Many changes, I hope.
Blogspot has been taken over by Google, and we are being required to switch over or be banned from our blogs. I'm pondering a break from blogging for a while. Perhaps a switch to some other form of communication.
I will be teaching a course on spiritual journaling at my church in January. There is much preparation to be done for that class.
I am planning another month-long trip to Spain with the children in the late spring. So much to do: We must find an apartment, make the necessary arrangements to rent it, and plan adventures during our sojourn in the country that has captured my heart.
I am in the middle of reading through a pile of books that has been calling my name for a good long time. Many thoughts of simplicity, solitude, silence, reflection, and rejuvenation.
Tears flow as I pray for a friend who was recently diagnosed with cancer on the membrane around his eyeball. I still pray regularly for Laurie, the widow who lost her young son back in April. The wife of a former pastor was paralyzed in a biking accident a few weeks ago. There is much to mourn.
But there are also many reasons to rejoice: Thanksgiving is just a few days away. I have so much for which to give thanks. My own good health and a clean bill of health written up for the kids this past week - their radiant, glowingly beautiful, and very pregnant pediatrician complimented them both on how much and how well they have grown in the past year. The very fact that, for most of their lives, they have visited the doctor only once per year - for their well visits - is reason enough to rejoice. They have both been chosen as members of the local rec program's basketball teams. Daniel's baseball team won the league championship for his age group last Thursday night. And then he was invited to the homes of three children from teams he'd beaten. Talk about popular! Just today, two women asked me to teach a class on journaling; I had the pleasure of telling them that just such a class is in the works.
Last night, we were invited to dinner in celebration of the birthday of one of Daniel's teammates. The homeowners had the forethought and the money (!) to purchase the empty lot behind their home and had a swimming pool and outdoor kitchen built. Beautiful. Tasteful. Luxurious.
Twelve or fifteen of us stood poolside on an unseasonably warm November evening, eating, drinking, laughing, telling stories, watching our children run and play carelessly. I was overwhelmed with awe at the beauty of the setting, honored to have been invited to participate in the festivities, and silenced by the realization that ours, that mine, is truly a blessed life. We see and live among such wealth, such privilege, and such responsibility.
Food, clothing, cars, houses, rolling lawns, bubbling hot tubs, outdoor fireplaces, plasma televisions, computers, shopping plazas, Starbucks, California Pizza Kitchen, Barnes and Noble, Neiman Marcus, Nordstroms, full bellies, and empty complaint boxes. Life is grand. Couldn't be finer.
But what will it profit us if we gain the whole world - and that's how it felt last night, as if every one of us has the whole world by the tail - and lose our souls? What have we gained? I wondered what all this wealth and comfort cost us. How much time we ought to spend with our children is spent working endless hours in order to afford all the stuff we give to them instead of giving ourselves? How much of the mental and emotional energy that we spend on mowing lawns, washing expensive cars, buying more stuff to fill our increasingly large homes, and then paying the bills for all of it could be better spent reading, creating art, and laughing together with those we love?
But enough of the third person theatrics.
Enough of the first person plural flourishes.
I've got to make it personal.
What will I do with the many gifts I've been given?
What difference will my life make in the lives of others?
How will I bless someone else with my life?
How does simplicity fit into the context of my complex life?
Is there room for solitude and silence in my noisy and busy world?
Can I afford to shut those things out for much longer?
What matters more than peace that passes understanding,
than unspeakable joy,
than contentment and gratitude in all circumstances?
Yes, a change is coming.
Hopefully, many changes.
I'm not sure what. I'm not sure when. I'm not sure how.
But something's gotta give.
Sunday, November 12, 2006
Thursday, November 09, 2006
It's a New Day...
A new day for our nation's government.
To move in a new direction, with new men and women in leadership positions.
To change our course, to shift the balance of power.
To make a new plan for a new future.
It is time to admit mistakes and wrong decisions.
It is time to consider new possibilities and changes in direction.
It is time to graciously step down and accept defeat.
It is time to graciously accept the mantle of responsibility and accept victory.
It is time for each of us, for all of us to reach out to one another, asking for forgiveness for words spoken in anger, in conceit, in self-pity, and in vain attempts to cover our own wrongdoing.
It's a new day, yes, but some things will remain the same, at least they ought to.
In my own life, I will continue to still seek to do right because it's the right thing to do. I will continue to examine my own behavior, to acknowledge my failings, and pray for the humility to admit wrong and make amends. I will encourage my husband, my children, and my friends to do the same. I will continue to pray for our national leaders, governors, senators, and congressional representatives - for their integrity, for their pursuit of righteousness, and for their resolve to stand firm for justice, peace, and mercy.
If there is going to be peace in the world, I must begin to pursue it in my own life. I will be peaceful with my words, by not using foul language, mean words, not engaging in gossip, and not bad-mouthing those with whom I disagree.
I will be peaceful in my actions, not only in how I treat my husband and children, the people I love, but also in how I treat those who bad-mouth and criticize me and the ideas I embrace. As much as it depends on me, I will live at peace with all those with whom I come in contact.
Jesus said that the world will know we are Christians, not by our political capital, not by our wealth, not because we pick and choose which social or political or religious battles we will fight, or which laws we establish or take off the books. We will be known as children of God not because we agree on every point or because we are all healthy, wealthy, and strong. No, He didn't refer to any of those things as the standards by which the world would know who we are and Whose we are.
He said that the world, our neighbors, our friends,
and our family members will know we are Christians
by our love one for another.
Love that is patient, kind, rejoices with the truth
(even if the truth hurts me or my feelings).
Love always protects, always trusts, always hopes,
and always perseveres.
Love does not envy, doesn't boast, is not proud, rude,
self-seeking, or easily angered.
Love keeps no record of wrong.
(That's the toughest one for me. I SOOOOO want to point out
all the wrong I see in others.
A little "I told you so" every now and then
makes me feel so good.
But love, true love, relinquishes all hope for
retaliation and self-promotion.)
That's the kind of love I want to know.
That's the kind of love for which I want to be known.
Whether Democrat or Republican, wealthy or poor, black or white,
citizen or immigrant, married or single, parent or childless,
may it be love that both sets us apart and draws us together.
It's a new day for our country.
It's a new day for our entire world.
I hope and pray that it is a new day for me too.
Where we go from here, how the forward journey will progress, I do not yet know.
But I will not fear. I will not worry. Like my friend, Leonie, in a land far away, I will find my way into a church, sit quietly, and gaze up at the cross, alternating between whispering my prayers, my hopes, my dreams, my doubts, my fears,
and holding my breath as I wait to hear the answers.
To move in a new direction, with new men and women in leadership positions.
To change our course, to shift the balance of power.
To make a new plan for a new future.
It is time to admit mistakes and wrong decisions.
It is time to consider new possibilities and changes in direction.
It is time to graciously step down and accept defeat.
It is time to graciously accept the mantle of responsibility and accept victory.
It is time for each of us, for all of us to reach out to one another, asking for forgiveness for words spoken in anger, in conceit, in self-pity, and in vain attempts to cover our own wrongdoing.
It's a new day, yes, but some things will remain the same, at least they ought to.
In my own life, I will continue to still seek to do right because it's the right thing to do. I will continue to examine my own behavior, to acknowledge my failings, and pray for the humility to admit wrong and make amends. I will encourage my husband, my children, and my friends to do the same. I will continue to pray for our national leaders, governors, senators, and congressional representatives - for their integrity, for their pursuit of righteousness, and for their resolve to stand firm for justice, peace, and mercy.
If there is going to be peace in the world, I must begin to pursue it in my own life. I will be peaceful with my words, by not using foul language, mean words, not engaging in gossip, and not bad-mouthing those with whom I disagree.
I will be peaceful in my actions, not only in how I treat my husband and children, the people I love, but also in how I treat those who bad-mouth and criticize me and the ideas I embrace. As much as it depends on me, I will live at peace with all those with whom I come in contact.
Jesus said that the world will know we are Christians, not by our political capital, not by our wealth, not because we pick and choose which social or political or religious battles we will fight, or which laws we establish or take off the books. We will be known as children of God not because we agree on every point or because we are all healthy, wealthy, and strong. No, He didn't refer to any of those things as the standards by which the world would know who we are and Whose we are.
He said that the world, our neighbors, our friends,
and our family members will know we are Christians
by our love one for another.
Love that is patient, kind, rejoices with the truth
(even if the truth hurts me or my feelings).
Love always protects, always trusts, always hopes,
and always perseveres.
Love does not envy, doesn't boast, is not proud, rude,
self-seeking, or easily angered.
Love keeps no record of wrong.
(That's the toughest one for me. I SOOOOO want to point out
all the wrong I see in others.
A little "I told you so" every now and then
makes me feel so good.
But love, true love, relinquishes all hope for
retaliation and self-promotion.)
That's the kind of love I want to know.
That's the kind of love for which I want to be known.
Whether Democrat or Republican, wealthy or poor, black or white,
citizen or immigrant, married or single, parent or childless,
may it be love that both sets us apart and draws us together.
It's a new day for our country.
It's a new day for our entire world.
I hope and pray that it is a new day for me too.
Where we go from here, how the forward journey will progress, I do not yet know.
But I will not fear. I will not worry. Like my friend, Leonie, in a land far away, I will find my way into a church, sit quietly, and gaze up at the cross, alternating between whispering my prayers, my hopes, my dreams, my doubts, my fears,
and holding my breath as I wait to hear the answers.
Monday, November 06, 2006
Every Connection Matters
This morning, I read on the superhero journal (www.superherodesigns.com/journal) about the way Andrea Scher interacts with people at the post office. She acknowledges rightly that every connection we make, every interaction we have with other people matters. If we miss a meeting or party, people do notice. When we speak to someone with respect and honor - or with anger and disdain - we leave a mark. We leave a footprint on their lives.
Yesterday at church, my daughter and I had a chance to speak to the new worship leader. He moved to Charlotte with his wife and three daughters this past summer from Michigan. Tim and Vicki are both enormously talented singers and musicians, and they bring a joy and energy to the worship ministry that is refreshing, joyful to watch, and pleasing to the Lord. I have had a couple of chances to speak with them both, but more frequently with him, and have been careful to offer words of encouragement and gratitude for his hard work and willingness to lead us in music and singing each Sunday. I thanked him for the ways in which his presence at our church blessed and benefitted my spiritual life.
But Tim and Vicki are also human beings. They have daughters who are transitioning - sometimes smoothly and sometimes not-so-smoothly - to their new life here in Charlotte. They are trying to find their way around this new place with its odd street configurations and sometimes confusing southern ways. They are facing new concerns and issues at a new church. They are criticized and judged for their words and actions. In our conversation, I honored all of those factors, told him we are praying for him and his family, and promised to continue to do so. Not surprisingly, I could tell as I spoke to him that he was uncomfortable with receiving compliments. He was much more comfortable in thanking me for my prayers for their family than receiving my accolades.
Why is it so difficult for us to simply say thanks for the kind words that are offered to us? Why is it so hard to believe that our lives matter to others? I think the only way we will ever change our tendency to disbelieve our value is by looking people in the eye and telling them exactly why they matter to us - over and over. Life is too short to hold back on loving others; by the time we get around to telling them how we feel, it may be too late. They - or we - could be dead, have moved away, or be so overwhelmed with feelings of worthlessness that either they cannot hear our words or we cannot speak them. I am determined to not wait that long.
Last week, a friend of mine sent me an email in which she described some challenges she is currently facing. I wrote her one of my typical long, descriptive, overly emotional missives, and then I called her and left her a message telling her that she is in my thoughts and prayers. When she called me back, she expressed sincere gratitude for my gestures of kindness towards her, and we talked for quite a while. Yes, every connection, every contact makes a difference.
When I read the blogs other people write and send comments
When I read the emails that friends send and write back to them
When I listen to phone messages and respond with a card sent "snail mail"
When I smile at the person checking me out at the supermarket
When I return to that cashier and remind him or her of a previous exchange
When I sincerely thank the store employee who loads my groceries into the car
or recommends a bottle of wine
or weighs and wraps my fish selection
or asks me if I've found everything I needed at the market
When I visit a neighbor and comment on the kitchen renovations she is doing
When I thank the doctor or dentist for helping me stay healthy
When I hug the folks at church and listen to their stories
I am fully aware that every one of those interactions leaves a mark.
Every smile, snarl, compliment, and curse matters.
I have a friend in Spain who told me a long time ago that every night when he goes to bed, he takes a few moments to consider if he has made someone smile at some point during that day. Was it a child in a stroller, a co-worker, a client, a friend, or his wife? Whose day was improved, even if only for a moment, because of something he said or did? Good question, Jorge, very good question.
To that list, I will add the name of the One whose approval of my life matters than all others. On a daily basis I wonder, "Have I done anything today that made God smile? That was pleasing to Him? Did I love with a whole heart? Did I forgive someone for a wrong done to me? Did I refrain from gossip or slander? Did I reach out to someone in need and lend a hand? Did I write an email or a blog or a card that would lift someone's spirits? Did I give thanks for the many blessings I received today?"
Psalm 19:14 says, Let the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart
be acceptable in Your sight, O Lord, my rock and my Redeemer.
Ephesians 4:29 follows that: Do not let any unwholesome talk come out of your mouths, but only what is helpful for building others up according to their needs, that it may benefit those who listen.
Certainly every day I blow it. I say mean things. I certainly think mean things. A lot of the time, I want to walk - no, run - away from my life and start all over as a single, childless, and carefree woman in a breezy apartment overlooking el Paseo de la Castellana in Madrid. I am selfish and thoughtless; as proof of that, I confess that I like to shop more than I like to clean the house.
But the deepest desire of my heart is to honor God with every decision I make.
Beyond that, I long to become the strongest, most joyful, gracious, and creative woman I can be, and in turn love, honor, respect, and build others up.
Every night I want my last thought to be a question:
Have I made at least one connection, had at least one interaction,
or made at least one decision today that honored God and encouraged someone else?
Every time I can honestly answer "Yes" will have been a good day.
Thanks, Andrea, for your blog and the challenge to make every connection count.
Yesterday at church, my daughter and I had a chance to speak to the new worship leader. He moved to Charlotte with his wife and three daughters this past summer from Michigan. Tim and Vicki are both enormously talented singers and musicians, and they bring a joy and energy to the worship ministry that is refreshing, joyful to watch, and pleasing to the Lord. I have had a couple of chances to speak with them both, but more frequently with him, and have been careful to offer words of encouragement and gratitude for his hard work and willingness to lead us in music and singing each Sunday. I thanked him for the ways in which his presence at our church blessed and benefitted my spiritual life.
But Tim and Vicki are also human beings. They have daughters who are transitioning - sometimes smoothly and sometimes not-so-smoothly - to their new life here in Charlotte. They are trying to find their way around this new place with its odd street configurations and sometimes confusing southern ways. They are facing new concerns and issues at a new church. They are criticized and judged for their words and actions. In our conversation, I honored all of those factors, told him we are praying for him and his family, and promised to continue to do so. Not surprisingly, I could tell as I spoke to him that he was uncomfortable with receiving compliments. He was much more comfortable in thanking me for my prayers for their family than receiving my accolades.
Why is it so difficult for us to simply say thanks for the kind words that are offered to us? Why is it so hard to believe that our lives matter to others? I think the only way we will ever change our tendency to disbelieve our value is by looking people in the eye and telling them exactly why they matter to us - over and over. Life is too short to hold back on loving others; by the time we get around to telling them how we feel, it may be too late. They - or we - could be dead, have moved away, or be so overwhelmed with feelings of worthlessness that either they cannot hear our words or we cannot speak them. I am determined to not wait that long.
Last week, a friend of mine sent me an email in which she described some challenges she is currently facing. I wrote her one of my typical long, descriptive, overly emotional missives, and then I called her and left her a message telling her that she is in my thoughts and prayers. When she called me back, she expressed sincere gratitude for my gestures of kindness towards her, and we talked for quite a while. Yes, every connection, every contact makes a difference.
When I read the blogs other people write and send comments
When I read the emails that friends send and write back to them
When I listen to phone messages and respond with a card sent "snail mail"
When I smile at the person checking me out at the supermarket
When I return to that cashier and remind him or her of a previous exchange
When I sincerely thank the store employee who loads my groceries into the car
or recommends a bottle of wine
or weighs and wraps my fish selection
or asks me if I've found everything I needed at the market
When I visit a neighbor and comment on the kitchen renovations she is doing
When I thank the doctor or dentist for helping me stay healthy
When I hug the folks at church and listen to their stories
I am fully aware that every one of those interactions leaves a mark.
Every smile, snarl, compliment, and curse matters.
I have a friend in Spain who told me a long time ago that every night when he goes to bed, he takes a few moments to consider if he has made someone smile at some point during that day. Was it a child in a stroller, a co-worker, a client, a friend, or his wife? Whose day was improved, even if only for a moment, because of something he said or did? Good question, Jorge, very good question.
To that list, I will add the name of the One whose approval of my life matters than all others. On a daily basis I wonder, "Have I done anything today that made God smile? That was pleasing to Him? Did I love with a whole heart? Did I forgive someone for a wrong done to me? Did I refrain from gossip or slander? Did I reach out to someone in need and lend a hand? Did I write an email or a blog or a card that would lift someone's spirits? Did I give thanks for the many blessings I received today?"
Psalm 19:14 says, Let the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart
be acceptable in Your sight, O Lord, my rock and my Redeemer.
Ephesians 4:29 follows that: Do not let any unwholesome talk come out of your mouths, but only what is helpful for building others up according to their needs, that it may benefit those who listen.
Certainly every day I blow it. I say mean things. I certainly think mean things. A lot of the time, I want to walk - no, run - away from my life and start all over as a single, childless, and carefree woman in a breezy apartment overlooking el Paseo de la Castellana in Madrid. I am selfish and thoughtless; as proof of that, I confess that I like to shop more than I like to clean the house.
But the deepest desire of my heart is to honor God with every decision I make.
Beyond that, I long to become the strongest, most joyful, gracious, and creative woman I can be, and in turn love, honor, respect, and build others up.
Every night I want my last thought to be a question:
Have I made at least one connection, had at least one interaction,
or made at least one decision today that honored God and encouraged someone else?
Every time I can honestly answer "Yes" will have been a good day.
Thanks, Andrea, for your blog and the challenge to make every connection count.
Friday, November 03, 2006
What are you dreaming about?
Earlier this week I began to read a book by SARK called Making Your Creative Dreams Real. Colorful, challenging, and encouraging, this book is making me look at myself and my life through newly enlightened eyes. Lots of questions have bubbled to the surface.
What have I always dreamt that I could do or be?
What were some of my childhood dreams for my life?
Have any of those dreams changed?
If not, am I pursuing any of them?
The good news is that I have rediscovered some of my childhood dreams.
Turns out I have always wanted to:
Be a wife and mother.
Be a teacher.
Travel.
Read and write a lot.
The more exciting news is that I have figured out ways to combine and expand on those dreams. Nowadays my dream includes the desire to be a teacher who travels all over the world telling stories, sharing tips on how to live a grace-filled, wonder-filled, joy-filled life. I want to meet men and women who are living out their dreams (even if their "day jobs" don't have anything to do with those dreams), ask them how they are doing it, and then (with their permission) taking their advice, suggestions, and tips to share with others.
My greatest challenge in this area is to continue to expand on those dreams.
And to bring them to life. To live my dreams out loud. Without apology.
To make what SARK calls "micromovements" towards the accomplishment of those goals. I can make telephone calls to friends and ask if they know of someone who might benefit from a class or motivational talk I am willing to give. I can keep reading this book and stimulating my imagination to discover other movements, other venues, and other lessons I need to learn in order to keep living out my dreams. By way of encouragement, I can make lists of all the ways in which my dreams have already come true. I can transform those dreamy moments into talks and topics I'd love to teach about.
I find myself smiling a lot this week as I think about the myriad ways I can potentially live out my dreams. I find myself laughing to myself as I honor the fact that I am already living out some of them. And I am humbled by the fact that I have the time, the energy, and the support of family and friends as I seek ways to go even farther, to dig deeper, and to shine brighter in this increasingly dark and lonely world.
As fall turns into winter, I will warm myself by the fires of friendship, community, and fake gas logs in the fireplace while sippling chamomile and lavender tea.
As the stress and demands of the holidays descend upon me, I will refuse to be overwhelmed, instead taking time to relax with Steve and the children, escape to Barnes and Noble and Starbucks, and practice saying "No" to parties and other events that I don't wish to attend. Without excuse. Just a simple "No." It's okay; they will just invite someone else to take my place.
As war rages on, I will seek peace.
As personal and relational insecurity increases all around me,
I will stand strong and secure in who I am and Whose I am.
As fear and fear-mongering prevail, I will claim the truth of Psalm 23:
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil for You
(The God who Sees, The God who Heals, Provides, and Protects)
art with me.
In the midst of it all, I will keep on dreaming.
I will live out these dreams as best I can.
And I will not stop living as boldly and loudly as I can until
this aging shell that houses my
dreaming, praying, wandering, wondering soul
is laid to rest in the casket.
Until then, rock on, dudes and dudettes.
Rock on.
What have I always dreamt that I could do or be?
What were some of my childhood dreams for my life?
Have any of those dreams changed?
If not, am I pursuing any of them?
The good news is that I have rediscovered some of my childhood dreams.
Turns out I have always wanted to:
Be a wife and mother.
Be a teacher.
Travel.
Read and write a lot.
The more exciting news is that I have figured out ways to combine and expand on those dreams. Nowadays my dream includes the desire to be a teacher who travels all over the world telling stories, sharing tips on how to live a grace-filled, wonder-filled, joy-filled life. I want to meet men and women who are living out their dreams (even if their "day jobs" don't have anything to do with those dreams), ask them how they are doing it, and then (with their permission) taking their advice, suggestions, and tips to share with others.
My greatest challenge in this area is to continue to expand on those dreams.
And to bring them to life. To live my dreams out loud. Without apology.
To make what SARK calls "micromovements" towards the accomplishment of those goals. I can make telephone calls to friends and ask if they know of someone who might benefit from a class or motivational talk I am willing to give. I can keep reading this book and stimulating my imagination to discover other movements, other venues, and other lessons I need to learn in order to keep living out my dreams. By way of encouragement, I can make lists of all the ways in which my dreams have already come true. I can transform those dreamy moments into talks and topics I'd love to teach about.
I find myself smiling a lot this week as I think about the myriad ways I can potentially live out my dreams. I find myself laughing to myself as I honor the fact that I am already living out some of them. And I am humbled by the fact that I have the time, the energy, and the support of family and friends as I seek ways to go even farther, to dig deeper, and to shine brighter in this increasingly dark and lonely world.
As fall turns into winter, I will warm myself by the fires of friendship, community, and fake gas logs in the fireplace while sippling chamomile and lavender tea.
As the stress and demands of the holidays descend upon me, I will refuse to be overwhelmed, instead taking time to relax with Steve and the children, escape to Barnes and Noble and Starbucks, and practice saying "No" to parties and other events that I don't wish to attend. Without excuse. Just a simple "No." It's okay; they will just invite someone else to take my place.
As war rages on, I will seek peace.
As personal and relational insecurity increases all around me,
I will stand strong and secure in who I am and Whose I am.
As fear and fear-mongering prevail, I will claim the truth of Psalm 23:
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil for You
(The God who Sees, The God who Heals, Provides, and Protects)
art with me.
In the midst of it all, I will keep on dreaming.
I will live out these dreams as best I can.
And I will not stop living as boldly and loudly as I can until
this aging shell that houses my
dreaming, praying, wandering, wondering soul
is laid to rest in the casket.
Until then, rock on, dudes and dudettes.
Rock on.
Thursday, November 02, 2006
Thursday Thirteen: Irritation x (times) thirteen
1. Politicians who lie
2. Politicians who twist each other's words
3. Negative political ads
4. Politicians who appear at the end of ads to say "I am so-and-so, and I approve this ad."
5. All the excuses that politicians make in order to justify their selfish, unjust, unfair, financially- and morally-questionable decisions
6. The elected officials who compromise what they know is right in order to be either elected or reelected
7. The lies we believe in order to vote for the candidates we choose
8. The lies we tell in order to justify our political choices
9. The desperate scarcity of helpful information we receive from candidates in order to make informed decisions
10. Finding political propaganda on my car that tells me nothing about any particular candidate, but serves to incite my ire all the more
11. The venomous, biased, mean-spirited discussion that goes on in relation to politics
12. How little I trust our political system: will my vote be counted? Is it possible to know for sure? How sad is it that I even have to wonder about it?
13. We can make bullets to pierce armor. We can build spaceships that go into outer space and return in one piece (most of the time). We have the capacity to listen to every phone call made by anyone and everyone in this country. We can also monitor every email sent to and fro. How can it be that in this nation, the United States of America, this nation that is exporting democracy around the world, we cannot come up with a nationally established and applied standard for electing our officials? Why can't we come up with a reliable voting machine? And why is it that only now, at the time of national elections, are we hearing that there are still major problems with the voting machines that are being used all over our country?
********************************************************
Added on Friday, November 3rd at 3 PM: Here we go with yet another evangelical Christian/pastor/political advisor sex scandal. What is it that is so difficult for these guys to understand? If you are a closet homosexual or a pedophile or an addict of some kind or spousal abuser, please do us all a favor and don't preach publically against the lifestyle you have chosen to live in secret.
You are going to get caught.
You are going to tell a series of lies to cover your trail.
Then you will end up having to tell the truth,
humiliating yourself, your family, and your church.
Then all of us who are trying hard not to dishonor
the Name of Jesus end up having to answer for your hypocrisy.
If you wanna live in the closet, then choose a spacious one,
decorate it to your taste, and live contentedly there.
Sit back, shut up, and keep your dirty little secrets to yourself.
That's what I'm doing!!!
2. Politicians who twist each other's words
3. Negative political ads
4. Politicians who appear at the end of ads to say "I am so-and-so, and I approve this ad."
5. All the excuses that politicians make in order to justify their selfish, unjust, unfair, financially- and morally-questionable decisions
6. The elected officials who compromise what they know is right in order to be either elected or reelected
7. The lies we believe in order to vote for the candidates we choose
8. The lies we tell in order to justify our political choices
9. The desperate scarcity of helpful information we receive from candidates in order to make informed decisions
10. Finding political propaganda on my car that tells me nothing about any particular candidate, but serves to incite my ire all the more
11. The venomous, biased, mean-spirited discussion that goes on in relation to politics
12. How little I trust our political system: will my vote be counted? Is it possible to know for sure? How sad is it that I even have to wonder about it?
13. We can make bullets to pierce armor. We can build spaceships that go into outer space and return in one piece (most of the time). We have the capacity to listen to every phone call made by anyone and everyone in this country. We can also monitor every email sent to and fro. How can it be that in this nation, the United States of America, this nation that is exporting democracy around the world, we cannot come up with a nationally established and applied standard for electing our officials? Why can't we come up with a reliable voting machine? And why is it that only now, at the time of national elections, are we hearing that there are still major problems with the voting machines that are being used all over our country?
********************************************************
Added on Friday, November 3rd at 3 PM: Here we go with yet another evangelical Christian/pastor/political advisor sex scandal. What is it that is so difficult for these guys to understand? If you are a closet homosexual or a pedophile or an addict of some kind or spousal abuser, please do us all a favor and don't preach publically against the lifestyle you have chosen to live in secret.
You are going to get caught.
You are going to tell a series of lies to cover your trail.
Then you will end up having to tell the truth,
humiliating yourself, your family, and your church.
Then all of us who are trying hard not to dishonor
the Name of Jesus end up having to answer for your hypocrisy.
If you wanna live in the closet, then choose a spacious one,
decorate it to your taste, and live contentedly there.
Sit back, shut up, and keep your dirty little secrets to yourself.
That's what I'm doing!!!
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
Four years ago today...
We set out from Norwalk, Connecticut, for Charlotte, North Carolina.
I vacuumed my house one last time.
Walked its empty rooms.
Gave thanks for all the joys we had shared there and
blessed each room for its future occupants.
And I wept.
Five years of abundant living had come to an end,
and we were on our way to an entirely new life,
a life brimming with abundance we had
never known or imagined would ever be ours to enjoy.
Five years at 145 North Seir Hill Road in Norwalk.
The white raised ranch on the corner of Grey Hollow Road.
The house with the ice-water swimming pool and expansive lawn.
The house with the magnificent old trees that provided us with deep shade in the summer and inundated us with deep piles of colorful leaves in the fall.
The house with the wood-burning fireplace and the cool tile floor in the basement. The house with its pantry in the basement and kitchen on the upper floor.
The house with the well and its salt crystal water purification system.
The house where Daniel learned to walk and play baseball.
The house where Kristiana learned to read and play basketball.
The house were we had Bible studies and pool parties, dinners and Easter egg hunts, noisy birthday parties and quiet Christmas mornings.
The house where the homeschooling adventure began.
The house where I learned how to use the internet and how to reboot my computer after viruses had taken over.
Five years flew by in that house. And I am grateful for every minute.
Four years ago today, our life in that house ended.
Four years ago tomorrow, our life in this house began.
How these years have flown.
This house that surpasses all my house-related dreams with its brick exterior, its dark hardwood floors downstairs and cozy carpet upstairs, its kitchen island, built-in cabinets, and its many light- and air- welcoming windows.
This house with its squeaks, leaks, cracks, and crevices.
This house that protects our lives, our dreams, our dog, our books, and so much more.
This house where I take my life into my hands every time I have to relight the gas-powered water heater. (When will somebody invent a gas water heater that doesn't need to be lit by human hands???)
This house where I have learned to blog and have made friends that I know only because of the internet.
This house where I have begun to scrapbook.
This house where my daughter is blossoming into a beautiful teenage girl and
my son is becoming the kind of young man I am proud to call my own.
This house from which I am moving out into the world as a motivational speaker and retreat leader.
This house where we have lived, loved, argued, made up, welcomed friends, and banned bugs.
This house of dreams.
This house of belonging.
This house that is a home to a family I know and love
and to a future I don't yet know but excitedly anticipate.
For each day,
with its blessings and blunders,
with its cheerfulness and challenges,
with its delights and disappointments,
with its grace and grumbling,
with its laughter and laments,
with its lessons and losses,
with all that I am and all that I have,
I give thanks.
Thank you to all of you who knew me before this Charlotte adventure began, those who wished me well on my journey, and those who have traveled with me in body, mind, and spirit every step of the way. Thank you to all of you, my internet/blog/virtual world friends, not only those who read my rantings and then write to me, call me, encourage me, pray for me, but also to those of you who read this blog but do none of the above. Thank you for walking this pilgrim pathway for these two years that I've been blogging. Please journey on with me.
Grace, peace, and mercy be yours.
Today and forever.
Or at the very least for
four more years...
four more years...
Speaking of which - To the American citizens in the crowd: Don't forget to vote!
I vacuumed my house one last time.
Walked its empty rooms.
Gave thanks for all the joys we had shared there and
blessed each room for its future occupants.
And I wept.
Five years of abundant living had come to an end,
and we were on our way to an entirely new life,
a life brimming with abundance we had
never known or imagined would ever be ours to enjoy.
Five years at 145 North Seir Hill Road in Norwalk.
The white raised ranch on the corner of Grey Hollow Road.
The house with the ice-water swimming pool and expansive lawn.
The house with the magnificent old trees that provided us with deep shade in the summer and inundated us with deep piles of colorful leaves in the fall.
The house with the wood-burning fireplace and the cool tile floor in the basement. The house with its pantry in the basement and kitchen on the upper floor.
The house with the well and its salt crystal water purification system.
The house where Daniel learned to walk and play baseball.
The house where Kristiana learned to read and play basketball.
The house were we had Bible studies and pool parties, dinners and Easter egg hunts, noisy birthday parties and quiet Christmas mornings.
The house where the homeschooling adventure began.
The house where I learned how to use the internet and how to reboot my computer after viruses had taken over.
Five years flew by in that house. And I am grateful for every minute.
Four years ago today, our life in that house ended.
Four years ago tomorrow, our life in this house began.
How these years have flown.
This house that surpasses all my house-related dreams with its brick exterior, its dark hardwood floors downstairs and cozy carpet upstairs, its kitchen island, built-in cabinets, and its many light- and air- welcoming windows.
This house with its squeaks, leaks, cracks, and crevices.
This house that protects our lives, our dreams, our dog, our books, and so much more.
This house where I take my life into my hands every time I have to relight the gas-powered water heater. (When will somebody invent a gas water heater that doesn't need to be lit by human hands???)
This house where I have learned to blog and have made friends that I know only because of the internet.
This house where I have begun to scrapbook.
This house where my daughter is blossoming into a beautiful teenage girl and
my son is becoming the kind of young man I am proud to call my own.
This house from which I am moving out into the world as a motivational speaker and retreat leader.
This house where we have lived, loved, argued, made up, welcomed friends, and banned bugs.
This house of dreams.
This house of belonging.
This house that is a home to a family I know and love
and to a future I don't yet know but excitedly anticipate.
For each day,
with its blessings and blunders,
with its cheerfulness and challenges,
with its delights and disappointments,
with its grace and grumbling,
with its laughter and laments,
with its lessons and losses,
with all that I am and all that I have,
I give thanks.
Thank you to all of you who knew me before this Charlotte adventure began, those who wished me well on my journey, and those who have traveled with me in body, mind, and spirit every step of the way. Thank you to all of you, my internet/blog/virtual world friends, not only those who read my rantings and then write to me, call me, encourage me, pray for me, but also to those of you who read this blog but do none of the above. Thank you for walking this pilgrim pathway for these two years that I've been blogging. Please journey on with me.
Grace, peace, and mercy be yours.
Today and forever.
Or at the very least for
four more years...
four more years...
Speaking of which - To the American citizens in the crowd: Don't forget to vote!
Saturday, October 28, 2006
A blog idea taken from Leonie's Blog: "What is Good"
- Saturday night dates with Steve: mojitos and Spanish food tonight followed by raspberry cheesecake (which is not very Spanish)
- last-minute preparation for celebrating Kristiana's birthday on Monday
- recognizing how much she has improved in softball over the course of this less-than-stellar season. She has never lost her will to win or her desire to do better each game than the last one.
- hitting the jackpot with scrapbooking supplies lately: cardmaking and Christmas gifts will soon be in the production stage
- reading other people's blogs: faith journeys, family crises, travel to Japan, turning 40 with pride and gusto. I love to tell the story, but I love to read the story also.
- phone calls and emails from friends helping me solve my clogged drain problems, commiserating with my carpet cleaning trauma, and encouraging Kristiana to get back on her horse. You are the best, all of you.
- emails, text messages, and phone calls "just because"
- planning future jaunts to England, France, Italy, and Spain - with and without the hubby and kiddies
- dreaming about taking month-long escapades every year; we need only decide where to go
- working on the talk I will give to the South Carolina social workers on Tuesday. Yup, they've invited me back. I hope I don't disapppoint them...
- excellent journaling and work on my Spain photo album today
- planning to teach another spiritual journaling class - it is set to begin in January. May many hearts be open to new ways of seeing, experiencing, and recording the story of their spiritual growth.
- settling in to my wonderful, cozy, warm bed knowing that I have an extra hour during which to enjoy it tomorrow morning! I love when we turn our clocks back in the autumn.
Buona notte.
- last-minute preparation for celebrating Kristiana's birthday on Monday
- recognizing how much she has improved in softball over the course of this less-than-stellar season. She has never lost her will to win or her desire to do better each game than the last one.
- hitting the jackpot with scrapbooking supplies lately: cardmaking and Christmas gifts will soon be in the production stage
- reading other people's blogs: faith journeys, family crises, travel to Japan, turning 40 with pride and gusto. I love to tell the story, but I love to read the story also.
- phone calls and emails from friends helping me solve my clogged drain problems, commiserating with my carpet cleaning trauma, and encouraging Kristiana to get back on her horse. You are the best, all of you.
- emails, text messages, and phone calls "just because"
- planning future jaunts to England, France, Italy, and Spain - with and without the hubby and kiddies
- dreaming about taking month-long escapades every year; we need only decide where to go
- working on the talk I will give to the South Carolina social workers on Tuesday. Yup, they've invited me back. I hope I don't disapppoint them...
- excellent journaling and work on my Spain photo album today
- planning to teach another spiritual journaling class - it is set to begin in January. May many hearts be open to new ways of seeing, experiencing, and recording the story of their spiritual growth.
- settling in to my wonderful, cozy, warm bed knowing that I have an extra hour during which to enjoy it tomorrow morning! I love when we turn our clocks back in the autumn.
Buona notte.
Friday, October 27, 2006
Cleaning Day
There's nothing like pouring the water out of the carpet cleaning machine's retrieval tank to remind me of the filth we get so used to living in and with. The water I put in was crystal clear and warm to the touch. The water I discarded was chilled and brackish with hair, carpet fibers, and only Heaven knows what else floating in it.
But before I could use the carpet cleaner to suck up the dirt that was deeply entrenched in the carpet, I had to use the vacuum cleaner to get up the visible dirt. Threads, dust bunnies hoping to hide, blades of grass from softball and baseball socks, and again, who knows what else?!?
What I loathe most of all are those tiny yellow spots that remind me of the times we didn't get Maya outside in time. One of the downsides of having a dog that barks only when the doorbell rings is the fact that she gives us no indication of when her bladder is full to overflowing! Those and many other unmistakable signs of a full, sometimes untidy, always animated life are visible all over our carpet.
As things stand in our house, there is wall-to-wall carpeting only on our two staircases leading to the second floor and in all the rooms upstairs - except the bathrooms. One of our strict rules is that no one is to wear their shoes upstairs. (As a family, we don't wear shoes anywhere in the house, but we are less rigid with guests as long as they stay on the first floor.) I cannot imagine what the machine would reap from our floor covering if we had carpet on the first floor of our home. Or if we wore our shoes upstairs.
While filling the cleaning tank in my daughter's bathroom tub, I made the grim discovery that it had clearly been a while since she had last scrubbed her tub. Yikes! I'll chalk it up to brain damage due to the horseback riding incident... Nah, that won't hold water because what I saw today has been there since long before Monday. I'll say it again: yikes! So I sprayed her tub with organic orange oil cleaner, left it to do its duty, and returned later to scrub it out. I poured a healthy dose of drain clearing chemicals down the drain in her tub, her sink, and Daniel's sink as well.
A digression here: Kristiana and I went to Home Depot on Sunday to buy their "strongest drain clearer" and were led by two orange-apron-wearing gentleman to the red Ten Minute Drain Cleaner bottles. Both swore that they had used it themselves with great success. One spoke eloquently and reverently about the product's success in dealing with his wife's thick, long blonde hair. He assured us that, although the bottle said it worked in ten minutes, we could leave it in the pipes "for as long as twenty minutes." We thanked him and his colleague for their assistance and stood there staring silently and frightfully at the bottles.
When at last we spoke again, we discovered that our thoughts were along the same lines: Do we want to use a product that can stay in the drains for twenty minutes max? A product that advises the use of gloves, a funnel, and great care that it doesn't come into contact with the faucet, the drain stopper, or any surface other than the inside of the pipes? What are we pouring down our drains and out into the water tables of the earth our God so lovingly created? Kristiana was genuinely concerned about the aftereffects of such a chemical concoction; she preferred to live with her slow drains rather than scorch them with something vile. I love her gentle, earth-loving soul.
Well, we bought the big red bottle because our sinks and her tub were draining too slowly to ignore - we needed serious help. To assuage our guilt, however, we also purchased the organic drain cleaner as a follow-up.
Anyway, this morning I poured the last of the red bottle stuff down her tub drain and ten minutes later, true to its claim to fame, it had cleared the drain.
Drain cleaning. Heart cleaning.
Ten minutes of acid. Ten minutes of prayer and meditation.
Clean for weeks, but needs follow-up clearing.
Clean for moments, and needs daily, hourly reassessment.
Deep down stains that only a special machine
with its specialized cleansers can remove.
Even deeper stains that only a strong, loving, gentle God
with His strong, loving, gentle Word can cleanse.
"Kids," I yelled just before lunchtime, "Stay off the back staircase.
I just cleaned it." Okay, Mom. (I believe that Daniel said, "Yes, ma'am."
He's turning into quite the little Southern gentleman, I do declare.
I look back at the work I've done.
The place looks great. It smells fresh and clean.
No more Maya-messes.
No more drips of tea, soda, and whatever else they sneak upstairs
even though I rant and rave about
keeping all food and drink on the first floor.
No more stains from all my lotions, potions, oils, and perfumes
on the floor in front of my lovely dresser with its tri-fold mirror.
The carpet is fragrant and clean, for sure. But it's so unlike us.
We live an abundant, messy, fun, tasty, smelly life here in this house.
Maya runs and plays so hard that she wets herself.
We drip pen ink and paint and sweat and all kinds of other
stuff all over our house.
Now that I think about it, Kristiana fell off her high horse on Monday
because we are blessed enough to be able to afford riding lessons.
I started out grudgingly cleaning the carpets and
ended up unexpectedly giving thanks for the mess.
Whudda thunk it?
Simple abundance.
Simple gratitude.
But before I could use the carpet cleaner to suck up the dirt that was deeply entrenched in the carpet, I had to use the vacuum cleaner to get up the visible dirt. Threads, dust bunnies hoping to hide, blades of grass from softball and baseball socks, and again, who knows what else?!?
What I loathe most of all are those tiny yellow spots that remind me of the times we didn't get Maya outside in time. One of the downsides of having a dog that barks only when the doorbell rings is the fact that she gives us no indication of when her bladder is full to overflowing! Those and many other unmistakable signs of a full, sometimes untidy, always animated life are visible all over our carpet.
As things stand in our house, there is wall-to-wall carpeting only on our two staircases leading to the second floor and in all the rooms upstairs - except the bathrooms. One of our strict rules is that no one is to wear their shoes upstairs. (As a family, we don't wear shoes anywhere in the house, but we are less rigid with guests as long as they stay on the first floor.) I cannot imagine what the machine would reap from our floor covering if we had carpet on the first floor of our home. Or if we wore our shoes upstairs.
While filling the cleaning tank in my daughter's bathroom tub, I made the grim discovery that it had clearly been a while since she had last scrubbed her tub. Yikes! I'll chalk it up to brain damage due to the horseback riding incident... Nah, that won't hold water because what I saw today has been there since long before Monday. I'll say it again: yikes! So I sprayed her tub with organic orange oil cleaner, left it to do its duty, and returned later to scrub it out. I poured a healthy dose of drain clearing chemicals down the drain in her tub, her sink, and Daniel's sink as well.
A digression here: Kristiana and I went to Home Depot on Sunday to buy their "strongest drain clearer" and were led by two orange-apron-wearing gentleman to the red Ten Minute Drain Cleaner bottles. Both swore that they had used it themselves with great success. One spoke eloquently and reverently about the product's success in dealing with his wife's thick, long blonde hair. He assured us that, although the bottle said it worked in ten minutes, we could leave it in the pipes "for as long as twenty minutes." We thanked him and his colleague for their assistance and stood there staring silently and frightfully at the bottles.
When at last we spoke again, we discovered that our thoughts were along the same lines: Do we want to use a product that can stay in the drains for twenty minutes max? A product that advises the use of gloves, a funnel, and great care that it doesn't come into contact with the faucet, the drain stopper, or any surface other than the inside of the pipes? What are we pouring down our drains and out into the water tables of the earth our God so lovingly created? Kristiana was genuinely concerned about the aftereffects of such a chemical concoction; she preferred to live with her slow drains rather than scorch them with something vile. I love her gentle, earth-loving soul.
Well, we bought the big red bottle because our sinks and her tub were draining too slowly to ignore - we needed serious help. To assuage our guilt, however, we also purchased the organic drain cleaner as a follow-up.
Anyway, this morning I poured the last of the red bottle stuff down her tub drain and ten minutes later, true to its claim to fame, it had cleared the drain.
Drain cleaning. Heart cleaning.
Ten minutes of acid. Ten minutes of prayer and meditation.
Clean for weeks, but needs follow-up clearing.
Clean for moments, and needs daily, hourly reassessment.
Deep down stains that only a special machine
with its specialized cleansers can remove.
Even deeper stains that only a strong, loving, gentle God
with His strong, loving, gentle Word can cleanse.
"Kids," I yelled just before lunchtime, "Stay off the back staircase.
I just cleaned it." Okay, Mom. (I believe that Daniel said, "Yes, ma'am."
He's turning into quite the little Southern gentleman, I do declare.
I look back at the work I've done.
The place looks great. It smells fresh and clean.
No more Maya-messes.
No more drips of tea, soda, and whatever else they sneak upstairs
even though I rant and rave about
keeping all food and drink on the first floor.
No more stains from all my lotions, potions, oils, and perfumes
on the floor in front of my lovely dresser with its tri-fold mirror.
The carpet is fragrant and clean, for sure. But it's so unlike us.
We live an abundant, messy, fun, tasty, smelly life here in this house.
Maya runs and plays so hard that she wets herself.
We drip pen ink and paint and sweat and all kinds of other
stuff all over our house.
Now that I think about it, Kristiana fell off her high horse on Monday
because we are blessed enough to be able to afford riding lessons.
I started out grudgingly cleaning the carpets and
ended up unexpectedly giving thanks for the mess.
Whudda thunk it?
Simple abundance.
Simple gratitude.
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
She Fell Off Her High Horse...
My daughter did. Literally.
Off her high horse at horseback riding class.
Yesterday.
Three years of riding. Her first fall.
Fortunately, she is fine.
Steve called me after picking her up and told me. She got on the phone and cried. I was sitting at Daniel's baseball game at the time, helpless, feeling sorrowful for her, but enormously grateful that she wasn't hurt.
Normally, she sleeps at the other end of the house in her super-cool, ultra-pre-teen aqua blue bedroom with the enormous giraffe painted on the wall. Last night, I told her to sleep closer to me, in the super-boring, blue and yellow wall-papered guest room. She readily obliged. I cuddled with her in the bed for a while, wiped her tears, prayed with her, encouraged her to cry as much as she needed to, to let the fear out, and to journal through every detail of it. I got her some Motrin, some water, and kissed her a dozen times before leaving the room. She was out cold within minutes.
She fell sleep with tears on her cheeks and complaining of a headache. I went to sleep with a broken heart and the phone number for a criminal negligence lawyer clenched in my furious fist.
This morning, she was fine. Shaken, frightened, but fine. Right now, at 6:15 PM, she is outside playing with her friends. The sound of her laughter is more beautiful today than it has been in a long time.
What would I have done if she'd been seriously hurt - or killed?
I am reminded of the fragility of life.
The way in which life can be drastically altered in a flash.
I love my children. From the moment I laid eyes on them, I have been enchanted. Kristiana will turn 13 on Monday. She was born 15 days past her due date, wrinkled, hairy, fat, and luscious. Daniel came only one day late, arriving while I sat in a tub at the Birth Cottage in New York State. It still blows my mind when I think that my body produced their bodies. That I was the channel for the passing of two new souls, new spirits, new human beings from heaven onto this planet.
When they are hurt, I writhe.
When they are happy, I am ecstatic.
My heart isn't on my sleeve.
My heart is on my driveway playing basketball and out on the street playing tag football at the moment.
She fell off her high horse yesterday and landed on my heart.
Soft landing, I hope.
Be well, my sweet girl.
Be strong.
Cry whenever you need to.
Laugh whenever you can.
And come to Momma for a hug anytime.
PS. She read it and told me that her room is green, not blue. Also, her head still hurts, so say a prayer for her, okay???
Off her high horse at horseback riding class.
Yesterday.
Three years of riding. Her first fall.
Fortunately, she is fine.
Steve called me after picking her up and told me. She got on the phone and cried. I was sitting at Daniel's baseball game at the time, helpless, feeling sorrowful for her, but enormously grateful that she wasn't hurt.
Normally, she sleeps at the other end of the house in her super-cool, ultra-pre-teen aqua blue bedroom with the enormous giraffe painted on the wall. Last night, I told her to sleep closer to me, in the super-boring, blue and yellow wall-papered guest room. She readily obliged. I cuddled with her in the bed for a while, wiped her tears, prayed with her, encouraged her to cry as much as she needed to, to let the fear out, and to journal through every detail of it. I got her some Motrin, some water, and kissed her a dozen times before leaving the room. She was out cold within minutes.
She fell sleep with tears on her cheeks and complaining of a headache. I went to sleep with a broken heart and the phone number for a criminal negligence lawyer clenched in my furious fist.
This morning, she was fine. Shaken, frightened, but fine. Right now, at 6:15 PM, she is outside playing with her friends. The sound of her laughter is more beautiful today than it has been in a long time.
What would I have done if she'd been seriously hurt - or killed?
I am reminded of the fragility of life.
The way in which life can be drastically altered in a flash.
I love my children. From the moment I laid eyes on them, I have been enchanted. Kristiana will turn 13 on Monday. She was born 15 days past her due date, wrinkled, hairy, fat, and luscious. Daniel came only one day late, arriving while I sat in a tub at the Birth Cottage in New York State. It still blows my mind when I think that my body produced their bodies. That I was the channel for the passing of two new souls, new spirits, new human beings from heaven onto this planet.
When they are hurt, I writhe.
When they are happy, I am ecstatic.
My heart isn't on my sleeve.
My heart is on my driveway playing basketball and out on the street playing tag football at the moment.
She fell off her high horse yesterday and landed on my heart.
Soft landing, I hope.
Be well, my sweet girl.
Be strong.
Cry whenever you need to.
Laugh whenever you can.
And come to Momma for a hug anytime.
PS. She read it and told me that her room is green, not blue. Also, her head still hurts, so say a prayer for her, okay???
Monday, October 23, 2006
He said, she said...
He said I'd been selected for the most thorough search the TSA offers to airline passengers. No, it wasn't a random selection, he said; the ticket agent had handwritten a special code directly onto my ticket. I had been singled out from the crowd for some reason.
I thought to myself: I've always known how special I am, but this is taking it a little too far. Later on while we sat waiting for the flight, I remarked to my friends that they had neglected to detect my bag of cosmetics, lotions, and potions. I had been wanded and searched, but my bags had not.
He said that he used to write notes and leave them in obvious places for other people to find. He said that he hoped someone would find them and help him. He knew he needed help, but didn't know who to ask or what to ask for.
I said, "That's exactly the point of keeping a journal. Write down what you need, how you feel, what you think, and what you hope for. Except now we know Who has the answers to our questions. We know Who is always listening to the cry of our hearts. And we believe with all our hearts that He is ready, willing, and able to do more than all we could ask or imagine. That's what He promised."
She said that the reason I journal so much and so well is because I have a vivid imagination. I can look at ads on television or photos in magazines and respond because of some inherent quality in me, something she didn't have. I disagreed with her assessment.
The next day, after she read her responses to the journaling prompts I'd assigned, I was the first one to tell her that her words, her list of things that make her smile, her responses to the word "music" were some of the most eloquent and expressive words I'd heard in a long time.
He pointed out the plazas where Christians were martyred during the Inquisition. He pointed out the neighborhood where Jews lived and from which they were later expelled. He explained the language of sculpture with regard to soldiers and their horses: One horse's hoof in the air meant that the man had died of wounds inflicted in battle. Two hoofs up meant he had died on the battlefield. All four feet on the ground meant that he had died of causes unrelated to war. Then he led us to a downtown tapas restaurant where we stood at the bar eating, drinking, laughing, and telling stories of earlier journeys.
I pulled him aside later, hugged him, and said, "Thanks for everything you told us. You are an excellent tour guide." He smiled, blushed, and kept on talking.
He said, "It has been a blessing to meet you and have you spend this week with us. Your love for Spain, for journaling, and for the Lord are obvious. And your teaching has opened my mind to new paths and inspired me to start journaling again."
I said nothing. He had said it all.
What can she say in response to something like that?
I thought to myself: I've always known how special I am, but this is taking it a little too far. Later on while we sat waiting for the flight, I remarked to my friends that they had neglected to detect my bag of cosmetics, lotions, and potions. I had been wanded and searched, but my bags had not.
He said that he used to write notes and leave them in obvious places for other people to find. He said that he hoped someone would find them and help him. He knew he needed help, but didn't know who to ask or what to ask for.
I said, "That's exactly the point of keeping a journal. Write down what you need, how you feel, what you think, and what you hope for. Except now we know Who has the answers to our questions. We know Who is always listening to the cry of our hearts. And we believe with all our hearts that He is ready, willing, and able to do more than all we could ask or imagine. That's what He promised."
She said that the reason I journal so much and so well is because I have a vivid imagination. I can look at ads on television or photos in magazines and respond because of some inherent quality in me, something she didn't have. I disagreed with her assessment.
The next day, after she read her responses to the journaling prompts I'd assigned, I was the first one to tell her that her words, her list of things that make her smile, her responses to the word "music" were some of the most eloquent and expressive words I'd heard in a long time.
He pointed out the plazas where Christians were martyred during the Inquisition. He pointed out the neighborhood where Jews lived and from which they were later expelled. He explained the language of sculpture with regard to soldiers and their horses: One horse's hoof in the air meant that the man had died of wounds inflicted in battle. Two hoofs up meant he had died on the battlefield. All four feet on the ground meant that he had died of causes unrelated to war. Then he led us to a downtown tapas restaurant where we stood at the bar eating, drinking, laughing, and telling stories of earlier journeys.
I pulled him aside later, hugged him, and said, "Thanks for everything you told us. You are an excellent tour guide." He smiled, blushed, and kept on talking.
He said, "It has been a blessing to meet you and have you spend this week with us. Your love for Spain, for journaling, and for the Lord are obvious. And your teaching has opened my mind to new paths and inspired me to start journaling again."
I said nothing. He had said it all.
What can she say in response to something like that?
Thursday, October 19, 2006
What I miss...
1. the children on the playground in Tres Barrios, Sevilla
2. toasted fresh bread, drizzled with olive oil and layered with Spanish jamon, washed down with sweet, hot coffee at Cafe de India in Espartina
3. watching the people at the airports along the way
4. teaching the journaling class and watching their hearts and eyes light up
5. painting little Marta's fingernails light pink
6. the look on her face when I greeted her by name the next day
7. standing next to the enormous statues of the men who carried the tomb of Christopher Columbus inside the cathedral of Sevilla
8. the interior patios visible from the streets of Andalucia - the plants, the hand-painted tiles, and the stained glass above the doors and windows
9. the woman who showed me her mastectomy scars and the necklace that bears the image of her deceased husband. What did she see in me that gave her such freedom to tell me her story and show me her scars? (This is an oft-repeated question in my life: Why did you choose me? Why did he choose me? Why me?)
10. watching Ada, David, Loida, and Manolo frolic in the waves of the sea off the coast of Cadiz
11. gluing ticket stubs, receipts, empty sugar packets, and words torn from bags and newspapers into my journal
12. the immaculately dressed infants that slept peacefully under elegant blankets in princely carriages as their parents paraded them through the center of town - Such a contrast to the inner-city children who wore the same clothing two or three days in a row.
13. the poetry on the walls of the Sevilla airport, posted in spaces where there might otherwise be advertisments. Poems by Antonio Machado, Vicente Aleixandre, Gustavo Adolfo Becquer were presented there in Spanish; please accept my humble translation of one of Machado's stanzas:
Floating in the afternoon atmosphere
that aroma of absence
says to the luminous soul: never,
and to the heart: wait.
14. waking up daily with the knowledge that there was yet another connection to make, another hand to hold, another smile to give away
- Hey wait! Number 14 doesn't have anything to do with Spain. There are connections to be made, hands to be held, and smiles to be shared right here at home.
************************************************
As I look back on the trip, read my journal,
reflect on the lessons learned, I am moved to tears.
So much comes back to mind. Faces. Stories. Fear. Doubt. Jokes.
Quiet moments of grace. Big moments of booming laughter.
Wishing I could stay there forever, but knowing that I could not.
Wishing I could hear more stories, tell more of my own,
but knowing that the stories would never end.
Wanting to share every moment with others,
but also longing to be alone, to absorb it at my own pace
and in my own way.
Wondering if I will ever see them again.
All of them. Any of them.
Contradictions. Contrasts. Confusion.
The places and people I miss.
The questions that plague.
The doubts that consume.
The wishes that are unlikely to become reality.
In all of life's in-elegance, there is beauty.
Depth. Grace. Insight.
Love. Laughter.
Gratitude.
Always deep gratitude.
Gracias por todo.
Grazie per tutti.
Thank you.
2. toasted fresh bread, drizzled with olive oil and layered with Spanish jamon, washed down with sweet, hot coffee at Cafe de India in Espartina
3. watching the people at the airports along the way
4. teaching the journaling class and watching their hearts and eyes light up
5. painting little Marta's fingernails light pink
6. the look on her face when I greeted her by name the next day
7. standing next to the enormous statues of the men who carried the tomb of Christopher Columbus inside the cathedral of Sevilla
8. the interior patios visible from the streets of Andalucia - the plants, the hand-painted tiles, and the stained glass above the doors and windows
9. the woman who showed me her mastectomy scars and the necklace that bears the image of her deceased husband. What did she see in me that gave her such freedom to tell me her story and show me her scars? (This is an oft-repeated question in my life: Why did you choose me? Why did he choose me? Why me?)
10. watching Ada, David, Loida, and Manolo frolic in the waves of the sea off the coast of Cadiz
11. gluing ticket stubs, receipts, empty sugar packets, and words torn from bags and newspapers into my journal
12. the immaculately dressed infants that slept peacefully under elegant blankets in princely carriages as their parents paraded them through the center of town - Such a contrast to the inner-city children who wore the same clothing two or three days in a row.
13. the poetry on the walls of the Sevilla airport, posted in spaces where there might otherwise be advertisments. Poems by Antonio Machado, Vicente Aleixandre, Gustavo Adolfo Becquer were presented there in Spanish; please accept my humble translation of one of Machado's stanzas:
Floating in the afternoon atmosphere
that aroma of absence
says to the luminous soul: never,
and to the heart: wait.
14. waking up daily with the knowledge that there was yet another connection to make, another hand to hold, another smile to give away
- Hey wait! Number 14 doesn't have anything to do with Spain. There are connections to be made, hands to be held, and smiles to be shared right here at home.
************************************************
As I look back on the trip, read my journal,
reflect on the lessons learned, I am moved to tears.
So much comes back to mind. Faces. Stories. Fear. Doubt. Jokes.
Quiet moments of grace. Big moments of booming laughter.
Wishing I could stay there forever, but knowing that I could not.
Wishing I could hear more stories, tell more of my own,
but knowing that the stories would never end.
Wanting to share every moment with others,
but also longing to be alone, to absorb it at my own pace
and in my own way.
Wondering if I will ever see them again.
All of them. Any of them.
Contradictions. Contrasts. Confusion.
The places and people I miss.
The questions that plague.
The doubts that consume.
The wishes that are unlikely to become reality.
In all of life's in-elegance, there is beauty.
Depth. Grace. Insight.
Love. Laughter.
Gratitude.
Always deep gratitude.
Gracias por todo.
Grazie per tutti.
Thank you.
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
Spiritual Provisions
Back in 2001, I read a book called The Way of the Traveler. I'm pretty sure that I've mentioned it here on the blog before. The author offers suggestions for how to make every journey - whether to the supermarket or to Sevilla, Spain - an epic one. One of his recommendations is that along with clothing, money, and a camera, travelers ought to pack spiritual provisions.
Ever since I read that book for the first time, I have set time aside before each trip to pray and ask for Divine guidance as to which spiritual provisions will be needed on each trip. What attitudes, emotions, and virtues must be included in my satchel? This adventure was no exception. Ask and it shall be given. I ask for guidance, and I write down the words, the phrases, and the ideas that come to mind. I have quite a collection of index cards packed with spiritual provisions taken on previous trips.
This time I packed: joy, gladness of heart, flexibility, fluidity, patience, gentleness, gentle answers, and wonder at the beauty I would see there in Sevilla.
So when the obnoxious teenage boy asked me if I was a man or a woman, I was able to ask him what he thought of my jewelry, my skirt, and my matching green sandals. Someone standing close by at the time, later told me that her answer would have been laced with enough verbal poison that he would have walked away crying. Gentle answers.
While one teenage girl repeatedly asked annoying questions, made sarcastic and insulting remarks to everyone within earshot, and seemed almost completely insensitive to the feelings and thoughts of others, I was able to maintain my cool and direct her attention in other ways. Gentleness.
When we had to pack our suitcases and move from one residence to another without sufficient warning, I was able to be flexible in my housing expectations.
As we strolled through the ancient streets of Sevilla, listened intently to the history of the Inquisition and the expulsion of Jews in the earliest parts of the last millenium, and dug our toes down into the hot sand in Cadiz, I never lost sight of the moon as it hung high overhead - even in the early afternoon hours. I collected fallen jasmine flowers. I tucked two rose petals into my journal, petals that were collected by an observant new friend who knew my penchant for including small momentos of life's journey between the pages my journal. We had just finished applauding for a pair of radiant newlyweds as they exited a church we were walking past when he came up to me and handed me the petals, saying that he hoped they would always remind me of the wedding I had seen in Cadiz. I hugged him, thanked him for his kindness, and wiped the tears from my eyes. Wonder.
This morning, I woke my husband up at 6 am and regaled him with stories of my trip for ninety minutes. I laughed. I cried. He listened. Asked questions. And together we prayed and gave God thanks for all the sights I'd seen, the lessons I'd learned, and the fabulous people I'd met.
I'm already beginning to think about the spiritual provisions I will need to pack along for my next trip to Spain - and especially for my return trip to Sevilla.
Ever since I read that book for the first time, I have set time aside before each trip to pray and ask for Divine guidance as to which spiritual provisions will be needed on each trip. What attitudes, emotions, and virtues must be included in my satchel? This adventure was no exception. Ask and it shall be given. I ask for guidance, and I write down the words, the phrases, and the ideas that come to mind. I have quite a collection of index cards packed with spiritual provisions taken on previous trips.
This time I packed: joy, gladness of heart, flexibility, fluidity, patience, gentleness, gentle answers, and wonder at the beauty I would see there in Sevilla.
So when the obnoxious teenage boy asked me if I was a man or a woman, I was able to ask him what he thought of my jewelry, my skirt, and my matching green sandals. Someone standing close by at the time, later told me that her answer would have been laced with enough verbal poison that he would have walked away crying. Gentle answers.
While one teenage girl repeatedly asked annoying questions, made sarcastic and insulting remarks to everyone within earshot, and seemed almost completely insensitive to the feelings and thoughts of others, I was able to maintain my cool and direct her attention in other ways. Gentleness.
When we had to pack our suitcases and move from one residence to another without sufficient warning, I was able to be flexible in my housing expectations.
As we strolled through the ancient streets of Sevilla, listened intently to the history of the Inquisition and the expulsion of Jews in the earliest parts of the last millenium, and dug our toes down into the hot sand in Cadiz, I never lost sight of the moon as it hung high overhead - even in the early afternoon hours. I collected fallen jasmine flowers. I tucked two rose petals into my journal, petals that were collected by an observant new friend who knew my penchant for including small momentos of life's journey between the pages my journal. We had just finished applauding for a pair of radiant newlyweds as they exited a church we were walking past when he came up to me and handed me the petals, saying that he hoped they would always remind me of the wedding I had seen in Cadiz. I hugged him, thanked him for his kindness, and wiped the tears from my eyes. Wonder.
This morning, I woke my husband up at 6 am and regaled him with stories of my trip for ninety minutes. I laughed. I cried. He listened. Asked questions. And together we prayed and gave God thanks for all the sights I'd seen, the lessons I'd learned, and the fabulous people I'd met.
I'm already beginning to think about the spiritual provisions I will need to pack along for my next trip to Spain - and especially for my return trip to Sevilla.
Monday, October 16, 2006
I'm Back...
I'm exhausted.
Jetlagged.
Sevilla and its surrounds are magnificent. Jasmine and other flowers called "ladies of the night" scented the air every evening. Date, lemons, and olive trees dropped their delicacies onto the streets, gardens, and playgrounds below. Hand-painted tiles adorned doorways and inner courtyards in the elegant city center.
In a farless elegant area of town, I taught journaling to a group of people ranging in age from 18 to 78. I painted fingernails for teenage girls and younger girls alike. I got both a chuckle and tears in my eyes as adolescent boys lined up to have me rub cream on their hands. Why should the girls be the only ones to benefit from the free manicures?
The looks on the faces of those children as I touched them, simply applying cream to their soft hands, the giggles from the girls, the obvious nervousness in the eyes of the boys moved me to tears. Like everyone else, they long to be touched, loved, noticed. I learned their names and ages and spoke to them whenever I saw them in the neighborhood. One boy came five times, two times one day, and three times the next day. Andres is his name. He's eleven years old. "Is it really free?" he asked several times.
As I sat there with their hands in mine, I prayed for peace and safety, for love and friendship, for hope and a future for each one of them. Every time I look at their pictures, I will pray for them. Sweet children. Lonely children. Needy children. Funny children.
Boys and girls told their friends about the women from America who came to teach classes and give manicures. We cleaned up the local playground - including the dog park! Beer bottles. Sunflower seed shells. Candy wrappers. Before long, a few of the children, including a two-year-old boy, began to help us pick up papers from the concrete jungle gym they played on and around.
I have dozens of stories to tell.
They are all jumbled up in my tired mind right now.
I need some time to write the stories down. To process them.
But first, I have to go braid Kristiana's hair and take her to her last softball game of the season. And tomorrow morning I need to call the dentist and apologize for forgetting to take the kids to the dentist today. At 2 PM, I was waking up from a brief nap. Oops.
Yes, I'm back.
It's good to be home.
And it was GREAT to be in Spain.
Jetlagged.
Sevilla and its surrounds are magnificent. Jasmine and other flowers called "ladies of the night" scented the air every evening. Date, lemons, and olive trees dropped their delicacies onto the streets, gardens, and playgrounds below. Hand-painted tiles adorned doorways and inner courtyards in the elegant city center.
In a farless elegant area of town, I taught journaling to a group of people ranging in age from 18 to 78. I painted fingernails for teenage girls and younger girls alike. I got both a chuckle and tears in my eyes as adolescent boys lined up to have me rub cream on their hands. Why should the girls be the only ones to benefit from the free manicures?
The looks on the faces of those children as I touched them, simply applying cream to their soft hands, the giggles from the girls, the obvious nervousness in the eyes of the boys moved me to tears. Like everyone else, they long to be touched, loved, noticed. I learned their names and ages and spoke to them whenever I saw them in the neighborhood. One boy came five times, two times one day, and three times the next day. Andres is his name. He's eleven years old. "Is it really free?" he asked several times.
As I sat there with their hands in mine, I prayed for peace and safety, for love and friendship, for hope and a future for each one of them. Every time I look at their pictures, I will pray for them. Sweet children. Lonely children. Needy children. Funny children.
Boys and girls told their friends about the women from America who came to teach classes and give manicures. We cleaned up the local playground - including the dog park! Beer bottles. Sunflower seed shells. Candy wrappers. Before long, a few of the children, including a two-year-old boy, began to help us pick up papers from the concrete jungle gym they played on and around.
I have dozens of stories to tell.
They are all jumbled up in my tired mind right now.
I need some time to write the stories down. To process them.
But first, I have to go braid Kristiana's hair and take her to her last softball game of the season. And tomorrow morning I need to call the dentist and apologize for forgetting to take the kids to the dentist today. At 2 PM, I was waking up from a brief nap. Oops.
Yes, I'm back.
It's good to be home.
And it was GREAT to be in Spain.
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
The Next Twelve Days
Tomorrow at this time (8:51 PM) I will be cleaning up after a team meeting here at the house. What team? The four women who will be going to Sevilla, Spain to teach workshops to folks we expect will quickly transition from strangers to friends. One of us will teach cooking, one music, one conversational English, and one journaling. Guess which one I am???
On Thursday, I head to the beauty parlor early in the AM. After all, how can I possibly go to the country that captured my heart twenty autumns ago without looking my very best?
Wow! I hadn't thought about that factoid until I just typed it: my first trip to Europe was in the summer of 1986, and I remained on the continent for the fall semester of that year studying Spanish language, culture, art history, and boyfriend-science from late August until the middle of December that year. My life has never been the same. Yes, it's true: I fell in love with Madrid, Spain, Europe, and Jorge twenty falls ago. I wonder where he is now...
After the beauty treatment, I will make a few stops on my way home. Final packing. Final instructions to the kids. Final hugs and snuggles with Maya. Checking email. Making sure that not only is my last will and testament in order, but also my financial statements - just in case I decide to make a new life there... One never knows, do one???
On Friday, I will enjoy a leisurely breakfast, quiet morning, and decadent lunch with the children. One last check of luggage and carry-ons. Then the early afternoon trip to the airport for our 5:15 PM Lufthansa flight from Charlotte to Munich. Then Barcelona. Then Sevilla.
My return trip on Sunday, the 15th of October, isn't the same route. It's even more bizarre, thanks to Bristish Airways and Northwest Airlines: Sevilla to London Gatwick. London to Detroit. Detroit to Charlotte. Good thing I love to fly. I've got a lot of flying ahead of me.
I'm going away. On the road again.
Meeting new people. Seeing old friends.
Sneaking off for walks in the old city of Sevilla whenever I can.
Wandering through the plazas, parks, and cathedrals that dot that lovely city.
Marveling at the wonders I see, hear, smell, touch, and taste.
Taking photographs.
Reading poetry.
Journaling like a mad-woman.
Actually, I will journal like a deliriously happy woman.
Not mad. Not even a little bit.
Pausing. Dreaming. Wondering.
Thinking. Praying. Talking.
Laughing. Learning. Listening.
Wishing. Missing. Loving.
I covet your prayers, your good wishes, and your words of travel wisdom.
Peace to all of you on your respective journeys.
Traveling mercies.
To me.
On Thursday, I head to the beauty parlor early in the AM. After all, how can I possibly go to the country that captured my heart twenty autumns ago without looking my very best?
Wow! I hadn't thought about that factoid until I just typed it: my first trip to Europe was in the summer of 1986, and I remained on the continent for the fall semester of that year studying Spanish language, culture, art history, and boyfriend-science from late August until the middle of December that year. My life has never been the same. Yes, it's true: I fell in love with Madrid, Spain, Europe, and Jorge twenty falls ago. I wonder where he is now...
After the beauty treatment, I will make a few stops on my way home. Final packing. Final instructions to the kids. Final hugs and snuggles with Maya. Checking email. Making sure that not only is my last will and testament in order, but also my financial statements - just in case I decide to make a new life there... One never knows, do one???
On Friday, I will enjoy a leisurely breakfast, quiet morning, and decadent lunch with the children. One last check of luggage and carry-ons. Then the early afternoon trip to the airport for our 5:15 PM Lufthansa flight from Charlotte to Munich. Then Barcelona. Then Sevilla.
My return trip on Sunday, the 15th of October, isn't the same route. It's even more bizarre, thanks to Bristish Airways and Northwest Airlines: Sevilla to London Gatwick. London to Detroit. Detroit to Charlotte. Good thing I love to fly. I've got a lot of flying ahead of me.
I'm going away. On the road again.
Meeting new people. Seeing old friends.
Sneaking off for walks in the old city of Sevilla whenever I can.
Wandering through the plazas, parks, and cathedrals that dot that lovely city.
Marveling at the wonders I see, hear, smell, touch, and taste.
Taking photographs.
Reading poetry.
Journaling like a mad-woman.
Actually, I will journal like a deliriously happy woman.
Not mad. Not even a little bit.
Pausing. Dreaming. Wondering.
Thinking. Praying. Talking.
Laughing. Learning. Listening.
Wishing. Missing. Loving.
I covet your prayers, your good wishes, and your words of travel wisdom.
Peace to all of you on your respective journeys.
Traveling mercies.
To me.
Monday, October 02, 2006
Who, what, where, when, how, and why?
Who are these people that enter our nation's schools to shoot and kill our children? Our teachers? Our beloved family members? Who will our surviving children become as a result of these horrific incidents?
What are these gun-toting maniacs thinking when they look into the face of a child and pull the trigger? What do they think will be the outcome of their behavior? What is it going to take before we rethink our ridiculous policy of allowing anybody who wants a gun to buy a gun?
Where are our children safe? They are abused, neglected, and turned into obese, sedentary, passive-aggressive couch potatoes at home and then sent to school where they can easily meet their doom at the hands of an armed lunatic. Where can our children be children?
When will this madness stop? When will we turn away from violence and violent means to settle disputes and grudges? When will we give peace and disarmament in our homes a chance?
How do we expect the rest of the world to want to be like us when we are like this?
How do I explain this insanity to my homeschooled children? How could I ever seriously consider sending them to public school after three school shootings in one week?
Why do we sell guns at large discount department stores? Why do we sell automatic weapons at all?
Why do we defend our inalienable, and increasingly inexplicable right to bear arms when the place they are most likely to be borne is into a school, a post office, a bank, or a gas station convenience store by someone whose purpose is to wreak havoc, to maim, to kill, and to destroy?
Why is the rate of death by gun so high in this country and so low in so many others?
Why are children so often the targets of our society's violence?
Why?
What are these gun-toting maniacs thinking when they look into the face of a child and pull the trigger? What do they think will be the outcome of their behavior? What is it going to take before we rethink our ridiculous policy of allowing anybody who wants a gun to buy a gun?
Where are our children safe? They are abused, neglected, and turned into obese, sedentary, passive-aggressive couch potatoes at home and then sent to school where they can easily meet their doom at the hands of an armed lunatic. Where can our children be children?
When will this madness stop? When will we turn away from violence and violent means to settle disputes and grudges? When will we give peace and disarmament in our homes a chance?
How do we expect the rest of the world to want to be like us when we are like this?
How do I explain this insanity to my homeschooled children? How could I ever seriously consider sending them to public school after three school shootings in one week?
Why do we sell guns at large discount department stores? Why do we sell automatic weapons at all?
Why do we defend our inalienable, and increasingly inexplicable right to bear arms when the place they are most likely to be borne is into a school, a post office, a bank, or a gas station convenience store by someone whose purpose is to wreak havoc, to maim, to kill, and to destroy?
Why is the rate of death by gun so high in this country and so low in so many others?
Why are children so often the targets of our society's violence?
Why?
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