...that whatever we decide that we really,really like, the manufacturers promptly discontinue? Recent deaths include sugar-free Tang, sugar-free Mentos, turkey sausage links, McCains roasted potatoes, whatever bra my daughter likes at Vickie's Secret, hot and spicy Chex mix, baked quesadilla chips, and a host of other long-gone and well-loved products.
...that the inverse is true also? Whenever my family decides they love something and I find it on sale I'll buy a large quantity, only to discover that they suddenly don't like it any more.
...that the weather reports are always wrong until THIS year? Yup, every single blessed inch of snow that was predicted showed up. Why could they not have been wrong again, per usual?
...that every time I sent for the registration materials for a master's degree, I found myself pregnant? I'll be fifty this year, and I'm still terrified to even contemplate getting that degree.
...that everyone sneers at and makes fun of that old standard, green bean casserole, but every time I take a big double-batch to a potluck not a spoonful comes home again?
...that I can sit in my comfy old rocker for an hour, but it isn't until five minutes before I have to get up that the cat jumps up into my lap?
...that I have managed to stay married for nearly 23 years? We have absolutely nothing in common. I'm a lark, he's an owl. I like main roads and direct routes, he likes back roads and as many corners to turn as humanly possible. I like veggies, he must have meat. I'm a technotard, he's a technogeek. When vacation time rolls around, I say "At last, some time at home!". He says "Where shall we go?". I'm all about books, he's all about television. I like quiet, he likes background noise. In other words, I'm an introvert, he's an extrovert. It's extraordinary that we ever got married to start with, and it's a miracle that we have stayed that way.
...that a mutual love of God and family can override all those incompatibilities? It's grace, that's all. Sheer grace.
Love, Spud.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Parents, do not exasperate!
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.
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.
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.
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