The talk this morning in church was on parenting, and how to not "exasperate your children" so that they then go and do unwise and rebellious things in reaction. I mused that it's so easy to parent with the Ghost of Christmas Past. We parent, by and large, instinctively. That is to say, we parent the way we were parented unless we make a concerted effort otherwise. It's not a deliberate thing. The way your parents raised you is the method that you know, and therefore your default setting. Without the least intention in the world, your mouth opens and you hear your mom's (or your dad's) words coming out, and they sound right and proper because they are so familiar. Familiar things are so comforting! Well, they are to us, but unless you had parents of gold I guarantee that they aren't nearly as comforting to our offspring.
Mind you, I'm not saying I had really horrible parents, but like everybody else they had their parental faults, and they passed those faults unerringly along to me. I have to struggle HARD sometimes to seal my lips and not say some of the more damaging things that I was told. Most parents lean either to the side of grace or the side of truth, and neither of those in extreme are good. The best path is down the middle, and it's so dreadfully hard a path to see, because most of us never had a map of that particular road. So we go mindlessly along, blithely traveling the road which looks familiar, even though we know darned well it leads right off a cliff. My own parents veered a little heavily toward truth (or at least truth as they saw it) and so in response I have often veered a little too far towards grace.
So what's the fix? Here's the bad news--there isn't one. We will always struggle--always--as long as we and our children walk the same earth. But here's the good news--there is help, and its very large help. As Christians, we are new creatures in Christ, and as new creations we can do a new thing. It isn't enough to hear my own words and be appalled and wonder what deep pit they came from. The new thing is to parent with the Holy Spirit by my side. Parenting must be done mindfully and prayerfully. If I find I am NOT struggling, then I know I have a problem. There's really no excuse for doing as you were done to. While I don't want to turn this into a sermon, because I am no wise a great and wonderful parent, I am living testimony that bathing situations and decisions in prayer and supplication makes a great deal of difference, and constantly watching what I do and evaluating the effects with painful honesty has made a difference too. But I can't do it alone. I need God, every single day, doing it with me, reigning in my instincts. Often times just recognizing that phrase before it leaves my mouth, and tasting how it formed me when I heard it the first time, is enough to keep it inside, and change it to something more helpful.
But I don't do this alone--God is raising my awareness all the time. He does it because He loves me--and He loves my children even more than I do. Even more than I want it, God wants me to train up my children the way they should go, and wants me to do it while inflicting minimal damage. I need to daily cast off the Ghost of Christmas Past and do a new thing. Hallelujah! He makes it possible.
Love, Spud.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Saturday, October 17, 2009
We hearted New York--mostly.
Three of us spent a few days in New York City this August, and had a wonderful time. There is so much to see, and so much that we didn't have time to see, but we got in most of the major touristy things. We were fortunate in having a hotel right in mid-town Manhattan, and so it was easy to either walk or take the subway to anywhere we wanted to go, and we got lots of use out of our subway passes. I loved it, and I would be happy to spend another week there sometime seeing some of what we missed.
Aspects of NYC were puzzling, like the smell. I can't even describe it, but it was everywhere, even in the plane coming back. It was just a...smell. The closest I can come is that it was a combination of diesel fuel, urine, and some unidentifiable...thing. I had to take a shower back at home before I could get rid of it from my nostrils. And New Yorkers themselves are interesting. Everyone we interacted with was just lovely, but by and large they're a dull lot to look at. Everyone who lives there wears black, gray, and white--exclusively, unless they were in livery. I really stood out, in my midwestern colors. And we were warned before we left that it doesn't do to make eye contact with New Yorkers in the subway--they don't like it. Well, I'm from Ohio--and that's just odd.
The other really unexpected thing was the food. We somehow expected New York City food to be really, really good. But it was largely mediocre, and some of it was actually awful. There are corner shops all over Manhattan that are fairly good, and we hit the one by our subway stop about once a day, but dinner was always an adventure. One night we decided to go down to China Town and take advantage of what we figured would probably be pretty authentic cuisine. Well, the map may not have been as clear as it might have been, because I'm not convinced we ever did find China Town proper. We kept walking though, and eventually found ourselves in Tribeca and turned back, and finally entered the one visible Chinese restaurant out of desperation. There was no air conditioning (at least not that night), but the food was authentic all right. I couldn't identify much of it, and some of it that I could (like the tray of chicken feet) I didn't want to. The night we did pizza (we figured surely pizza was a safe bet) left us a little disappointed too.
But there were some gustatory highlights, like the soup I had the first day: chicken with vegetables and couscous. Oh boy. One night we gave up and ate at McDonald's, just because the quality there is more or less universal, and I acquiesced on the condition that we go to the gelato shop a few doors down for dessert. The gelato shop was an adventure. They had two big sets of cases of drums of gelato in diverse flavors, and some really energetic and enthusiastic employees who made us taste every flavor in the shop before we made our selections. There were a LOT of flavors, and they just kept saying "When you find the right one, you'll know". They were right!
But the true highlight was our last meal in New York. Down in the Soho/Greenwich area, there is a little tiny restaurant called "Peanutbutter and Company". It took us a little while to find it, but we were glad we did. They have flavors of peanutbutter that would never have occurred to me, like the one full of red pepper (The Heat Is On peanutbutter). The sandwiches are simply enormous--they must have the bread loaves specially made--and the combinations are imaginative. I had dark chocolate PB on whole wheat with cherry jam and shredded coconut. Emily had creamy on white with cream cheese and chocolate chips (which did, as it was supposed to, taste like cookie dough), and Stu had the Peanutbutter Sampler. They brought him eight little tubs of PB (one of each flavor), carrots, celery, and crackers. So naturally we all tried everything. It was the most fun we had all week. I think the only one that didn't get finished was the cinnamon/raisin, which was strangely chewy.
I hadn't realized that there had been something missing from Emily's NYC experience until she confided in me on the last morning. You see, Emily's previous conception of New York had been formed by a television show, and even though we had seen some truly extraordinary things that week, none of them looked right to her--they didn't look like New York. It wasn't until we came up out of the subway station in Soho on that last morning that she gave a sigh of relief and said "Now *this* looks like Sesame Street!". Little Emily, happy at last.
Love, Spud
Aspects of NYC were puzzling, like the smell. I can't even describe it, but it was everywhere, even in the plane coming back. It was just a...smell. The closest I can come is that it was a combination of diesel fuel, urine, and some unidentifiable...thing. I had to take a shower back at home before I could get rid of it from my nostrils. And New Yorkers themselves are interesting. Everyone we interacted with was just lovely, but by and large they're a dull lot to look at. Everyone who lives there wears black, gray, and white--exclusively, unless they were in livery. I really stood out, in my midwestern colors. And we were warned before we left that it doesn't do to make eye contact with New Yorkers in the subway--they don't like it. Well, I'm from Ohio--and that's just odd.
The other really unexpected thing was the food. We somehow expected New York City food to be really, really good. But it was largely mediocre, and some of it was actually awful. There are corner shops all over Manhattan that are fairly good, and we hit the one by our subway stop about once a day, but dinner was always an adventure. One night we decided to go down to China Town and take advantage of what we figured would probably be pretty authentic cuisine. Well, the map may not have been as clear as it might have been, because I'm not convinced we ever did find China Town proper. We kept walking though, and eventually found ourselves in Tribeca and turned back, and finally entered the one visible Chinese restaurant out of desperation. There was no air conditioning (at least not that night), but the food was authentic all right. I couldn't identify much of it, and some of it that I could (like the tray of chicken feet) I didn't want to. The night we did pizza (we figured surely pizza was a safe bet) left us a little disappointed too.
But there were some gustatory highlights, like the soup I had the first day: chicken with vegetables and couscous. Oh boy. One night we gave up and ate at McDonald's, just because the quality there is more or less universal, and I acquiesced on the condition that we go to the gelato shop a few doors down for dessert. The gelato shop was an adventure. They had two big sets of cases of drums of gelato in diverse flavors, and some really energetic and enthusiastic employees who made us taste every flavor in the shop before we made our selections. There were a LOT of flavors, and they just kept saying "When you find the right one, you'll know". They were right!
But the true highlight was our last meal in New York. Down in the Soho/Greenwich area, there is a little tiny restaurant called "Peanutbutter and Company". It took us a little while to find it, but we were glad we did. They have flavors of peanutbutter that would never have occurred to me, like the one full of red pepper (The Heat Is On peanutbutter). The sandwiches are simply enormous--they must have the bread loaves specially made--and the combinations are imaginative. I had dark chocolate PB on whole wheat with cherry jam and shredded coconut. Emily had creamy on white with cream cheese and chocolate chips (which did, as it was supposed to, taste like cookie dough), and Stu had the Peanutbutter Sampler. They brought him eight little tubs of PB (one of each flavor), carrots, celery, and crackers. So naturally we all tried everything. It was the most fun we had all week. I think the only one that didn't get finished was the cinnamon/raisin, which was strangely chewy.
I hadn't realized that there had been something missing from Emily's NYC experience until she confided in me on the last morning. You see, Emily's previous conception of New York had been formed by a television show, and even though we had seen some truly extraordinary things that week, none of them looked right to her--they didn't look like New York. It wasn't until we came up out of the subway station in Soho on that last morning that she gave a sigh of relief and said "Now *this* looks like Sesame Street!". Little Emily, happy at last.
Love, Spud
Monday, September 7, 2009
Ahhhhh, Fall
There are those who would argue with me, but fall doesn't start on the 22nd of September. As any school child can tell you, fall starts when school does. When they put on those unblemished new clothes and shoes and pick up the backpacks full of fragrant freshly-sharpened pencils and unblotched paper and wait at the curb for the school bus to rumble down the street--that's the end of summer, and by extension the beginning of fall. Mine are so impossibly advanced in school that they wear any old thing for opening day, the pencils are all automatic, and even the youngest now drives herself. (She drives that stealth van, bless her heart!) But it's fall, nonetheless.
Oh how I love it. The oppressive humidity of summer is slinking away, ashamed of itself, and while the days may still be warm the nights are chilly enough that I need to snuggle down under my blankets and grab a cat for its radiant heat. I need a sweater in the mornings and evenings, and longer sleeves in the library. It isn't yet actually COLD, but it's thinking of getting crispy out there. In another month all the leaves will be ablaze in their autumn glory of yellow, orange, and red, and start covering the ground. I feel compelled to scuffle my feet when I walk through fallen leaves, just for the the pleasure of hearing them rustle. And what is half so satisfying as a big, golden harvest moon?
There is no more brilliant blue than the blue of the sky on clear fall days, and no brighter white than the heaps of puffy white clouds. I have a tendency in fall to just sit there and soak up joy from that blue sky. The oak trees are dropping their acorns, and the buckeye trees their comical bullseye nuts, and the squirrels are running around having a banquet in fast-forward. They are such crazy little acrobats, and they're out in force now, purposefully gathering for winter. I learned by accident a few years ago that if you leave a paper tablecloth out on a picnic table, squirrels will drag pieces of it backwards up a tree to make a nice soft nest out of it. What thrifty little creatures. What hairy little clowns.
And the food! I love fall food. I'm stocking up on ingredients for beef stew, chili, apple crisp and apple dumplings, pumpkin bread and pumpkin pie. Oooooh, pumpkin pie. All those delightful spices in one place. Which makes me think of Halloween, and Beggar's Night. Mine are too old for begging, but our neighborhood comes alive on Beggar's Night. Adults sit outside in lawn chairs, and exclaim over how big every one has grown this year, and how beautiful the princesses are, and haven't you been here already this evening? The adults take off visiting too, just because we're all outside and we can. No matter how cold and disgusting the weather was earlier in the week, even earlier in the day, Beggar's Night is nearly always clear and a little bit warm so we can enjoy ourselves as a community.
And last but not least, there's the football. High school football is lots of fun (even if we do have a sad tendency to lose) and full of nostalgic feelings. Homecoming dances are when we see our little princesses of Halloweens past shed their jeans and tee shirts for a night and become the grown-up princesses which, deep down inside, they have become. And college football! Since we don't have a professional team here, the town really turns out for college football, and the fans can get pretty rabid. I love every minute of it, even when we lose, which isn't all that often. But the very best part of football is of course the marching band! When I hear the percussion start and the band makes that soul-stirring ramp entrance into the stadium I get teary without fail. Script Ohio, Hang On Sloopy, Carmen Ohio--I'm a sucker every time. I quite possibly cheer harder for the sousaphone player dotting the "i" then I do for any of the touchdowns. Don't tell Coach Tressel.
Even though they're turning faster and faster these days, I've always loved the change of seasons. I don't think I'd be happy living any place where the temperatures barely changed. I'm well aware that I'm in the autumn of my own life, and I'm happy with that too. I wouldn't want my foolish youth back, not for any amount of money. And when those trees start to display their glorious foliage every year, I find myself spontaneously praising God that He made even the year's decline a beautiful thing, and that I got to see another one. Of course, I always thank Him for the wonder of snow too, and the miracle of all the gorgeous new life in spring (especially the baby squirrels, who are even crazier, if possible, than their parents), but there's something unusually uplifting about autumn. It makes my heart glad, every time.
Love, Spud.
Oh how I love it. The oppressive humidity of summer is slinking away, ashamed of itself, and while the days may still be warm the nights are chilly enough that I need to snuggle down under my blankets and grab a cat for its radiant heat. I need a sweater in the mornings and evenings, and longer sleeves in the library. It isn't yet actually COLD, but it's thinking of getting crispy out there. In another month all the leaves will be ablaze in their autumn glory of yellow, orange, and red, and start covering the ground. I feel compelled to scuffle my feet when I walk through fallen leaves, just for the the pleasure of hearing them rustle. And what is half so satisfying as a big, golden harvest moon?
There is no more brilliant blue than the blue of the sky on clear fall days, and no brighter white than the heaps of puffy white clouds. I have a tendency in fall to just sit there and soak up joy from that blue sky. The oak trees are dropping their acorns, and the buckeye trees their comical bullseye nuts, and the squirrels are running around having a banquet in fast-forward. They are such crazy little acrobats, and they're out in force now, purposefully gathering for winter. I learned by accident a few years ago that if you leave a paper tablecloth out on a picnic table, squirrels will drag pieces of it backwards up a tree to make a nice soft nest out of it. What thrifty little creatures. What hairy little clowns.
And the food! I love fall food. I'm stocking up on ingredients for beef stew, chili, apple crisp and apple dumplings, pumpkin bread and pumpkin pie. Oooooh, pumpkin pie. All those delightful spices in one place. Which makes me think of Halloween, and Beggar's Night. Mine are too old for begging, but our neighborhood comes alive on Beggar's Night. Adults sit outside in lawn chairs, and exclaim over how big every one has grown this year, and how beautiful the princesses are, and haven't you been here already this evening? The adults take off visiting too, just because we're all outside and we can. No matter how cold and disgusting the weather was earlier in the week, even earlier in the day, Beggar's Night is nearly always clear and a little bit warm so we can enjoy ourselves as a community.
And last but not least, there's the football. High school football is lots of fun (even if we do have a sad tendency to lose) and full of nostalgic feelings. Homecoming dances are when we see our little princesses of Halloweens past shed their jeans and tee shirts for a night and become the grown-up princesses which, deep down inside, they have become. And college football! Since we don't have a professional team here, the town really turns out for college football, and the fans can get pretty rabid. I love every minute of it, even when we lose, which isn't all that often. But the very best part of football is of course the marching band! When I hear the percussion start and the band makes that soul-stirring ramp entrance into the stadium I get teary without fail. Script Ohio, Hang On Sloopy, Carmen Ohio--I'm a sucker every time. I quite possibly cheer harder for the sousaphone player dotting the "i" then I do for any of the touchdowns. Don't tell Coach Tressel.
Even though they're turning faster and faster these days, I've always loved the change of seasons. I don't think I'd be happy living any place where the temperatures barely changed. I'm well aware that I'm in the autumn of my own life, and I'm happy with that too. I wouldn't want my foolish youth back, not for any amount of money. And when those trees start to display their glorious foliage every year, I find myself spontaneously praising God that He made even the year's decline a beautiful thing, and that I got to see another one. Of course, I always thank Him for the wonder of snow too, and the miracle of all the gorgeous new life in spring (especially the baby squirrels, who are even crazier, if possible, than their parents), but there's something unusually uplifting about autumn. It makes my heart glad, every time.
Love, Spud.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Adventures With Emily
I know I've said this before, but it is my firm opinion that everyone needs to have a teen-aged daughter. They are so very interesting, not to mention aggravating, surprising, insightful, wildly happy, deeply depressed, brilliant, clueless, entrancingly lovely, discouragingly unkempt, meticulous, slovenly, and utterly delightful. In other words, I really don't know what I'm going to get when I wake up every morning. It keeps life on an unsettled plane, to be sure, but that's doubtless good for me. Like marriages, teens are more than likely designed for the sanctification of those who acquire them.
This last week was a high point in my summer, as Emily spent every afternoon with me at the library. She had a ceramics class in the morning, and would show up at my door in the afternoon caked with clay and smudged with paint, asleep on her feet and blissfully happy. She spent long hours exploring the building or curled up in a chair on an upper floor reading. She also went off to feed the ducks at the lake every afternoon, and knew them all personally in no time. There was a fluffy yellow baby duck that enchanted her, two white ones who always fought over everything (probably siblings), and among others one with a black and white bill who would waddle up out of the water and settle himself down comfortably by her side as she fed the others, obviously overseeing operations. I'm afraid they subsisted on Poptarts until she told me what she'd been up to and I found her some bread.
One day she staggered in and proclaimed that she simply must have apple juice, so I toddled down to the coffee bar in search of it. The people who work the coffee bar were so intrigued by the girl who urgently required apple juice that they threw in a free pastry thing, which Em promptly took out to the ducks. I hope they liked cinnamon. Another day my umbrella was sitting open on the floor behind me, as the skies had poured rain on me earlier, and for some unknown reason Emily decided that my umbrella was a thing of great beauty and interest, and she sat contently under it for some time, smiling with serene simplicity out at humankind. She looked for all the world like a small Totoro.
Did you know that there are three ways to fire ceramics in a kiln? I learned this, naturally, from my daughter. There is low fire, which produces the brightest colors, high fire, which produces more subdued colors but a food-safe finish, and raku. For raku, you start out the piece in a high fire, and then partway through you put on all your hazard gear, carefully remove your pottery from the kiln, and throw it into a burning trash can. Em said it was great fun to watch the flames whoosh up out of the trash can. I can only imagine. I paid money for this experience.
Today we went to buy school shoes. For school this year Emily will have four pairs: black keds, leather tennis shoes (one of which is white and one of which is white and fluorescent green, orange, and yellow), red converse sneakers, and black-with-assorted-paint-spatters high-tops. The last two pairs are new. I made her throw out two old pairs, one of which was broken up red keds and one of which was blue and covered with little sheep. Em is a conservative dresser otherwise, thank heaven, but when it comes to her feet that personality comes right out.
Ceramics class is over for the summer, and I won't have Em coming in to work any more. I do believe that it's going to be very colorless in there now, and I'm going to miss her. But in only a week we take her to see the sights in New York City. Do you know what two things she wanted to see, among all those wonders? The Nintendo World store, and graffiti. Go figure. She doesn't know what awaits her, but she will soon, and it'll be fun to watch her take it all in. Never a dull moment. I wouldn't have it any other way.
Love, Spud.
This last week was a high point in my summer, as Emily spent every afternoon with me at the library. She had a ceramics class in the morning, and would show up at my door in the afternoon caked with clay and smudged with paint, asleep on her feet and blissfully happy. She spent long hours exploring the building or curled up in a chair on an upper floor reading. She also went off to feed the ducks at the lake every afternoon, and knew them all personally in no time. There was a fluffy yellow baby duck that enchanted her, two white ones who always fought over everything (probably siblings), and among others one with a black and white bill who would waddle up out of the water and settle himself down comfortably by her side as she fed the others, obviously overseeing operations. I'm afraid they subsisted on Poptarts until she told me what she'd been up to and I found her some bread.
One day she staggered in and proclaimed that she simply must have apple juice, so I toddled down to the coffee bar in search of it. The people who work the coffee bar were so intrigued by the girl who urgently required apple juice that they threw in a free pastry thing, which Em promptly took out to the ducks. I hope they liked cinnamon. Another day my umbrella was sitting open on the floor behind me, as the skies had poured rain on me earlier, and for some unknown reason Emily decided that my umbrella was a thing of great beauty and interest, and she sat contently under it for some time, smiling with serene simplicity out at humankind. She looked for all the world like a small Totoro.
Did you know that there are three ways to fire ceramics in a kiln? I learned this, naturally, from my daughter. There is low fire, which produces the brightest colors, high fire, which produces more subdued colors but a food-safe finish, and raku. For raku, you start out the piece in a high fire, and then partway through you put on all your hazard gear, carefully remove your pottery from the kiln, and throw it into a burning trash can. Em said it was great fun to watch the flames whoosh up out of the trash can. I can only imagine. I paid money for this experience.
Today we went to buy school shoes. For school this year Emily will have four pairs: black keds, leather tennis shoes (one of which is white and one of which is white and fluorescent green, orange, and yellow), red converse sneakers, and black-with-assorted-paint-spatters high-tops. The last two pairs are new. I made her throw out two old pairs, one of which was broken up red keds and one of which was blue and covered with little sheep. Em is a conservative dresser otherwise, thank heaven, but when it comes to her feet that personality comes right out.
Ceramics class is over for the summer, and I won't have Em coming in to work any more. I do believe that it's going to be very colorless in there now, and I'm going to miss her. But in only a week we take her to see the sights in New York City. Do you know what two things she wanted to see, among all those wonders? The Nintendo World store, and graffiti. Go figure. She doesn't know what awaits her, but she will soon, and it'll be fun to watch her take it all in. Never a dull moment. I wouldn't have it any other way.
Love, Spud.
Monday, June 29, 2009
The Mormon Mirage
That's the title of a book by Latayne Scott, and it's extremely appropriate. A mirage is something that looks very real, but it isn't real at all, and that's a good description of the foundations of the LDS church. Mrs. Scott would know. She was a well-trained fountain of knowledge as a member of the Mormon church, and she's an even better-informed one now that she's out of it. This book is just chock-full of information about the history, beliefs, and practices of the Mormon church--the best on the subject that I have seen.
The book begins with an introduction to Mrs. Scott's personal story, and then goes on to tell the story of Joseph Smith. It talks about the various scriptures that the LDS church uses and the problems inherent within them, describes the basic doctrines and how they have changed over the years (thanks to that convenient doctrine of continuing revelation), and spends some time describing some of the rituals. Part two addresses "Issues and challenges facing Mormonism in the 21st century" and gives more of her personal story. It's all very revealing stuff, and made my jaw drop as often as not.
My overwhelming visceral reaction to The Mormon Mirage was a combination of anger and frustration: anger at Joseph Smith and everyone else who helped perpetrate this heresy, and frustration at just how hard it is to convince a Mormon that they're being led down a thoroughly false path. Mormons and Christians have a great deal of what seems to be shared vocabulary, but even though we know many of the same words, like atonement, salvation, and eternal, these words don't have shared meanings. Communication, therefore, is problematic, and common ground is an illusion.
Mormons are, by and large, good people. Some of them are really wonderful people! Christians could really learn a thing or two from them about joy, devotion, and taking care of others. Mrs. Scott writes: "The Church's public image of clean-cut youngsters and responsible, productive, patriotic adults is based on fact. Faithful Mormons work very hard at authentically fulfilling that image, and their lifestyle attracts many converts". But still we need to spend designated time praying that their eyes will be opened and they will come to know God, Jesus, and the Holy Spirit for who they really are. They may be wonderful, but they are still condemned. While it is a wrenching, painful thing to discover that you've spent your life following a false God, how much worse to never discover that until your life on earth is over? And pray also that those who do discover it turn then to the true God, instead of bitterly abandoning the possibility of salvation entirely.
Mrs. Scott ends with an appendix on evangelizing Mormons, and it has both hard truths and sound advice. Some of the best is this: "However, there is a single weapon that every devoted Christian possesses. It can be used effectively because of a misconception that Mormons have. When I was a Mormon, I believed that that only way to peace and joy was through Mormonism. When I knocked at the door of a Christian to invite him or her to church and that person slammed the door, or had a sour facial expression, or said something insulting, this just reinforced my belief--shared by every Mormon--that Christians are unhappy and incomplete without the Mormon gospel. So what is the tool? It is your ability to tell them that your relationship with a living Savior Jesus Christ, and the fellowship of your Christian brothers and sisters is completely satisfying to you. That the Bible is complete and enough. That you know Jesus, and love him, and know that he loves you".
I heartily recommend this book. It will shock you, anger you, and break your heart. But it will also prepare you, inform you, and encourage you to examine your own beliefs and "make a defense for the hope that is within you". I came away with a sense of deep gratitude for all those who helped me find the Jesus who truly is the way, the TRUTH, and the life, and that God placed me in a position to hear, understand, and believe. Let us pray that many others come out of the mirage, and into the light.
Love, Spud.
The book begins with an introduction to Mrs. Scott's personal story, and then goes on to tell the story of Joseph Smith. It talks about the various scriptures that the LDS church uses and the problems inherent within them, describes the basic doctrines and how they have changed over the years (thanks to that convenient doctrine of continuing revelation), and spends some time describing some of the rituals. Part two addresses "Issues and challenges facing Mormonism in the 21st century" and gives more of her personal story. It's all very revealing stuff, and made my jaw drop as often as not.
My overwhelming visceral reaction to The Mormon Mirage was a combination of anger and frustration: anger at Joseph Smith and everyone else who helped perpetrate this heresy, and frustration at just how hard it is to convince a Mormon that they're being led down a thoroughly false path. Mormons and Christians have a great deal of what seems to be shared vocabulary, but even though we know many of the same words, like atonement, salvation, and eternal, these words don't have shared meanings. Communication, therefore, is problematic, and common ground is an illusion.
Mormons are, by and large, good people. Some of them are really wonderful people! Christians could really learn a thing or two from them about joy, devotion, and taking care of others. Mrs. Scott writes: "The Church's public image of clean-cut youngsters and responsible, productive, patriotic adults is based on fact. Faithful Mormons work very hard at authentically fulfilling that image, and their lifestyle attracts many converts". But still we need to spend designated time praying that their eyes will be opened and they will come to know God, Jesus, and the Holy Spirit for who they really are. They may be wonderful, but they are still condemned. While it is a wrenching, painful thing to discover that you've spent your life following a false God, how much worse to never discover that until your life on earth is over? And pray also that those who do discover it turn then to the true God, instead of bitterly abandoning the possibility of salvation entirely.
Mrs. Scott ends with an appendix on evangelizing Mormons, and it has both hard truths and sound advice. Some of the best is this: "However, there is a single weapon that every devoted Christian possesses. It can be used effectively because of a misconception that Mormons have. When I was a Mormon, I believed that that only way to peace and joy was through Mormonism. When I knocked at the door of a Christian to invite him or her to church and that person slammed the door, or had a sour facial expression, or said something insulting, this just reinforced my belief--shared by every Mormon--that Christians are unhappy and incomplete without the Mormon gospel. So what is the tool? It is your ability to tell them that your relationship with a living Savior Jesus Christ, and the fellowship of your Christian brothers and sisters is completely satisfying to you. That the Bible is complete and enough. That you know Jesus, and love him, and know that he loves you".
I heartily recommend this book. It will shock you, anger you, and break your heart. But it will also prepare you, inform you, and encourage you to examine your own beliefs and "make a defense for the hope that is within you". I came away with a sense of deep gratitude for all those who helped me find the Jesus who truly is the way, the TRUTH, and the life, and that God placed me in a position to hear, understand, and believe. Let us pray that many others come out of the mirage, and into the light.
Love, Spud.
Friday, June 12, 2009
Love Letter to a Lady
I had a dream the other night that I was in Aunt Florence's kitchen, making doughnuts with her. It brought back memories of trips to her house up north, where there was always special food of some kind, and of the time she let me cut the middles out of the dough before we dropped them in the hot fat and watched them sizzle and bob.
Aunt Florence isn't really an aunt, but my dad's first cousin. He spent a great deal of his childhood living with his cousins, and since he only had one sibling himself they turned into a huge, close clan of children, who remained close their whole lives. I do believe that Dad and Aunt Florence are the only ones left now. He's in his eighties, and she is in her nineties, and still as close as ever. I loved our visits there--somehow, miraculously, the only car rides during which I failed to be car sick.
Aunt Florence had a wonderful house which she designed herself, perfectly logically laid out and efficient, but the highlight for me was the plenitude of book shelves and cabinets. Aunt Florence had been a public school librarian, and loved books as much as I did, and the joy of finding something to read at her house was one of those things that made me full of happy anticipation.
But the real joy of Aunt Florence's house was--Aunt Florence. There's nobody like her in the whole world, and if I could pick one person to be just like if and when I grow up, it would be she. There was no question you could not ask, and expect to be given the dignity of a reply, and every word that came out of her mouth was a masterpiece of wisdom and good humor. Even on the rare occasions that I was naughty, she could quell me with a word, but I didn't mind because that word was always just the right one. And even these days, old age has not reduced her ability to see every person and situation clearly, and address them with a twinkle in her eyes. Never did I see her at a loss, or sharp tempered. I once mentioned to Dad that Aunt Florence was unusually full of wisdom, and he replied, "She's earned it".
Aunt Florence divorced her husband at a time when you just didn't do that, but for good reasons, and raised her children single-handedly in an age when that was extremely rare. That can't have been easy. It isn't easy now, but back when the stigmas of society were strongly against her it must have been even harder. But she managed, and somehow raised equally good-humored children who are stable, intelligent, and long-married adults with grandchildren of their own.
How on earth did she do it? Well, in addition to her own innate intelligence, Aunt Florence is a woman of faith. If we were at her house on a Sunday, we went to her church with her, and while that doesn't necessarily mean anything in her case it did. The combination of a life of hardship and a good Lord to bear her up produced a diamond of the first water--strong and brilliant and beautiful in my eyes. Although I don't especially want the life of hardship that produced it, I do dearly want that kind of faith. Everybody needs a good role model, and she is mine.
So here's to you, Aunt Florence, and thanks for everything you've taught me, even though you probably never realized I was watching and listening and storing it all up.
Love, Spud.
Aunt Florence isn't really an aunt, but my dad's first cousin. He spent a great deal of his childhood living with his cousins, and since he only had one sibling himself they turned into a huge, close clan of children, who remained close their whole lives. I do believe that Dad and Aunt Florence are the only ones left now. He's in his eighties, and she is in her nineties, and still as close as ever. I loved our visits there--somehow, miraculously, the only car rides during which I failed to be car sick.
Aunt Florence had a wonderful house which she designed herself, perfectly logically laid out and efficient, but the highlight for me was the plenitude of book shelves and cabinets. Aunt Florence had been a public school librarian, and loved books as much as I did, and the joy of finding something to read at her house was one of those things that made me full of happy anticipation.
But the real joy of Aunt Florence's house was--Aunt Florence. There's nobody like her in the whole world, and if I could pick one person to be just like if and when I grow up, it would be she. There was no question you could not ask, and expect to be given the dignity of a reply, and every word that came out of her mouth was a masterpiece of wisdom and good humor. Even on the rare occasions that I was naughty, she could quell me with a word, but I didn't mind because that word was always just the right one. And even these days, old age has not reduced her ability to see every person and situation clearly, and address them with a twinkle in her eyes. Never did I see her at a loss, or sharp tempered. I once mentioned to Dad that Aunt Florence was unusually full of wisdom, and he replied, "She's earned it".
Aunt Florence divorced her husband at a time when you just didn't do that, but for good reasons, and raised her children single-handedly in an age when that was extremely rare. That can't have been easy. It isn't easy now, but back when the stigmas of society were strongly against her it must have been even harder. But she managed, and somehow raised equally good-humored children who are stable, intelligent, and long-married adults with grandchildren of their own.
How on earth did she do it? Well, in addition to her own innate intelligence, Aunt Florence is a woman of faith. If we were at her house on a Sunday, we went to her church with her, and while that doesn't necessarily mean anything in her case it did. The combination of a life of hardship and a good Lord to bear her up produced a diamond of the first water--strong and brilliant and beautiful in my eyes. Although I don't especially want the life of hardship that produced it, I do dearly want that kind of faith. Everybody needs a good role model, and she is mine.
So here's to you, Aunt Florence, and thanks for everything you've taught me, even though you probably never realized I was watching and listening and storing it all up.
Love, Spud.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Why pray?
On Saturday, May 9th, my friend Yoko found herself with a deep, compelling urge to pray for the life of her son. Since Yoko's son, Daichi, is on active duty in Iraq, she obeyed. She prayed all Saturday, and all Sunday, and all Monday. On Tuesday, she found out with the rest of the nation that a soldier at the end of his third tour of duty had gone on Monday to a mental health clinic in Iraq where soldiers went to receive counseling for combat stress, and shot and killed five other American soldiers. They were all, I think, soldiers with Daichi's unit. Daichi was not harmed.
There is no doubt in Yoko's mind (nor mine!) that the Holy Spirit had told her to pray for just this reason. Yoko and her husband are Christians, but none of their children are. When we found out that Daichi was on his way to Iraq, we all felt a sense of urgency to pray that God would put believers in Daichi's way, and use this experience overseas to bring Daichi to Himself. We all believe that this young man was spared because of his mother's prayers.
But that brings up an interesting question. If God wanted to spare Daichi, why not just go ahead and spare Daichi? Why all the drama? Why the requirement that his mother expend herself in prayer for something God was planning to do anyway? This question has been asked a lot through the centuries, with varying degrees of wisdom applied to the answer. In this particular instance I have only a glimmer of answer, and it's that if Yoko had not known so clearly that Daichi was in some kind of danger, she and the rest of us would not have seen so very clearly God's gracious salvation from it. God knew the end of the story before the beginning, but He wanted to make sure we saw that, and knew Him for who He is.
Daichi does not yet know this story. I have been encouraging Yoko to tell him, and the sooner the better. She has committed herself to do so, and wants to take her time with the computer to make sure she expresses herself in words that cannot fail to be understood. When she does, perhaps Daichi will comprehend at last that while he may not be interested in God, God is definitely interested in him.
There is no doubt in Yoko's mind (nor mine!) that the Holy Spirit had told her to pray for just this reason. Yoko and her husband are Christians, but none of their children are. When we found out that Daichi was on his way to Iraq, we all felt a sense of urgency to pray that God would put believers in Daichi's way, and use this experience overseas to bring Daichi to Himself. We all believe that this young man was spared because of his mother's prayers.
But that brings up an interesting question. If God wanted to spare Daichi, why not just go ahead and spare Daichi? Why all the drama? Why the requirement that his mother expend herself in prayer for something God was planning to do anyway? This question has been asked a lot through the centuries, with varying degrees of wisdom applied to the answer. In this particular instance I have only a glimmer of answer, and it's that if Yoko had not known so clearly that Daichi was in some kind of danger, she and the rest of us would not have seen so very clearly God's gracious salvation from it. God knew the end of the story before the beginning, but He wanted to make sure we saw that, and knew Him for who He is.
Daichi does not yet know this story. I have been encouraging Yoko to tell him, and the sooner the better. She has committed herself to do so, and wants to take her time with the computer to make sure she expresses herself in words that cannot fail to be understood. When she does, perhaps Daichi will comprehend at last that while he may not be interested in God, God is definitely interested in him.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
The Other Prom
Last Saturday night, I took my son to a dance. A local service group periodically hosts dances for the physically and/or mentally handicapped at the recreation center, and when the flyers come out I always ask Kevin if he wants to go. He always says no. This time, he said yes! So we went.
The ballroom was packed, and the populace was assorted, to put it mildly. I hadn't been sure what to expect, but I had thought that everyone would be about high school age, and that wasn't the case. We had one very small boy, kids in high school, and then ages all the way up. There were a few wheelchairs, one walker, and some coke-bottle glasses. In addition to the physical handicaps, most people there had fairly obvious mental handicaps also. But oh boy, could they dance. There was a live band, and it was one hopping place.
We saw a guy from Kevin's Special Olympics team with his girlfriend, and a couple of guys from his class at school, but the others were not anyone we knew. A lot of them looked familiar though, because we've been a part of the handicapped community for a while now, and you run across each other at events, doctor's offices, clinics, and supported job sites. It's like a small town, really.
As I had been doing the dishes at home an hour earlier, I'd found myself getting tearful over this dance. It wasn't lost on me that a few miles away the rest of the senior class was at the prom, in tuxedos and stylish gowns, with professionally dressed hair and nails, and parents lurking in the front hallways to take pictures before their gorgeous children departed for the night. No such rites of passage for Kevin--he had to settle for escorting his dowdy old mom. So I mopped my eyes and straightened my spine and went upstairs to dress up a little.
And truth to tell, we had a fine time. The music was lively, the pretzels were not bad, and the crowd was cheerful, if sometimes oddly attired. Kevin's dancing involves the arms and the head, not the feet (he was happy to let me do all the footwork), but it came with a huge grin and a hug for his girl. We came home when we felt like it and counted it an evening well spent. Not bad, for something that didn't charge admission.
But still, I got a little misty. I'm a mom, and I kind of tend that way. Kevin's rites of passage are just going to be a little different; that's all there is to it. But I try to make them special in their own ways because he is so very special himself. So he wore black, and I wore pink. And we danced.
Love, Spud.
The ballroom was packed, and the populace was assorted, to put it mildly. I hadn't been sure what to expect, but I had thought that everyone would be about high school age, and that wasn't the case. We had one very small boy, kids in high school, and then ages all the way up. There were a few wheelchairs, one walker, and some coke-bottle glasses. In addition to the physical handicaps, most people there had fairly obvious mental handicaps also. But oh boy, could they dance. There was a live band, and it was one hopping place.
We saw a guy from Kevin's Special Olympics team with his girlfriend, and a couple of guys from his class at school, but the others were not anyone we knew. A lot of them looked familiar though, because we've been a part of the handicapped community for a while now, and you run across each other at events, doctor's offices, clinics, and supported job sites. It's like a small town, really.
As I had been doing the dishes at home an hour earlier, I'd found myself getting tearful over this dance. It wasn't lost on me that a few miles away the rest of the senior class was at the prom, in tuxedos and stylish gowns, with professionally dressed hair and nails, and parents lurking in the front hallways to take pictures before their gorgeous children departed for the night. No such rites of passage for Kevin--he had to settle for escorting his dowdy old mom. So I mopped my eyes and straightened my spine and went upstairs to dress up a little.
And truth to tell, we had a fine time. The music was lively, the pretzels were not bad, and the crowd was cheerful, if sometimes oddly attired. Kevin's dancing involves the arms and the head, not the feet (he was happy to let me do all the footwork), but it came with a huge grin and a hug for his girl. We came home when we felt like it and counted it an evening well spent. Not bad, for something that didn't charge admission.
But still, I got a little misty. I'm a mom, and I kind of tend that way. Kevin's rites of passage are just going to be a little different; that's all there is to it. But I try to make them special in their own ways because he is so very special himself. So he wore black, and I wore pink. And we danced.
Love, Spud.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Welcome to the Middle Ages
I used to have a brain like a steel trap. I could memorize whole books and reams of poetry, and recite at the drop of a hat. I never bothered with a calendar because I could tell you when I was going to the dentist or the eye doctor without consulting one, and I was truly formidable at Trivial Pursuit.
Then I had kids.
It's not clear to me just what the connection is between having children and a reduction in the amount of gray matter accessible, but the correlation is verifiable, I am convinced. One child made a dent, but two children started an inevitable decay, and the longer I have them, the more pronounced the decay gets. I don't know if I'll get some of my former capacity back when the nest empties or not. I'll let you know. Or you'll let ME know, because I'll have forgotten all about it by then.
I'm turning 49 this year, so I'm certainly classified as middle aged at this point, and I have no problem with that. But I find that I increasingly depend on paper and pen to substitute for the synapses which no longer fire without assistance. If I write it down, I remember to do it. If I don't, then there are no guarantees. Fortunately I have an innate fondness for lists, so this is not distressing to me, but sometimes I'll think of something and don't have paper handy so it never makes it onto a list, and in that case it's just a lost cause. Sorry. And my family is more or less trained to write things on the grocery list now, because they have all learned the hard, sad way that if you don't write it down then Mom doesn't bring it home. End of story.
At least I still remember their names--generally. My grandfather had a wonderful system for this because he couldn't remember names to save his life. All the males, of any generation, were Sonny, and all the females were Sis. He was one of those gentle old men who mostly just smiled and didn't say much to start with, so if you saw he was looking at you and talking at the same time you just assumed you were the Sis in question and listened up. It was usually worth it.
Luci Swindoll (or was it Patsy Clairmont? I don't remember!) says that as we age, we lose brain cells, which I believe to be true. But Luci (or Patsy, as the case may be) has a theory about where it is they go--into that turkey wattle flap of skin that connects your chin (should you be so fortunate as to have one) to your neck. She could be correct, as there does seem to be an inverse proportion type of situation at work there.
About eight or nine days ago, my husband was hunting for a word himself (poor baby, here it comes for him too) to describe shrubs that had been trimmed into the shape of animals. Well I knew darned well what that word was, but I sure couldn't bring it far enough up out of the morass to tell him what it was. I worked on that all week. Every day I would puzzle over what on earth that word was, and every day I would come up blank. It was driving me nuts. Last night, as I was trying to get to sleep, my brain wandered for convoluted reasons to the person of Marissa Tomei. That led naturally to the movie My Cousin Vinny, which led to that wonderful courtroom scene, which led to who on earth was the actor playing that judge? I'd been puzzling over that one for a few days also, and the closest I'd been able to come had been Edward Herrman, and I knew that wasn't right. Suddenly, out of nowhere, I had the answer--Fred Gwynne! Yes! And then I gasped, realizing that two brain cells had actually fired at one and the same time, and could I do it again? So I reeeeeeached out with every neuron I could summon, sat up in bed, and shouted "Topiary!".
My best friend turned 50 this spring, and so she and I are in this perilous age together. I'll typically turn to her and ask "Did you bring the thingy for the whoziwhatsit?" and she knows what I'm talking about. It's wonderful. I anticipate that in another thirty years we will have abandoned our husbands entirely, largely because we will have forgotten we ever had them in the first place, and will toddle gently into that good night, arm in arm, babbling nonsense in our happily demented way, and understanding every single word.
Love, Spud
Then I had kids.
It's not clear to me just what the connection is between having children and a reduction in the amount of gray matter accessible, but the correlation is verifiable, I am convinced. One child made a dent, but two children started an inevitable decay, and the longer I have them, the more pronounced the decay gets. I don't know if I'll get some of my former capacity back when the nest empties or not. I'll let you know. Or you'll let ME know, because I'll have forgotten all about it by then.
I'm turning 49 this year, so I'm certainly classified as middle aged at this point, and I have no problem with that. But I find that I increasingly depend on paper and pen to substitute for the synapses which no longer fire without assistance. If I write it down, I remember to do it. If I don't, then there are no guarantees. Fortunately I have an innate fondness for lists, so this is not distressing to me, but sometimes I'll think of something and don't have paper handy so it never makes it onto a list, and in that case it's just a lost cause. Sorry. And my family is more or less trained to write things on the grocery list now, because they have all learned the hard, sad way that if you don't write it down then Mom doesn't bring it home. End of story.
At least I still remember their names--generally. My grandfather had a wonderful system for this because he couldn't remember names to save his life. All the males, of any generation, were Sonny, and all the females were Sis. He was one of those gentle old men who mostly just smiled and didn't say much to start with, so if you saw he was looking at you and talking at the same time you just assumed you were the Sis in question and listened up. It was usually worth it.
Luci Swindoll (or was it Patsy Clairmont? I don't remember!) says that as we age, we lose brain cells, which I believe to be true. But Luci (or Patsy, as the case may be) has a theory about where it is they go--into that turkey wattle flap of skin that connects your chin (should you be so fortunate as to have one) to your neck. She could be correct, as there does seem to be an inverse proportion type of situation at work there.
About eight or nine days ago, my husband was hunting for a word himself (poor baby, here it comes for him too) to describe shrubs that had been trimmed into the shape of animals. Well I knew darned well what that word was, but I sure couldn't bring it far enough up out of the morass to tell him what it was. I worked on that all week. Every day I would puzzle over what on earth that word was, and every day I would come up blank. It was driving me nuts. Last night, as I was trying to get to sleep, my brain wandered for convoluted reasons to the person of Marissa Tomei. That led naturally to the movie My Cousin Vinny, which led to that wonderful courtroom scene, which led to who on earth was the actor playing that judge? I'd been puzzling over that one for a few days also, and the closest I'd been able to come had been Edward Herrman, and I knew that wasn't right. Suddenly, out of nowhere, I had the answer--Fred Gwynne! Yes! And then I gasped, realizing that two brain cells had actually fired at one and the same time, and could I do it again? So I reeeeeeached out with every neuron I could summon, sat up in bed, and shouted "Topiary!".
My best friend turned 50 this spring, and so she and I are in this perilous age together. I'll typically turn to her and ask "Did you bring the thingy for the whoziwhatsit?" and she knows what I'm talking about. It's wonderful. I anticipate that in another thirty years we will have abandoned our husbands entirely, largely because we will have forgotten we ever had them in the first place, and will toddle gently into that good night, arm in arm, babbling nonsense in our happily demented way, and understanding every single word.
Love, Spud
Friday, April 10, 2009
Herds of Birds
This neighborhood tends to be wildlife central, and for the most part I love that. Recently we've seen lots of squirrels, owls, a hawk, a skunk, a raccoon as big as as large dog, rabbits, deer, Carolina wrens, European starlings, but fortunately not the ground hog or the possum that we've had hanging around in the past. Now that I think about it, I guess I wasn't too thrilled about the raccoon or the skunk either, but the skunk was such a novelty that I didn't have time to be anything but fascinated.But the really interesting things are the herds of birds. I know that technically they are a flock, but when I was growing up my family jokingly referred to them as herds, and it stuck in my head, and so herds they are. Besides, it rhymes.
Two stoplights north of our house is an intersection where I tend to be stuck every late afternoon, and that's when all the birds come out to play. I've never seen them up close, and so I don't know what kind they are, but they do a strange and wonderful ballet. It's an area with a lot of tall old trees, and we get hundreds and hundreds of birds there at a time. One large group of a hundred or so will rise up and swirl and swoop through the air, landing suddenly and just as suddenly taking off, while another group (or two or three) will be doing the same thing from a different tree base. The groups sometimes intersect, and sometimes do an end-run around each other, but there are never any collisions. I don't know how such large flocks communicate with each member just where they are going and when, but they do--the timing is perfect. They ride the air currents for fun, I think, and I'm the unintended beneficiary of their entertaining exercise. I'm always sorry when the light changes and I have to move on. The birds never seem to tire of this game, and a game it seems to be, and they stay around all through our unpredictable mid-western winters to play it. It certainly enlivens our gray winter skies.
Love, Spud.
Two stoplights north of our house is an intersection where I tend to be stuck every late afternoon, and that's when all the birds come out to play. I've never seen them up close, and so I don't know what kind they are, but they do a strange and wonderful ballet. It's an area with a lot of tall old trees, and we get hundreds and hundreds of birds there at a time. One large group of a hundred or so will rise up and swirl and swoop through the air, landing suddenly and just as suddenly taking off, while another group (or two or three) will be doing the same thing from a different tree base. The groups sometimes intersect, and sometimes do an end-run around each other, but there are never any collisions. I don't know how such large flocks communicate with each member just where they are going and when, but they do--the timing is perfect. They ride the air currents for fun, I think, and I'm the unintended beneficiary of their entertaining exercise. I'm always sorry when the light changes and I have to move on. The birds never seem to tire of this game, and a game it seems to be, and they stay around all through our unpredictable mid-western winters to play it. It certainly enlivens our gray winter skies.
Love, Spud.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Passing the Torch
When I was young, and my sister and I would play, we would occasionally break something. No big surprises there! But whatever it was, whatever it was made out of, we would just say with confidence, "Daddy will fix it" and we'd trot down to the basement and leave the crippled object on his workbench. Poor Dad. Many evenings and weekends when he'd go down to the basement workshop to devote some time to the current wood-working project, he'd have to deal with our breakages first. But do you know the remarkable thing? He really could fix anything! I don't remember anything that didn't come back mended. Our confidence was well founded.
When I was at Dad's house yesterday, there was a magazine rack there that had failed to withstand the strain of all the things that had been inserted into it. The posts running between the base and the upper rim were all disconnected at one end or the other, and sometimes both. It just needs a little (or a lot) of wood glue, and it will be as good as ever. So at Dad's request I packed all the pieces up into a big black garbage bag and brought them home with me. The bag is presently sitting in our dining room, waiting for my husband to have time to rummage through his glue collection and get the rack put back together.
I have a funny feeling that a torch has been passed. Many years ago I'd wait for Daddy to come home, knowing that he could make things all better. Now I go driving over to my home town about every two weeks, and walk into that same house, but now I'm one of the people who make things all better. I'll send my husband over with the magazine rack and his computer knowledge in a couple of weeks, and it will be his turn. When did this happen? When did I become the person who can fix and mend and remove stains and intercede with doctors to make sure everybody gets their illnesses and needs properly addressed? I never saw it coming, and now it's too late to duck. As I drove along those back country roads yesterday, I was thinking with bemusement that I'm Mom--and I can do anything. Here's my torch, but where's my cape?
Love, Spud
When I was at Dad's house yesterday, there was a magazine rack there that had failed to withstand the strain of all the things that had been inserted into it. The posts running between the base and the upper rim were all disconnected at one end or the other, and sometimes both. It just needs a little (or a lot) of wood glue, and it will be as good as ever. So at Dad's request I packed all the pieces up into a big black garbage bag and brought them home with me. The bag is presently sitting in our dining room, waiting for my husband to have time to rummage through his glue collection and get the rack put back together.
I have a funny feeling that a torch has been passed. Many years ago I'd wait for Daddy to come home, knowing that he could make things all better. Now I go driving over to my home town about every two weeks, and walk into that same house, but now I'm one of the people who make things all better. I'll send my husband over with the magazine rack and his computer knowledge in a couple of weeks, and it will be his turn. When did this happen? When did I become the person who can fix and mend and remove stains and intercede with doctors to make sure everybody gets their illnesses and needs properly addressed? I never saw it coming, and now it's too late to duck. As I drove along those back country roads yesterday, I was thinking with bemusement that I'm Mom--and I can do anything. Here's my torch, but where's my cape?
Love, Spud
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Saul meets the Unexpected
Oh boy, it's been a whole month. Life has been coming at me fast, as the commercials say, and I've gotten a little behind-hand. But one of the things I have done lately is to have a really interesting discussion with my husband and two good friends about the account of the conversion of Saul in Acts 9.
It all started with Saul, breathing threats and murder as he steamed down the road to Damascus. (Up the road? Who knows. I checked the maps in my Bible and they denied the existence of Damascus entirely, silly things.) Why was he so upset? Why was he taking this so deeply personally and seriously? Why not just let the Christians believe what they want and you believe what you want and agree to disagree? Because Saul, bless him, was a man who had tremendous regard for the reputation of the Lord. We could use a few more of him now. By persecuting Christians, he was, in his opinion, upholding God's reputation, and fighting against blasphemy and heresy. He was a devout man who wanted to stamp out that nasty cult that was leading the nation of Israel badly astray. Saul was doing his very best to serve his God and keep Israel pure. Go Saul!
So there he was, crossing the desert getting near Damascus, and there was a flash of light. That doesn't sound so extraordinary until you think that in the desert at noontime the sun is very hot and bright. For something to actually be noticed as a flash of light, it must have been on the level of a nuclear flash. That's bright. No wonder Saul was knocked to his knees, and blinded by it. And then came the clincher--a voice from heaven. Now, to the rabbinic mind, which Saul certainly had, being a disciple of Gamaliel, voices from heaven were invariably from God. No wonder he responded in confusion, asking "Who are you?" He hadn't been persecuting God, he'd been strenuously defending Him! But when the voice declared that it was the voice of Jesus, Saul must have felt the entire bottom drop out of his world. You do the math. Voice from heaven = God. Voice from heaven = Jesus. Therefore, Jesus = God. Oh no. Saul must have, in one second, become a deeply broken man. No wonder he let himself be tamely led to Damascus, and spent his days in prayer and fasting until God in His mercy sent someone to alleviate his suffering.
Two other things are noteworthy. One is that God showed Saul all the suffering he must undergo from that day forward, all for His sake. We know from further writings of Saul's (Paul's) that he felt that the suffering was no more than his due. Saul/Paul accepted it and even seemed to feel that it was all more than worth it, for the privilege of being used by the God he had persecuted, to the point of being all used up.
The other thing, which my good friend Yoko pointed out, is that Saul was a man of purpose. When he regarded himself as a rabbinic Jew, he marched firmly in that direction, doing his utmost for the God he served. But once Jesus got ahold of him, he marched just as firmly in the other direction, never deviating from the path which Jesus had set his feet upon.
Saul was a deeply faithful and faith-full man. He's been one of my favorites for a while now, an example to emulate and a teacher to listen to. How fascinating it is to study the book of Acts; to see the spread of the church, the revealing of the Holy Spirit, and the remarkable doings of this steadfast man. God chose well.
It all started with Saul, breathing threats and murder as he steamed down the road to Damascus. (Up the road? Who knows. I checked the maps in my Bible and they denied the existence of Damascus entirely, silly things.) Why was he so upset? Why was he taking this so deeply personally and seriously? Why not just let the Christians believe what they want and you believe what you want and agree to disagree? Because Saul, bless him, was a man who had tremendous regard for the reputation of the Lord. We could use a few more of him now. By persecuting Christians, he was, in his opinion, upholding God's reputation, and fighting against blasphemy and heresy. He was a devout man who wanted to stamp out that nasty cult that was leading the nation of Israel badly astray. Saul was doing his very best to serve his God and keep Israel pure. Go Saul!
So there he was, crossing the desert getting near Damascus, and there was a flash of light. That doesn't sound so extraordinary until you think that in the desert at noontime the sun is very hot and bright. For something to actually be noticed as a flash of light, it must have been on the level of a nuclear flash. That's bright. No wonder Saul was knocked to his knees, and blinded by it. And then came the clincher--a voice from heaven. Now, to the rabbinic mind, which Saul certainly had, being a disciple of Gamaliel, voices from heaven were invariably from God. No wonder he responded in confusion, asking "Who are you?" He hadn't been persecuting God, he'd been strenuously defending Him! But when the voice declared that it was the voice of Jesus, Saul must have felt the entire bottom drop out of his world. You do the math. Voice from heaven = God. Voice from heaven = Jesus. Therefore, Jesus = God. Oh no. Saul must have, in one second, become a deeply broken man. No wonder he let himself be tamely led to Damascus, and spent his days in prayer and fasting until God in His mercy sent someone to alleviate his suffering.
Two other things are noteworthy. One is that God showed Saul all the suffering he must undergo from that day forward, all for His sake. We know from further writings of Saul's (Paul's) that he felt that the suffering was no more than his due. Saul/Paul accepted it and even seemed to feel that it was all more than worth it, for the privilege of being used by the God he had persecuted, to the point of being all used up.
The other thing, which my good friend Yoko pointed out, is that Saul was a man of purpose. When he regarded himself as a rabbinic Jew, he marched firmly in that direction, doing his utmost for the God he served. But once Jesus got ahold of him, he marched just as firmly in the other direction, never deviating from the path which Jesus had set his feet upon.
Saul was a deeply faithful and faith-full man. He's been one of my favorites for a while now, an example to emulate and a teacher to listen to. How fascinating it is to study the book of Acts; to see the spread of the church, the revealing of the Holy Spirit, and the remarkable doings of this steadfast man. God chose well.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Second Time Around
Just after Christmas, my best friend received a beautiful wooden box. Inset on the lid was a little metal plaque with 25 hash marks embossed onto it. And when you slid the lid off, resting inside on a bed of soft green material was--a chunk of asphalt.
This is no ordinary asphalt. This is well-traveled asphalt, but not in the sense that many people have traveled over it. No, this particular piece of asphalt has itself traveled near and far. It all started one day when a couple of young men were in a parking lot, and saw a chunk of asphalt lying there, disconnected from the lot. For whatever reason (do you really need a reason when you're a male in your early twenties?) they picked it up and put it in the car and took it away. And thence began its odyssey. That asphalt turned up all over the place. There were a little over a dozen of us friends who tended to hang out together, mostly from our church, and any one of us were liable to suddenly find this asphalt one day among our belongings, especially those who were away at college, without it being clear how it appeared there. It even showed up in the freezer of a frat house at Northwestern University.
At some point, of course, we all starting getting married, and sometimes to each other. I don't remember exactly when the asphalt started showing up as an honored wedding guest, but it started a new tradition, being passed along from one freshly married couple to the next. And it soon acquired a shiny coat of resin, and then a plaque at the top which read "The Guilty Parties", and a small plaque for each couple listing their first names and the wedding date. By the time Stu and I got married, one of the name plates from the top row was gone, victim of a marriage which did not survive. The good news is that all these years later, only two plaques are missing. The holes they leave are testaments to sadness, but the many remaining are equally testaments to joy.
And so now the asphalt is on its second time around. The hash marks on the lid of the box stand for years, and my friends received it a little while after their 25th anniversary, to keep until the next 25th anniversary comes around, at which time they'll send it on to the next honored couple. We won't receive it again until 2012, and I just pray that there are no more missing name plates by then. That chunk of ordinary road material has great sentimental meaning, a celebration of ordinary people who have achieved hundreds of years, between us all, of marital steadfastness, and many more years than that of friendship. I'll only possess it for a week in 2012, before it moves on to the ones who got married just seven days after we did, but I'll cherish that week as a reminder of love and connection and youthful silliness.
Love, Spud.
This is no ordinary asphalt. This is well-traveled asphalt, but not in the sense that many people have traveled over it. No, this particular piece of asphalt has itself traveled near and far. It all started one day when a couple of young men were in a parking lot, and saw a chunk of asphalt lying there, disconnected from the lot. For whatever reason (do you really need a reason when you're a male in your early twenties?) they picked it up and put it in the car and took it away. And thence began its odyssey. That asphalt turned up all over the place. There were a little over a dozen of us friends who tended to hang out together, mostly from our church, and any one of us were liable to suddenly find this asphalt one day among our belongings, especially those who were away at college, without it being clear how it appeared there. It even showed up in the freezer of a frat house at Northwestern University.
At some point, of course, we all starting getting married, and sometimes to each other. I don't remember exactly when the asphalt started showing up as an honored wedding guest, but it started a new tradition, being passed along from one freshly married couple to the next. And it soon acquired a shiny coat of resin, and then a plaque at the top which read "The Guilty Parties", and a small plaque for each couple listing their first names and the wedding date. By the time Stu and I got married, one of the name plates from the top row was gone, victim of a marriage which did not survive. The good news is that all these years later, only two plaques are missing. The holes they leave are testaments to sadness, but the many remaining are equally testaments to joy.
And so now the asphalt is on its second time around. The hash marks on the lid of the box stand for years, and my friends received it a little while after their 25th anniversary, to keep until the next 25th anniversary comes around, at which time they'll send it on to the next honored couple. We won't receive it again until 2012, and I just pray that there are no more missing name plates by then. That chunk of ordinary road material has great sentimental meaning, a celebration of ordinary people who have achieved hundreds of years, between us all, of marital steadfastness, and many more years than that of friendship. I'll only possess it for a week in 2012, before it moves on to the ones who got married just seven days after we did, but I'll cherish that week as a reminder of love and connection and youthful silliness.
Love, Spud.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
24/7 Cats
We have two cats, and last night I came to an interesting conclusion about them. We have a DayCat, and a NightCat.
Both cats are very protective of me, which I am amused by. The one time in my grown-up life that I actually passed out (food poisoning--you don't want to know), I woke up to find both cats sitting at my head, applying wet little kisses to my face. And last month, I was sitting in the dining room when I saw something out of the corner of my eye that was moving, so I turned my head to look, and there was a spider at the end of a thread of web right in front of my nose. Naturally I gave a yelp and batted it away. Then I looked down, and there were both cats, who had not been there the second before, with expressions of alarm and anxiety in their eyes. I could almost hear them saying "Mom! Mom? Are you alright? Mom!".
Tiger is a skinny little black tiger cat. In summer he has allergies that give him eczema and make a lot of his fur disappear, especially off of his legs, flanks, and rear end. He gets to looking pretty pathetic, like a BarenakedCat. But in winter it all grows back, and his fur gets thick and lush and soft. He appears to gain five pounds in winter, but it's all hair. Tiger still really feels the cold though, and if I'm sitting down once the chilly weather comes, he's in my lap. I love it. He gets so desperate for warmth that he turns himself into all sorts of interesting shapes in order to take advantage of whatever amount of lap is available. And I swear this is a weight-adjustable cat, because he makes himself heavy as a cannonball to weigh me down so I don't get up and lose my lap. Tiger is a real sweetie. But once I go up to bed, the cuddle ends. He'll jump up and curl into a ball on the bed, but he makes sure to do it just out of my reach. At some point, probably when Stu comes up to bed, he gets down and goes to find some corner of furniture to sleep in for the rest of the night. No human contact once we settle down for the night--although I have no idea why not. Tiger, plainly, is DayCat.
Jenny, on the other hand, is a large meatloaf of a cat, a beautiful mostly-white calico. Jenny is vocal. She has a loud voice and she's not afraid to use it, especially when I am doing something that involves the dishwasher. It's not clear why, but apparently Jen sees the dishwasher as evil and dangerous, and she warns me with loud cries if I have my hands in there. Silly cat. She is fat and furry all year round, and does not seem bothered by winter except at night. During the day, she really doesn't want human touch, or at least not much. Sometimes she can't stand it and comes looking for attention, but one stroke of my hand and she moves away again, to sit and look at me and say incomprehensible cat things in her loud voice. There are only two times when Jenny permits affection. One is when I am falling asleep. Once I get to bed, Jenny hops up and walks up me--she doesn't walk on the surface of the bed, just on me, and by golly is she heavy. She proceeds all the way up to my pillow, where she wraps herself around my head, settles down, and begins to purr with an engine that can surely be heard down the street. When my alarm goes off in the morning Jenny thumps off the bed, and once I am out of the shower she puts herself squarely under my feet. I give her a good scratching, and hear that grand engine again, and then that's it. No more physical touch for her, and absolutely no more purring for the rest of the day--until I go to bed again that night. Jenny is NightCat.
I was thinking about this last night, and thinking what a shame it was that Tiger would not cuddle up with us at night in bed, because that's the coldest part of any day, and if he just tried it once he'd be hooked, and warm and happy. And why won't Jenny sit in laps, or at least beside laps, during the day? Why does she only allow herself happiness when she thinks I am asleep and won't notice it? I'll never know why, but my kitties have divided up the days into two clearly demarcated and opposing shifts. I have a cat for day usage, and a cat for night usage, but never two lovey-cats at once. DayCat and NightCat. Their ways are mysterious, indeed.
Both cats are very protective of me, which I am amused by. The one time in my grown-up life that I actually passed out (food poisoning--you don't want to know), I woke up to find both cats sitting at my head, applying wet little kisses to my face. And last month, I was sitting in the dining room when I saw something out of the corner of my eye that was moving, so I turned my head to look, and there was a spider at the end of a thread of web right in front of my nose. Naturally I gave a yelp and batted it away. Then I looked down, and there were both cats, who had not been there the second before, with expressions of alarm and anxiety in their eyes. I could almost hear them saying "Mom! Mom? Are you alright? Mom!".
Tiger is a skinny little black tiger cat. In summer he has allergies that give him eczema and make a lot of his fur disappear, especially off of his legs, flanks, and rear end. He gets to looking pretty pathetic, like a BarenakedCat. But in winter it all grows back, and his fur gets thick and lush and soft. He appears to gain five pounds in winter, but it's all hair. Tiger still really feels the cold though, and if I'm sitting down once the chilly weather comes, he's in my lap. I love it. He gets so desperate for warmth that he turns himself into all sorts of interesting shapes in order to take advantage of whatever amount of lap is available. And I swear this is a weight-adjustable cat, because he makes himself heavy as a cannonball to weigh me down so I don't get up and lose my lap. Tiger is a real sweetie. But once I go up to bed, the cuddle ends. He'll jump up and curl into a ball on the bed, but he makes sure to do it just out of my reach. At some point, probably when Stu comes up to bed, he gets down and goes to find some corner of furniture to sleep in for the rest of the night. No human contact once we settle down for the night--although I have no idea why not. Tiger, plainly, is DayCat.
Jenny, on the other hand, is a large meatloaf of a cat, a beautiful mostly-white calico. Jenny is vocal. She has a loud voice and she's not afraid to use it, especially when I am doing something that involves the dishwasher. It's not clear why, but apparently Jen sees the dishwasher as evil and dangerous, and she warns me with loud cries if I have my hands in there. Silly cat. She is fat and furry all year round, and does not seem bothered by winter except at night. During the day, she really doesn't want human touch, or at least not much. Sometimes she can't stand it and comes looking for attention, but one stroke of my hand and she moves away again, to sit and look at me and say incomprehensible cat things in her loud voice. There are only two times when Jenny permits affection. One is when I am falling asleep. Once I get to bed, Jenny hops up and walks up me--she doesn't walk on the surface of the bed, just on me, and by golly is she heavy. She proceeds all the way up to my pillow, where she wraps herself around my head, settles down, and begins to purr with an engine that can surely be heard down the street. When my alarm goes off in the morning Jenny thumps off the bed, and once I am out of the shower she puts herself squarely under my feet. I give her a good scratching, and hear that grand engine again, and then that's it. No more physical touch for her, and absolutely no more purring for the rest of the day--until I go to bed again that night. Jenny is NightCat.
I was thinking about this last night, and thinking what a shame it was that Tiger would not cuddle up with us at night in bed, because that's the coldest part of any day, and if he just tried it once he'd be hooked, and warm and happy. And why won't Jenny sit in laps, or at least beside laps, during the day? Why does she only allow herself happiness when she thinks I am asleep and won't notice it? I'll never know why, but my kitties have divided up the days into two clearly demarcated and opposing shifts. I have a cat for day usage, and a cat for night usage, but never two lovey-cats at once. DayCat and NightCat. Their ways are mysterious, indeed.
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