in Luke 24:21 ["We had hoped that he was the one who was going to redeem Israel"], had walked with them, talked with them, and given them a personal lesson into all that He'd done in their midst.
I've had those moments of wishing, hoping "he was the one." Romantically, of course, that happened a couple of times before I met Steve. I have met men and women whose intellectual sensibilities have mirrored mine in remarkable ways. There are those who share my love of art, books, and travel. There are others with whom I can have endless conversations about politics and world events. Still others are perfect for analyzing marriage issues and parenting situations. I have made soul connections that seemed unbreakable, inviolable, only to watch the relationship "fade to black." I have had friends who have called, written, visited, or emailed with regularity suddenly disappear from my life without explanation or farewell. And each time, the pain is real and acute. Because I had hoped he or she was "the one." Like those disciples, I too am destined to have times when just as I "get it," the teacher, the message bearer disappears. I pray to be wise enough to learn when to let the messenger go but never relinquish the message.
Fortunately, there are many friends and co-travelers on this road of life who have stuck with me for years. I especially value a handful of dear ones who have come alongside me more recently and asked questions similar to the one Christ asked the two men in this story. "Gail, what are you thinking about, what are you journaling about, what are you talking about these days as you walk along your way?" Last Wednesday, the same pastor I mentioned at the beginning of this blog approached me at the end of the service and asked me if something was wrong. She could tell from the pulpit, she said, that something was bothering me. Thanks, Katie, for noticing my distress, for asking about its cause, and for starting me down the road to recovery from some deeply rooted painful stuff I've needed to deal with for a very long time.
Here's the bad news: friends are always going to let me down. I will attach myself to a new person, latch onto a new friend, and he or she will disappoint me. I will make telephone calls that go unreturned. I will send notes that go unanswered. I will issue invitations that are unanswered. I will transplant my hopes and dreams onto my children and watch them pursue something entirely different from what I have in mind. Pastors whose teaching I benefit from will leave and work at other churches. Friends whose presence in my life motivates to be a better person will move to faraway cities and even more distant nations. Family members and other loved ones will get sick and die. My heart burns not only every time one of those relationships begins, but also every time one ends.
Fortunately, there is also good news: for every dashed hope, for unmet expectation, and for all the unrequited love I have experienced, I also have countless moments of "heartburn" that I hope will last indefinitely. Making a new friend in the library, running into an acquaintance at a restaurant, listening to someone explain a painting I admired or formulate a question about homeschooling at a lecture I attended - in each of those encounters, there was a moment when I felt my heart burn within me, when I felt an unusual connection with another person. I am so glad that I didn't ignore the symptoms on any of those occasions and came away richer and more joyful because of my willingness to act upon that feeling. At those moments, heartburn was a good thing.
Henri Nouwen wrote a truly remarkable book called With Burning Hearts on this same Scripture passage. In essence Nouwen's point was this: when we allow ourselves to fall into step with Christ on the road of our lives, we are able to enter into what he calls "the Eucharistic life." We get to dine on the rich Bread of Life and drink the Water that gives us new life. We receive from His hand and His Word the food we need to feed our hungry and thirsty souls. We are all hungry; the question is, "What are we dining on?" But Nouwen goes further. He posits that we must take that spirit of sharing the table into the world. I can share what I am learning, my "aha" moments with others. I can ask them what they are feeding on and how it's working for them. I can sit down with strangers and friends alike and share food, share fellowship, share life.
An extraordinary and momentous thing happens every time I allow myself to be open, to be vulnerable, to be honest about my hunger and thirst, about my loneliness and my needs, about my fears and desires: I am transformed. My soul's pain is soothed, and its hunger is sated. My eyes and my heart are opened not only to God and what He wants to speak into my life, but also to those around me, those with whom I share this peculiar form of heartburn. The richness, grace, and beauty that comes to me through friends and loved ones is immeasurable.
Near the end of the book, Nouwen wrote the following: "Having entered into communion with Jesus and created community with those who know that he is alive, we now can go and join the many lonely travelers and help them discover that they too have the gift of love to share. We are no longer afraid of their sadness and pain, but can ask them simply: 'What are you talking about as you walk along the road?' And we will hear stories of immense loneliness, fear, rejection, abandonment, and sadness." Some of my best conversations are with other travelers who are willing to share a little of the loneliness, the fear, and the sadness, and together we live out the truth of the adage: "A sorrow shared is but half a sorrow. A joy shared is a joy made double."
I am disturbed by the ads on television for heartburn medications that are meant to ease the pain that comes from eating foods that upset our digestive systems. There is one that shows a man at an airport eating spicy sausage that his family thinks will be his demise. There is another one about the man at the restaurant buffet, loading up a second plate, but pounding on his chest hoping to beat the pain back. Here's what I always want to ask the pasty-faced, pudgy men who are eating their way into an early grave: "Why not just avoid the food that causes the heartburn, acid reflux, and chest pain? Just back away from the table, big guy. Better yet, avoid all buffets at all restaurants."
The kind of heartburn the disciples diagnosed at the end of the book of Luke, the kind that comes from being cared for by observant friends like Katie, and the kind that I'm developing after meeting three people at church who are quickly becoming good friends - this is the kind of heartburn that should never be avoided. This is the kind of chest pressure that makes me want to keep going back to the table, keep loading up my plate, and never back away. Sometimes heartburn is a good thing.
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