Sunday, December 20, 2009

The Call of Winter

Up at 5:30 this morning to witness the bittersweet end of a long snow...  (Well, maybe not long by New England standards, but more than 24 hours of snow is pretty long by Philadelphia's watch.)
I hate the end of a snow storm -- watching the last snow flakes drift to earth, stragglers left behind by the rest of the storm as it moves on to blanket some other town with snowy stillness.  Inside I cry, "Stay!  It's not enough yet.  Cars are still moving, people are still digging."  As a kid, I remember pouring over pages of Ideals magazine, longing for the quiet of a snowy night, the thick cotton of snow drifts keeping entire towns cozy and comfy within their homes, windows glowing with warm light that defies the dark and the cold.  No one in those scenes felt a driving urge to head to the local Wawa for smokes, or had the necessity to dig out so they could work the late shift at the local hospital.  Everyone lay wrapped in the security of their homes, the world stood still, and there was no fire brighter or warmer than the fires in their hearts when surrounded by family.  If the snow would just stay, maybe we would be forced to call a timeout to our busy lives (especially at this time of year) and focus on the things that are worth enjoying.

I love the end of a snow storm -- watching the last snow flakes drift to earth, tenacious "holdouts" determined to get to their intended destination, despite the forward locomotion of their collaborators.  The neighborhood is still, the snow glistens like a field of diamonds in the moonlight, thick frosty batting deadens the crackle of humanity and its progress.  In just a few hours, the town will awaken and its inhabitants will spring from its bowels, shovels and brooms in hand, alive with the cold and chattering about things like record snowfall and future predictions.  Conjecture abounds as to just "how much" we got and whether this is the onset of the "snowiest winter" in years.  Neighbors help neighbors and new friends are made as conversation turns from the weather to local sports teams or home improvements made by the new neighbors at "that old house down the street."  The air is frigid but the comraderie is warm.  Small children play at their parents' feet, and older children form new allies in a war of snowballs that eventually breaks out; young and old alike work together on forts and snowmen across the town -- the evidence of their efforts remains long after the heat of the sun has driven the husk of snowflakes from the rest of the landscape.

Well, happy to write some more, but shoveling and snowfort building beckon alike!

Monday, December 7, 2009

Angry Ranting, Amazing Grace

I'm normal -- or at least I think so.  Then again, don't most abnormal people think they are fine and it's the rest of the world that's messed up?  Or maybe, somewhere deep down inside they know they are crazy, but fear, or ignorance, or something else keeps them from making the changes they need.  A counselor once told me, "Normal is being able to recognize the abnormal," or something like that.  The point is this, I don't think I am superhuman, most times I feel like a "very bad Christian" and I wish I'd handled things better than I did, but when it comes to some pretty basic things, I think I can tell truth from horse manure, and I don't think it takes Super Christian to do it.  Sometimes I witness some pretty blatant wrongs and hear some pretty blatant lies, and I want to ask, "Are you sure that's the story you wanna go with?"  I am amazed that people think they are "getting over," that they believe others will fall for this crap!  I am amazed there was a day when I was so lost that I would have.

For instance, I cannot imagine asking someone to share a loan with you, eventually turning said loan over to that person in default, and holding it against him for the rest of his life, much less his widow's.  I cannot imagine being a middle-aged family man, having your retired mother pay car insurance on her vehicle (which you are now driving), and refusing to speak to her when she tells you she wants her car back.  I cannot imagine having a child who needs help from legal authorities and from medical profesionals, and refusing your child that help because...?  (I still have no rationale for that one).  I cannot fathom a man who is given everything, ruthlessly stealing from someone he loves because he had a difficult childhood at the hands of someone completely removed from the situation!

I'm not trying to "out" anyone or make public any dirty laundry, but these are people I have known and loved for years!  These are people who, some of them, profess a faith in our Lord Jesus Christ.  These are people, some of which, I have stood shoulder to shoulder with in protesting similar unjustices done to others.  These are people who claim to love.  Now they are making harrassing phone calls, writing vile letters, "unfriending on Facebook" -- what is this?  Middle School?  A spade is a spade, folks!  I'm not saying I'm perfect; I'm not saying I am always on cue, but when it comes to the obvious, can we stop blaming anyone but ourselves for one minute.  I am amazed these people actually think someone is going to side with them or think they are the wounded in all of this.  Do they really believe the lies they tell?  Are they that lost?  The blindest of men can tell truth from lies.

For many years I had a warped sense of who I was, what was right and wrong, and who I served.  Quite honestly, the jury is still out on whether I would have fallen for too much of this nonsense, but thanks to my gracious Lord and Savior I can view things through His eyes and measure things against His Standard.  I no longer have to be lost in the solutions and reasons of man.  I no longer need to be alone and unsure.  I can put Jesus first, others second, and wait on what God has for me; I can serve without fear of being wrongfully used.  These are things God has so graciously given to me -- that's not to say I always accept them, always utilize them or always keep them as my first thought, but they are gifts I most certainly possess and have at my disposal for as long as I walk in God's grace.  Thanks to God for providing a way out of the human condition; I pray I always bring my every decision before Him for His Wisdom and His examination.  I pray those I love seek His Counsel as well.

Friday, November 27, 2009

The Elephant in the Room

     I've mentioned before that my son, S and I had fallen out of touch for some time, and had reunited in July this year.  Truth is, we had lost touch during his rebellion and commission of God-knows how many or what variety of criminal acts, and his ensuing incarceration for at least one or more of said crimes.  When we saw one another in July I wished for the best, but was not very hopeful -- he had made no effort to contact any of us, had not gotten a job, and had been seen rolling about town with his "usual cronies" as my mother chauffeured.  Given appearances, a few things had changed, the majority had not.  My instincts were correct; from the time he first spoke to me on the phone (after someone had reached out to him) it was a litany of intentions and excuses, half-truths and embellishments typical of the S that was always "on the hook" for something or another.  I never thought less of him -- I know my son's potential -- but the disappointment I felt at his continued lack of character even after such a harsh dose of reality, was surpassed only by the fear that struck him standing in my kitchen that day.  Despite my joy at seeing him, despite my respectfulness and responsiveness as he made baseless claims or careless promises, he knew I had looked right through him, and he was not ready to be honest with himself, much less me.

     Fast forward four months -- my son is once again in jail.  This time, for crimes against the one person who, in the past two years or so, has impoverished herself that S might have.  Now, I think less of him.  Now I am disgusted by the sight of him.  That being said, he is my son however, and I want a joyful, incredibly positive outcome to this situation, but his behavior is vulgar and repulsive, and I can't bare to look at his face.  I want my son to sit in jail until his heart has turned.  I want my son to dwell day after day in the realization that his deeds were vile, and to glory in the Truth there is only one avenue out -- not money, not sex, not popularity, not all the ridiculous, minacious, pretentious tattoos he has plastered all over himself, but the Way he was taught from the time he was small.  I want him to realize what a sucker he has been -- not a baller, not a player, but a sucker -- to believe the lies of an angel fallen from God's Grace who wants nothing more than S's soul and the souls of each of us, condemned the same fiery, agonizing eternal destruction he will one day suffer (misery loves company, S).  I want him to know that those who have put him in jail want only for him to live up to the potential he was given by His Creator Who loves him so, Whom he has rejected.  I wany my son to fight for his destiny the way I know my son can fight.  I want my son to work for true success the way I know my son can work.  The path S chose is the punks' way, the way of the weak and cowardly, those who are unable or unwilling to walk heavily the challenging, sometimes punishing path of propriety.  I want him to know the fulfillment, the gratitude, the happiness that comes from growing up and walking with God, forging his destiny with God in the lead, marrying the one He has picked for him, working at the career He chose for him, experiencing the joy He has for him.  Any other choice leads to heartache and frustration, and I want him to know that.  It's not easy to do the right thing -- it hasn't been easy for those involved in this decision -- but S is no wimp.  Why he's chosen to be, is for him to answer; why he doesn't have to be, is Christ.

Insert Coins Then Make Your Selection

        More than two weeks since I've posted...  Really, I tried yesterday, but my online service was not cooperating.  As for the period before... well, let's just say there's an elephant in the room I'm not prepared to address publicly just yet.  As for what was on my mind yesterday...  Behold the simple vending machine:



...lots of options, simple principle -- you get what you want when you give it what it wants.  Works everytime -- right?

        We have a couple of vending machines at work that work on the "slot machine principle" -- lots of coin in, just enough payout to keep you coming back.  From time to time I will pack some sort of snack or sandwich just to get around the frustration of dealing with those manipulative machines.  Eventually though, I am compelled to return, dropping in more money than I would pay for a family-size bag of some artery-clogging crap and paying twice the price for a warm, slightly expired soda, only to have the machine jam and dangle my Bugles before me like one of those stupid cat teaser toys.  I bang and fume and kick.  I turn as if some hidden camera crew is waiting to jump from hiding and joyfully reveal to me their ruse.  Satisfied no one is watching, or annoyed to the point at which I will not be beaten by an inanimate object regardless of an audience, I exhale, shrug my jacket sleeves up, position my trademark stillettos on the floor, and slam the top of the machine for all I am worth.  It rocks back, and I catch it on the return, rocking it back even harder.  In the end, I win -- forcing the machine to drop its dislodged bounty into the tray.  I open the door and retrieve it with a smirk of satisfaction, straightening my suddenly fabulous attire, and standing just a little taller, pleased with myself for putting the kibosh on that malevolent machine's unscrupulous practice.

        It occurred to me yesterday, that sometimes we treat God like the vending machine.  We put our money, our time, our faith in, and we expect to get just what we want right back.  "Have it your way."  "I want it all and I want it now."  "...right at your fingertips."  (Insert your instant gratification, self-serving, entitlement cliche' here.)

        How many times have we fumed and raged because we gave of ourselves and our precious dollars and "nothing came out."  We are still struggling to pay our bills, we are still pressed for time between carpools and clean-ups.  "When does God payback what He owes?"  Our sinful, ego-bound hearts seethe with perceived privilege; we are determined not to be taken advantage of!

        Or how often do we live "good, faithful, righteous" lives only to get those things we do not want?  "I never asked for MS!"  "I earned the good parents."  We all want to give that vending machine a kick or a shake just to get what we think we deserve.

        And the immediacy with which we expect results?  Feed the homeless here, get a bonus at work there.  We look at each potential windfall as God working to finally dispense the good fortune we desire, the reward we deserve, the paycheck we've earned in His service.  When our bounty doesn't fall, our frustration builds.  We become disenchanted with our very Savior, the One who gave His Life that we might live.

        I've received the "bounty at the bottom of the machine," and I've learned it was my arrogance and my foolishness that dropped it there and allowed me to walk away satisfied.  In the light of God's abundance and grace, it was offal for which I fought so long and hard -- a bag of six stale, broken chips and a warm, flat, dented can of gingerale with something growing over the opening at the top.  God had so much more planned for me; how could I have been so pompous as to think anything I could squeeze from His hand would be better than what He could graciously give?

Sunday, November 8, 2009

Blessed Assurance

While life is sometimes a little scary, it is never bad.  My life is filled with blessings unspeakable and, while the occasional bump may make things somewhat gloomy or uncomfortable now and again, I cannot recant my faith, curse God, or even question His existence.  Admittedly, I have reacted in very childish, selfish ways, questioning why He hates me or why He choses to put me through so much; I'm not proud of that, but I don't think I am alone either.  I say this, because we are all imperfectly, sinfully human.  We all question God.  We all think our own plans are better.  We all fail to trust God. 

Truthfully and regretfully, I did not pay very close attention to my high school apologetics teacher.  The irony is, I wanted to learn the differences between religion and faith; I wanted to be able to argue for my faith rationally and sensibly.  I wanted to substantiate my beliefs in a methodical, practical, academic way -- and the material, while dry and sometimes difficult, was of interest to me.  But this was high school -- there were committees and teams and notes to be passed.

In times of weakness, in times of trouble and doubt, I have found plunging into the Word of God to be necessary for some cerebral awakening or intellectual relevance.  But the thing that grabs my heart, the thing that makes me know this is true, is history.  My very own, very personal history of God's faithfulness.

When I open the history book of God's faithfulness in my life I see consistency, miraculous possibilities that only through God could become realities, and indescribable love.  Sure, I could read accounts of Abraham and Isaac, Job, Paul -- and I do.  They are all wonderful evidence and assurance of God's loving faithfulness and redemption.  But right there, in my own life, I can see it...

...the time I prayed for meat for my children -- within hours my neighbor came to me with pounds of "extra" chicken

...the time I begged God to restore my marriage, and He didn't -- something far more wonderful was waiting down the road for me

...the times that in shame, pain, anger, and confusion I ran so far and hid so deeply -- God knew me and would not let me go

...ALL the times I have sought the approval of my peers, been crushed when it did not come -- as promised, God rewarded me with peace, joy and prosperity when I craved His approval

With no disrespect to apologetics, and no disrespect to atheists who wish to argue in some philosophical or academic arena, with no intent to nullify the importance of studying Scripture and explaining my faith with God's very Words -- when things get really sticky, sometimes "I just know." 

Sunday, November 1, 2009

Not Just in Milwaukee

I've just had another one of those "it-doesn't-get-any-better-than-this" moments.  The details of the situation are this:

I was taking half of our children back to their mother's for the week.  Never fun.  I miss them, I hate being "out of touch" with them, and I would love to be there to hear their stories each day they hopped off the school bus.  They are not always excited about going back either.  Whether it's because of another school week, or because they miss us as much as we miss them, it's usually a very quiet ride.  Plus, it's not a "Wawa run."  This is some serious, get comfortable, set the Cruise Control driving.  Gas is over $2.60 per gallon, toll is $4.00, my time on Sunday evening -- priceless.  And the route has some of the worst roads I've ever driven!  Add that to the construction they are doing which forces three lanes of traffic into two cattle shoots over grated roads, and you have something similar to sliding down a six mile flight of stairs in a cardboard box!  At age eight I would have been amused...

The reality of the situation is this:

I had some of the people I love the most gathered around me for a full two hours -- just us, no distractions, talking, sharing the ride.  Being in the car is one of the best ways to witness your children interacting with each other.  It's close quarters, no one can stomp off to their room in a huff, and for some bizarre reason, sitting in the front seat makes you virtually invisible -- it's as if they completely forget you are there, and they say precisely what they would say were you not less than two feet from them! 

Two of the girls were in the very back row talking and playing a game.  J and C were in the middle.  J had turned on the overhead light under the pretense he was going to work on a history assignment.  The warm orange glow of the light behind me made the night ahead seem like pitch, but it lit up each face near me as if only we existed.  Eventually J had joined C in a computer game and they were engrossed in a miniscule world of make-believe, American history all but forgotten.

My mother was with me in the front seat; she had joined us for dinner -- one of our more raucous gatherings -- and decided to take the ride afterward.  She and I chatted freely on the way home, much like we did on some of our previous road trips when our older two children were young.

From time to time, someone would complain of undesirable odors emanating from the back seat, or ask for a piece of gum or a drink of water.  We helped the youngest spell words like "cup" and "fish," then asked her to find them on pieces of the Halloween candy she'd brought with her.  It wasn't the cacophony of dinner just a short time before, but the humor, the frivolity, the familiarity was there.

I thought about the many times I just wished someone would master the technique of changing the empty toilet paper roll, or imagined what it would be like to grab my keys and head toward the front door without hearing a litany of voices beg "C'nIgo?"  I smiled and shook my head. Nope. Times like these make it all worth it; I wouldn't trade it for the world. 

Friday, October 30, 2009

My Prayer

I was leaving work today when I ran into a Christian woman with whom I rarely have an oppurtunity to speak.  She asked, as she usually does, about my children.  I was compelled to tell her about one of our children and the problems he is having. 

He is locked in a pattern of sin, he is firmly in its grip.  I say this not out of judgement, but out of love for my child; I speak not with self-possession for I know I was not the best parent, but with assurance that I did not spare him the best Heavenly Father.  He was raised in The Word; he attended church and we were actively involved.  He was told from a very young age what it means to be a Christian, he was shown what it means to serve as Christ did.  I could dwell on the multitude of times I was a terrible example to my children, I could lose count trying to number the nights I closed my eyes in exhaustion rather than keep watch and pray for them.  I could make this about me and my faults. 

Number One: I've apologized for my shortcomings -- to God and to my children.  My children know that on my own, I am flawed, wretched, and painfully human.  My children also know the gift of God's strength and grace that lifts me up and makes me whole -- if I seek and surrender.  My children know I don't always do those things.  My children also know they don't always do so, either.

Number Two: Satan would love for me to turn this into a self-serving, woe-is-me tale of Judi and her gaffes and foibles. Truth is, it is about one of the Shepherd's sheep -- lost, following another to its own slaughter. It is about a child and his immediate need to seek and surrender.

What I told this woman on the walkway is this:

"I pray for peace for myself, and brokenness for my son."

Initially, that may sound incredibly selfish.  Why should I have peace?  Why would I wish ill on my own son?  But, it is out of a boundless, inestimable, "chasmic" love for my Heavenly Father and my child, that I pray.  For me to have anything but peace after I have asked and received God's forgiveness, shifts the focus from God's grace and strength to my depravity.  My self-absorption negates His victory over sin in my life and renders me useless as His instrument of peace.

Secondly, brokenness is the path to being made whole. (2 Corinthians 12:9-10).  It is brokenness that has caused so many of us to concede failure on our own, to subjugate ourselves to the power of Jesus Christ, to fall prostrate at His feet and cry out that we cannot do this of ourselves, for without Him we can do nothing! (John 15:5)  A loving mother prays for the surrender of her children to the will of God; a loving mother prays that her children will be stripped of those things that would keep them from falling in love with their Savior and dying to Him (Philippians 1:21)

So, my child, it is out of love that I pray you will find yourself face to face with the fear, the hunger, the emptiness, the failure that would drive you straight into the arms of the One who knows and loves you best, the One you used to love and serve.

Tuesday, October 27, 2009

"MissUnderstood" or "When Realism Is Misconstrued, Bad Behavior Can Result"

My family tells me that I tend to be confrontational.  Is there something I'm missing?  I'm certain we rarely see ourselves as others see us, but confrontational?  Me?  Now, depending on your sources, "confrontational" can be as generic as "meeting face to face," or as unflattering as "facing or opposing boldly, defiantly or antagonistically."  I know I am not the benign, soft-spoken, meeting-face-to-face "Excuse me, Sir, but I believe the driveway your are parked across is mine.  Would you care to move or just allow me to walk three blocks?"  Likewise I am not the petulant, juvenile, defiant "What do you mean 12 items or less?  Six jars of herring don't count as separate items -- they're all the same item!  Besides, you are not the boss of me!"  Nor am I antagonistic.  I don't threaten to call HR, the police or my councilman; I don't write letters to the editor or call to unleashed a stream of obscenities on one of those silly 30-seconds-to-make-your-point hotlines.  I don't jump on the bandwagon of causes everytime I see someone who doesn't get their way, and I certainly don't make it a point to call local news stations each time I see a municipal car parked in front of the Hair Cuttery where the police chief's wife gets her hair done.
In most cases, in fact, I bite my lip as the cashier stops to review her schedule with the girl that is bagging my eggs beneath the six pounds of bananas and the two gallons of milk.  Many times I have waited patiently as the guy in front of me slept through the green arrow and then stays behind the line phonetically uncoding the words, "Left Turn Yield on Green [circle]."  When the solicitor from Bank of America fails to cease and desist after my second "No, thank you," I politely explain, "The only thing I want from Bank of America is to be removed from their call list; have a good day," before I hang up on him. 

Call it confrontational, but if I demurred each time someone approached me with an offer for new windows or a request for help in obtaining funds from a Nigerian bank account, not only would I get nothing accomplished, but I would fall for every sob story that comes down the pike.  You see, I'm a sucker for a cause.  I really do hate to see people in need.  The cashier?  If I could, I'd offer to work for her so she could go to her nephew's graduation.  And her friend, the bagger?  I'd bag my eggs myself.  I could buy the guy at the traffic light one of those sleep number beds that Lindsey Wagner endorses, and a copy of Hooked on Phonics.  The poor guy from B of A -- I'd have to get him a better job than telemarketer -- no one but a convicted felon should be forced to be a telemarketer.

My mother used to say "No good deed goes unpunished," her way of saying that sometimes it just doesn't pay.  From this I learned to weed out those things that will suck up too much of the parts of me I am not willing to invest.  In other words, I'm not committing to something that will cause me to unhappily, impossibly overextend myself in one way or another; I'm not opening the door to obligations I might be tempted to undertake, but not qualified to see to fruition.  Maybe I am a little blunt when it comes to my refusal; maybe I tend to cut people off at the knees before they've had their say.  Maybe I tend to dig in to avoid being sucked in.  I might be a little sarcastic from time to time, and possibly even a little cynical but, trust me -- It's only because I care. 

Quite frankly, I can't believe those who know me best would mistake my honesty and altruism for bold, defiant antagonism.  I definitely think we need to sit down and talk about this!       

Monday, October 26, 2009

A Few Revolutions of the Wheel



Today is my day off from "the job that pays the bills," the job that is "the daily grind."  It' s also the only day of the week I can get up "uber"-early to write without interruption until I walk the dogs at 8 or so.  So, with three or four hours to pen the "great American novel," I should have a lot done -- right?  Let see, so far it looks like this:

Cleaned up dog vomit -- that gulping noise that awakened me shortly before the alarm was the result of Bishop's success in eating his way out of his crate, and his body's refusal to digest pine and chicken wire.

Devotions -- 15 whole minutes of concentrated attention to God and His plan for me.  That is, besides wondering if I got that load of laundry out of the washing machine last night, and trying to recall if they started the winter trash schedule -- 'cause if they did, I have got to put out that trash...  Hey, did I even lock the gate last night?

Helped my husband pack up for work -- that's my husband, right?  Gotta take care of  the man who takes care of me!  Besides, get him off to handle his business, and I can begin to handle mine -- no distractions.

Checked email.  You never know when something very pressing is coming across the wire -- free kittens or coupons from Depends.  Good thing I did check -- that led me to the next matter vital to humanity's welfare...

A host of emails back and forth regarding the whereabouts of a couple of coffee pots missing from our office at work.  (Still haven't located them -- will handle that one tomorrow when, bleary-eyed, I arrive at work and attempt to make coffee in fishbowls a homeschooler was giving away *FREE* in another email.)

Facebook.  Research, right?  See what my friends and family are up to, maybe post a thought or two -- like warm-ups before running a marathon.  By God's grace, few people are up to chat at 5 AM, but it was a gorgeous weekend -- lots of photos and videos posted.  After weeding through them it was time to get down to business.

What's this?  "Balloon boy?"  "Mermaid girl?"  Riveting copy that can't be overlooked.  Maybe I'll pick-up some techniques; maybe there is inspiration lying within.  Maybe I'll just get disgusted by the way the media labels people and no one seems to be offended when Oprah's on the line.

It is now after 7:30 AM, and aside from what you see on this page, I have written absolutely nothing.  Besides my devotions, I have been essentially unproductive and, to be real, my devotions were so many hours ago I'm not sure whether it's time to throw stones or time to gather stones.

Three hours I am not getting back... maybe I can pick up a few extra on Freecycle... 

Monday, October 19, 2009

Going to the Dogs

Interesting thing -- I was just in the kitchen pouring myself a cup of coffee, and both dogs were sitting there, eyes wide, ears perked, backs straight; their gaze never left me as I moved through the kitchen.  It doesn't take a dog owner to recognize this posture as "The Beg."  Funny thing is, I had nothing for them.  Sure they probably would have lapped up any creamer, or even coffee that I spilled on the floor, but there was nothing to fill their perpetually hungry bellies.  But, there they were -- sitting on the cold, hard floor, at full attention and ready for anything that might come their way.  I am sure, that if I were to leave my desk and walk to the kitchen even now, Bishop would leave his comfortable spot on the carpet at my feet and Belle would come tearing down the stairs from her warm place at the foot of Christine's bed, just to follow, beg and await whatever I had for them.  No matter how many times I went through the routine, they would be there -- following, begging, waiting.

I love my dogs, but the simple fact is, they are "just dogs."  They do not share the same place in my heart with my children, they do not garner the same respect that I give my husband, they do not occupy the same place at my table that I would give a guest in my home.  Nevertheless, they know what I can provide for them, they know what I have to offer, and they never fail to seek it -- religiously.

Therein lies the gnawing conviction -- do I seek my Father, my Savior, my Jehovah Jire in the same way my dogs faithfully, urgently, hopefully seek the smallest crumb that falls from my hand?  Do I grab hold of God, wrestling with Him even in pain and fatigue as Jacob did? ( Genesis 32:24-32)  Would I persist with the faith of a Canaanite woman, happy with the crumbs from my Lord's table? (Matthew 15:21-28)  Do I, like my dogs, seek more even after I have received my daily portion?  Do I want to be hopelessly, eternally, exclusively reliant on Jesus Christ for all that I have and all that I am?  Do I want to die to self in such a way that my sole purpose in life, the reason I write every letter, speak every word, execute every deed is to serve and please my Master?  Is my longing to fill every empty place in my life with that which He provides, as intense as the yearnings of my dogs to have that "full" feeling all the time?  Am I sitting at my Father's feet, ready and willing, afraid to blink for fear I will miss whatever my Father has for me?

I guess, sometimes, you can learn a lot from a dog -- or two.

Monday, October 12, 2009

A Time to Dance

Today is my father's "funeral."  Nothing but cremains and, for now, no interment; certainly no spirit remains.  So, "funeral" really doesn't fit in my book.  Memorial?  Maybe, some; we'll definitely be remembering him.  But, as un-"PC" as it sounds, today is a day of celebration.  Early Thursday morning my father was healed -- of everything!  Sure, he had a myriad of health issues -- not a one, I might add, that ever kept him down or left him bitter, but my father was as broken in sin as the rest of us.  That is all gone now.  My father has been made perfect -- the way, had it not been for our own greed, pride and evil suspicions, we all should have been from the very beginning.  God's grace was made manifest four days ago, in the wee hours of the morning, when my father joined his Father as a pure, restored creation, and for the time being anyway, resident of Heaven.  Today is most assuredly a day for us to celebrate that and look forward to a reunion with him!  Ecclesiastes 3:4 

Saturday, October 10, 2009

WOW! What a Ride!

From the time I got my brother's call, the past 48 hours or so have been amazing.  My father's passing has taken me on an incredible ride through bitterness, forgiveness, confusion and brokenness; once again, I am left with no recourse but to be speechless, breathless even, at God's goodness and grace.

I am the type of person that, when overloaded shuts down -- I mean completely.  If I have too much on my agenda, if I throw myself too deeply into a project or relationship, if I am hit with one too many ideas, or issues, or emotions -- ZZZT!  With barely a sizzle or hiss I'm "out" like a lit match in a puddle; I flip on the Boob Tube and go so deeply underground it takes an army of moles to sniff me out. (Or one very persistent husband who means more to me than re-runs of "Gilmore Girls.")  Yesterday afternoon I felt myself starting to slip away; I knew now was definitely not a good time, and that only added to my stress level.  I met Scott in "our office," pulled up a washing machine and unburdened.  I gave him everything -- the pressure, the craziness, the plan -- and as usual, he was gracious enough to listen, offer a few practical suggestions, and kick me back into play.  (God, in His wisdom has created a partnership of two very high-strung friends; now that could spell disaster, but mercifully, He has made those two friends polar opposites in many other ways.  We understand what the other is going through and feel one another's frustration, just not over the same issues; handy for empathy, great for practicality!)  I prayed for God's direction and power on my walk back to my mother's. 

Now, I know family events are a haven for drama, but I still wonder if any family has as much as mine.  Anyhow, one of the key issues in my father's death was my being "forced" to meet my half-brother, Tom, and "forced" to deal with another one of my father's "other lives."  My brother, Paul had contacted Tom years ago, extolled his virtues and I believe, even passed on an e-mail address to me -- I labelled it "Round File."  I couldn't deal with my father's acceptance of Tom and abandonment of me; I couldn't deal with some overly educated, saintly "Wunderkind" slapping me in the face with his Father-Son talks and his "God is Good" serenity.  God's timing is perfect, I know.  I was not in a place to meet "my father's son;"  I'm not sure I am, now, but upon meeting him yesterday I have hope.  I had allowed my anger to misrepresent him completely; Tom seems like a wonderful man of God and friend.  Our visit was, to me anyway, a tremendous blessing.

Shortly after 3, my nephew and I left my mother's.  He played with Madison and Olivia while Scott and I chatted.  Later, we piled in the car for a much-needed "casual dining experience," dropped Matthew off, took care of PJ's procedure and dropped into bed.  It felt as if God had once again, made the sun stand still; He had given me a much longer day to fight and win.  Stress was subdued, craziness curtailed, and bitterness beaten down.  I had the "family time" I needed, both with my immediate and extended families, handled some urgent matters, repeatedly sought renewal at the Throne of Grace, and moved, by God's grace a little closer to victory over a difficult past.  I can't wait to see what He has instore for me today!           

   

Friday, October 9, 2009

A Window of Grace

This past Sunday our church had a "guest" speaker, CJ Mahaney -- not really a guest at all, he is as much a part of our church as anyone else that sat before him.  His role in our church made him a "shoo-in" to help us celebrate our 25th anniversary.

One of the issues he addressed as he spoke, was boasting.  As with any milestone we celebrate on this earth, the temptation is to attribute our reaching it as the culmination of our efforts or the fruits of our labors.  CJ cautioned us to keep our eyes on the Author and Finisher of our faith, the One in whom we all should boast.  He drew back the curtain for us, on a window through which we need to view the events of our celebration -- a window that God constructed for us so long ago, one of grace and mercy, providence and blessing.  Even as he spoke, the application of his message was inescapable -- here was this incredible man of God speaking before us, an author, missionary, leader, "family man" to his Christian family as well as his wife and children, an amazing presence -- and it is all "in spite of" what we are as human beings; it is all by grace.

My father went to heaven yesterday.  I envy him.  He was known to his Christian family as a leader, a man of faith, a charitable and loving man with a heart for God and a concern for the lost.  He was known to his immediate family as a flawed human being, a man who was "just a man."  Over the years when others would approach me, gushing over what a wonderful man he was I would bite my tongue to bleeding, force a smile, and run like paint.  I would seethe when I saw him suited up, Bible in hand, readying himself for another "show."  I knew what he did, what he said when the eyes of the church were no longer on him.

God did, too.  Good thing for my father, his Father viewed everything he did, everything he was through the blood of His Son Jesus Christ.  Good thing for all of us.  When my father approached the Throne of Grace, he answered for his life, but Christ answered with His.  It is Christ's blood that gained access for each and every one of us; it is His Death on the Cross, not our deeds and, thankfully, not our misdeeds (heaven would be a very lonely place).  When CJ reminded us on Sunday to look through a window of God's grace and goodness when viewing significant events in life, God knew that very soon I'd be calling on Him to help me look through that very same window at some painful events.

"For by grace you have been saved through faith. And this is not your own doing; it is the gift of God, not a result of works, so that no one may boast."  (Ephesians 2:8,9)   

Saturday, October 3, 2009

Counting My Inheritance

This is not my usual MO.  Normally I am comfy in a pair of my favorite pajamas, settled into "the passenger's seat," as I call it, and prepared to ride it out until the end.  I do my devotions, check the news or vaious other blogs, I journal or work on some of the projects I've got going -- whatever.  In a short while I have to leave for the job that pays the bills; I got up early for a little catharsis. 

You see, my father is very sick -- has been for almost two weeks; I don't think he was originally expected to make it as long as he has.  We are not close, my father and I; no "big blowout," just went our separate ways a long time ago.  I know he is taken care of in the "afterlife department"; he affirms he has accepted salvation and says Jesus is His Lord and King.  He is in his eighties and up until two weeks ago, very active; he has lead a full life and is now in a considerable amount of pain.  His death is the next step, a part he always knew would come, nothing to fear, and as he has always believed, nothing more than the failure of a mortal body to carry his eternal soul any longer.  The dilemma of his death remains with us -- the "still living."

I have a picture beside my closet; I cannot help but see it everyday, as I start my day and as I finish.  When I placed it there, my husband asked about it -- "It is a picture of who I am," I explained.  It is, however, a black & white picture of a decidedly blonde-haired little boy.  He is standing by a chair in a coat, shorts, heavy stockings and button-up boots.  He is not looking at the camera, but is posed with that "up and over, faraway look" in his eyes.  He was my dad.  I have no idea how old he was when it was taken, and no one seems to know much about it, but I've looked at that picture everyday for so many days that I rarely need or want explanation -- knowing would probably change things. 

The picture reminds me that once, my dad was young -- with hopes and dreams and a desire to do the right thing; it reminds me he was not always who I have known him to be.  It reminds me of family that I have never known, and have never known me; it reminds me of family that focused on the next life and did not concern themselves with the things of this world.  The picture reminds me of my youth -- a reminder of days drinking water from the pump outside of my grandparents' house, running through fields with my brother and picking mulberries.  The picture allows me to forgive, to look at the dreamy eyes of a child and learn to love my father from the beginning; the mystery of it all opens the door to things I can never know or understand, a past that holds the answer to where our lives began.  It is my history, my heritage, the story of generations of people of faith, a family rooted in the very words of Jesus Christ.  It is the birthplace of my beliefs, and the portal through which I met my Savior.  It is because of my father's past that I have an eternal future.

My father and I did not always like one another, nor did we always agree.  I am, however, thankful for the Biblical heritage he gave me and the Inheritance to which he lead me.  His presence, whether it remains on this earth or must be remembered from within the confines of a simple antique frame, reminds me to Whom I belong and the Future to which I too, am entitled.  For that, Dad, I am Eternally grateful.

Tuesday, September 29, 2009

Train Up a Child

"Train up a child in the way he should go; even when he is old he will not depart from it."  Proverbs 22:6

Children are my passion -- particularly children in need.  I love them all, want to help them all; I grew up dreaming of a house full of children.  From very early on, I believed that love could fix anything; if love was the foundation of my home, I could not help but churn out successful, well-adjusted, God-fearing children.  When the children of affluent, educated people "went wrong" I would crow, "See, money isn't everything!" or "Plenty of degrees, sure, but college doesn't teach you to raise children!"  When the pastor's children went astray -- "You never know what goes on behind close doors," I would whisper.

Was all that hate talk born out of jealousy?  Maybe. They had, I didn't.  Sometimes jealousy runs deepest when one doesn't "have" because they didn't try. 

Maybe I was scared.  If it could happen to them, what's to keep my children on the straight and narrow?

Was it the arrogance I see in so many parents today?  Technology, psychology, the medical sciences -- all at our fingertips.  It takes a moment for a little education, but a lifetime for a lot of wisdom.

My son is not following the path I desired for him; he is not following the path God laid out for him.  I've played the "blame game" -- holding others responsible and losing sleep because I felt responsible.  I've raged and cried, and even stayed in touch with several police officers and detectives in the hopes that we could "nip this in the bud."  I've turned him away from my home, and welcomed him back like the Prodigal Son.  Sometimes I wonder if it's payback for the judgement I passed on others.  I have learned that judgement is one of those things we gladly bestow on others without wishing anything in return for ourselves.

So I trust and I rest on the promise of Proverbs 22; and I beg forgiveness for pain I may have caused out of jealousy or fear or arrogance.  I remind myself that love is not just the foundation of my home, but love is the groundwork for my relationships with others as well.

Monday, September 28, 2009

Note to Self

Trust is a funny thing.  Sometimes the easiest trust to attain is the hardest to keep.  And once lost, trust is not easily restored to what it once was.

In a long ago episode of the Brady Bunch the Brady children were playing ball in the house, something they had been told not to do.  The game gets out of hand and Mom's favorite vase gets broken; the children work quickly to get each piece glued back in place and the vase "restored"  to its previous condition.  When the family sits down to dinner later in the day, a bountiful table is set, replete with fresh cut floral arrangement.  As dinner progresses the glue begins to fail in the presence of water and the vase begins to spring leak after leak, with the children pretending not to notice as their conspiracy unravels.  The vase, designed to hold water, had not been "restored;" it could no longer be trusted to do its job.

I come from a very unusual family.  We were a "blended family" before most even knew the definition, and we are blended in many ways -- racially, ethnically, religiously, "steps" and "halfs."  Some of these associations came from a long line of secrets and trusts betrayed.  The spouse who maintains romantic relationships outside the marriage, the sibling who steals from another, the child who begs for relief from abuse, only to be rebuffed by their "confidant"-- all make for great reading or daytime drama, but some have yielded extraordinary results in their singularity and passion; when forgiveness has been a factor some amazing things have taken place.  Unfortunately, forgiveness, on occasion has been followed up with more betrayal, further violating trusts and boundaries.  Like the vase, the trust no longer holds water.

The struggle I've encountered is forgiving, but finding it necessary to withdraw trust.  I am a failed, and sometimes most repugnant, vile creature.  Holding myself accountable to God's Standards finds me morbidly inadequate on my own, laughable if it weren't so sad.  But God, in His Grace has sent me a Redeemer in whose blood I am made clean, through whose intercession I am made worthy.  To not forgive is the ultimate hypocrisy, the ultimate affront to the Gift I claim to have received, and, in earthly terms, the worst example of "paying it forward" I could imagine.  Forgiveness, however, does not require the full restoration of trust.

The Old Testament warns in Psalm 146:3 not to put our trust in man; Proverbs 3:5 tells us instead, to "Trust in the Lord with all [our hearts]."  In the New Testament, Matthew 10:17, Jesus told His disciples to "be on your guard against men;"  in Matthew 16:20 He cautions the Disciples not to tell anyone He is the Christ.  God requires us to forgive, but to trust only in Him; it is our choice to trust or continue to trust our fellow man.  While on this earth, Christ acted on His trust of others by choosing to eat and fellowship with them; He also acted on His mistrust of "the son of man" by fleeing and choosing silence.

I would love to say the mere act of forgiveness has restored trust and strengthened every relationship, but that is not so.  Mistrust has ended some very close relationships -- relationships that, from time to time I have attempted to or, at least desired to renew -- not always successfully.  I have had to deal with those who say I am cold, unforgiving, even disobedient; others say I will regret not "making amends."  Point is, I can give love and forgiveness, but trust must originate from those desirous of it and willing to earn it.  I can no more "reconcile" with someone who does not wish to earn my trust than I can employ a person who does not wish to earn their pay.  I don't hate or disdain the "vessel," I just don't have to trust it to hold water.

Tuesday, September 22, 2009

Where Can I get One of Those Snazzy Signs?

I remember taking a macroec course in college.  It was fascinating to me.  If I hadn't been an adult student, firmly entrenched in my major and its required courses, the pressure to earn my degree as quickly as possible bearing down on me like an runaway cement mixer, I might have taken another course or two in economics.  The concepts of  free market and a cyclical economy reassured and encouraged me. 

As I listened, my mind went back to tenth grade American History and our study of Roosevelt's New Deal.  I never had understood the AAA, the Agricultural Adjustment Act, or the WPA, the Works Progress Administration.  Weren't they just robbing from Peter to pay Paul?  If a government agrees to fund projects that no one thought necessary six months before, aren't we really increasing national debt to build a "bridge to nowhere?"  If my children want something I cannot afford to give them, is increasing their allowance so they can save for it, a viable solution?  And does my solution encourage them to think "out of the box" to develop a solution to their own deficit?

Likewise, if I increase my debt to fund their desires, aren't I just postponing the inevitable?  Eventually, someone is going to have to do without something else, or they are going to have to contribute in a way they were never required previously -- maybe my children will have to contribute to other "extras."

As for paying farmers not to grow, when people are starving?  Needless to say, good thing the Constitution put an end to that one, whether it was for ethical or economic reasons.

Anyhow, all this came back to me when I read a "Cash for Clunkers" article by William Jeanes, AOL's Auto Editor. (Link here.) Normally I am not the least impressed by AOL's writing.  In fact, most times I shake my head and, inspired, plunge into writing my great American novel.  However, this article poses the same question I have asked all along -- "Is increasing my personal debt really going to secure my job (not in the auto industry) or keep my family fed in the long run?"  If I don't suspend my contributions to my 401K, whose pockets am I lining?  If I "panic" and postpone scheduled home improvements, because my hours at work and my salary have been cut, why am I "un-American?"  AND, why can Wall Street take my money, lower the interest on my retirement fund, raise the price of fuel, and reduce my salary, but I am regularly cautioned to "do the right thing" and maintain status quo when it comes to spending and investing?

Lastly, what about this American Recovery and Reinvestment Act?  Where is the ARRA getting the money to fund projects that six months ago were funded by state dollars?  Are they tax dollars I have already paid?  How about a stimulus check with my name on it, instead of one of those snazzy signs?  Or are they tax dollars I am going to have to pay via tax increase after the government so kindly "bails us out?"

Either way, here's hoping next week's garage sale is a dismal failure; these days, irresponsible accounting seems to have its perks.

Sunday, September 20, 2009

The Murphy's Have Checked Out -- Temporarily

Aah, that's right -- the start of the school year; everyone's on "bus" time.  I got up early to go to the grocery store and, maybe get a little writing done.  When I got home, the house was lit up like Times Square.  This is the first real weekend we've had with the children since the school routine kicked in; I'd forgotten that, in this house, colder weather means longer days!  Up at 7AM, hanging tough at 9PM!  Well, the "yutes" are -- Scott and I are at a "7 count."

The Fall brings some of the busiest days, as well.  Judging by the frazzled faces I saw at the dance studio and the ice skating rink yesterday, we are not alone.  The simple act of scheduling has required Google-like capabilities from time to time; implementing can get downright ugly!

Accordingly, last night we just said "no."  We bit the finacial bullet in these volatile times, and tried a new restaurant -- albeit a noisy, family-friendly one -- but delicious and astonishingly relaxing.  We walked the mall -- something I try not to do unless we have somehow amassed a vast fortune and have absolutely nothing else to do.  Needless to say, we never walk the mall.  But, last night, I had some coupons and a gift card or two, Madison had saved her money for weeks to buy a game for her DS, and we all needed to just spend some time "checking out" together.

Good thing it was worth it -- when we got home, our resident escape artist and indiscriminate wrecking ball, Bishop, had once again busted out of his crate.  Like something from "The Incredible Hulk," the door was hanging off, secured only to the rest of the crate by the chain Scott had used to padlock the door shut; the top of the crate was popped off on one corner like some deranged beast had resisted captivity with supernatural strength.  Bishop, of course, met us at the front door, tongue lolling, tail wagging his entire body, and seizing with joy.

Would you care for a wake-up call? 

Wednesday, September 9, 2009

Puppy Love

Could it be?  Has she come home?  I've been lying here all day, wishing she would return.  When she's gone, I think of no one else.  I remember our long walks, our days in the sun.  She is truly my soulmate, "the One."  We are inseparable.  Some days, she is gone so long, I think I will die.  Perhaps, when she returns, we will go for a walk, or enjoy a small repast...

But, wait!  I hear keys.  Yes, her keys.  Jingling at the front door!  She is home at last!

"Rocky!"

Her voice!  We are together again!

"Rocky!"

Ooh, here I am!  I've waited all day to see you!

What's that?  Something is different!  A new smell.  The crinkle of a shopping bag...  rustling with something new!  For me?!  The new smell!  The rustling bag!  It's all for me!

I rush to the door.  She waits for me.

"Rocky!  Does Rocky want what Mommy has?"

Oh, yes!  Drop it!  C'mon, drop it, already!  I wanna see.  Look how I wag.  And my ears!  Are they perfect -- one up, one down?  Head rakishly tilted?  Tongue wet and lolling?  On, I think my tail will fall off.  Maybe just a little whimper -- that always gets her.  What does Mommy haaave?!

Is that -- Oh, it is!  A ball!  And it's for me!  A beautiful ball -- the most beautiful thing I've ever seen!  It's round, and new, and round... What a figure!  Oh, my!  Once I get that soft round figure in my clutches... Well, let's just say, I could act like a real dog!

Wait!  Oh, look!  It moves!  And, the way it moves... Pure poetry!  Oh, but there she goes, running away, playing coy, hard to get.  I will chase her, bring her back to me.  I must have it!  I will possess it!

In moments, she has possessed me.  I hold her snuggly between my paws and smell the deep fragrance of her skin.  She is smooth and supple; her skin is warm and wet from my kisses.  She is young and full of spirit.
I take her outside, to show her the world beyond my elegant home.  "I have acres of ground," I tell her.  "Would you like to see?"  She is impressed, I can tell.

In my garden she stays close, moving only a few feet away to survey the grounds.  "Stay away from the hedgerow," I caution.  "It is dark and predatory, waiting to consume one so enticing as you."  I do not tell her there are those that have never returned.

We bask in the rays of the afternoon sun.  She does not desire to leave me.

Suddenly, I spy an intruder.  "I will protect you, my love.  He will not have you!"  I dash off, teeth bared and ready to defend her.  I warn the tresspasser that he is not welcome here -- this yard is mine, and everything in it!  "Leave now, or suffer the consequences!"  He is incensed but defeated; he flips his grey tail brazenly and climbs on to the next gate.

I return to my love.  She does not quiver in fright; she has seen my valor and knows I will protect her.  I draw her near and smother her with kisses.  She teases like a minx, rolling a short way off, coaxing me to chase her.  I join her game, tossing her in the air, and pursuing as she runs.  Our game continues until my body is wracked with hunger.  Inside, I sup graciously, but she will not betray that lovely figure; she sits quietly, admiring my fervor.

I carry her to the lawn to enjoy the cool evening.  We are inseparable.  Though, it is true, there have been others, this love is as no other.  She holds my heart so sweetly, yet so insistently; I hold hers as well.

"Rocky!"

Who dares disrupt our bliss?

"Rocky!  Oh, there you are!  My Little Boy is never gonna guess what Mommy found in the hedgerow!"

A ball?  Is that a ball?  Oh, yes!  Drop it!  C'mon, drop it already!

Tuesday, September 8, 2009

Now It's Personal

I keep under lock and key, a file marked "Judi - Personal."  I maintain one for Scott, Christine and Steven as well.  The object was to archive personal items that had no place in our "regular" filing system; artifacts that were not substantial enough in number to require an individual file, but important enough to safeguard.
Upon going through my file the other day, I found a memoir...

A Philadelphia Zoo Elephant Key:  The Philadelphia Zoo had "talking boxes" at many of the exhibits which would squawk with information about the animal whose domain lay before you.  The boxes required the use of "a key" to begin the lesson, keys that were, of course, sold at the Gift Shop for a small fee.  But annual zoo membership was a prerequisite for raising children in the city.  We would spend entire spring and fall afternoons racing from one box to the other -- not even lingering to hear the end of the monologue -- pointing, gawking and shouting, our cheeks red with excitement and exhaustion.   This is the memoir of a mother, holding on to a small piece of her children's childhood.

A Silver Certificate:  I don't know why.  This is the memoir of a child whose mother saved jar after jar of wheat pennies and Mercury dimes.

"Weary:"  A piece written several years ago by a woman who, in all honesty, I did not like very much.  I don't even recall now, but I know we had some sort of "run in" at some point -- totally turned me off.  It's beautiful prose, and it speaks to me even now; I cannot throw it away.  The writer and I attended church together; she later died of a lengthy illness.  I know she loved the Lord and we will meet in Heaven one day -- without egos, without prejudices; I look forward to liking her.  This is the memoir of a sinful human, loved by a God who grants her beauty, even in the most unlikely places.

My Aunt's Obituary:  She and I were never close; I didn't even attend her funeral.  She is the only link I have right now, to that part of who I am.  This is the memoir of a daughter with a unique heritage, most of it lost, and a mother wishes to pass it on to her children, but knows that hurt and pride sometimes stand in the way.

A Picture of My Son with Santa:  Not your typical picture with Santa; he's about 16 years old, in his firefighting gear, posing cheerfully with my ex-husband.  A memoir of joy and sorrow.

A Note from My Husband:  Peace, love, reassurance, and glee.  The memoir of a wife given far more than she deserves.

A Picture of Me:  Drawn by one of our resident artists -- Madison.  I have antennae (sort of "roach-like") that were intended, I believe, to be hair.  I have a sqaure body -- not that far off -- a huge mouth, and a perky little nose. Perky is not one of those words I would use to describe me in any way.  Maddy gave it to me about two months after we met; she was drawing pictures of me every other day back then, but this was one of her first.  This is the memoir of a step-mother, privileged to be in the lives and hearts of three wonderful children, praying for them daily, longing for the weekends when I see them, and loving them for all they're worth.

A Warning

I snap! And your bones crackle.
You flutter and gloat outside my window;
I press my nose against the glass and huff in my frustration.
You think you are free but, linger too long for that morsel,
And you will be mine.
Your sweet songs float on the wings of gentle breezes;
My bold voice echoes back from the trees in which you will seek refuge.
A tune today, but I shall bark your dirge tomorrow.

Saturday, September 5, 2009

An "Unseen War" for All to See


I've begun to get used to seeing my daughter's picture on the internet. It's strange seeing someone who lives under your very roof, someone you know inside and out, someone you are committed to protecting with everything that you have, on a site that is visible to anyone anywhere. She has a "social networking website." I am one of her "buddies" and I monitor her settings and posts, trying to keep an eye on who is watching her. But to see her on a site I don't control, in a picture I didn't take, can be a little unnerving.

When I see her there, in her dance class, independent of me, growing up so quickly, I can't help but think of the family of 21 year old Joshua Bernard. My daughter is there, front and center, her cheeks pink with life, her body strong and moving to the beat of the music she loves to hear. In the picture splayed on newspapers across the country, of a soldier dying for his country, I see a son, a young life abruptly brought to an end, the music quieted.

Parents, John and Sharon Bernard were shown the picture of their mortally wounded son during an interview, prior to publication; they requested the Associated Press not use the photo. Later, in a phone call, Joshua's father requested again, more strongly this time, that the AP refrain from causing the family undue grief and strain. The outcome is obvious.

Associated Press, in a statement, said the photo depicted "a story that people needed to see and be aware of." (Their grammar, not mine.)

The Wheeling WV Intelligencer defended their actions by stating that "some Americans see only the statistics... We believe it is important for us all to understand that behind the numbers are real men and women, sometimes making the ultimate sacrifice for us." I think the Intelligencer needs to read their own copy -- behind their "numbers" are real survivors of those men and women.

The Huffington Post made it front page news -- "Snapshot of an Unseen War." What is so "unseen?' Turn to any media outlet; it's everywhere! Maimed soldiers trying to rebuild their lives once back at home, stories of courage or cowardice, the names and faces of those who will never return.

In this day and age, when we can turn on CSI at 6PM and see all the gore we can handle, does the AP really think our desensitized society will flinch when presented with a photo such as this? Is there anyone who enjoys American freedom that thinks it was earned by cartoon characters being flattened by anvils and appearing without blemish in the next scene? Should we begin to publish pictures of electric chair executions to deter crime? or perhaps, burn victims can be included in a campaign to advocate the use of smoke detectors.

When a family is grieving -- newly grieving -- the death of their son who had barely earned his right to belly-up to the bar, shouldn't we cut them some slack? Does anyone think the Bernards love the war? Are they trying to cover up the fact that young men and women are dying? Are they seeking to have their son's heroism forgotten? There are entire volumes of Civil War black and whites that are not vague about the blood shed or lives lost for convictions, right here on our own soil. Those families grieved; those families were given the time and respect due parents that have offered the second-most selfless sacrifice for freedom. I don't know the Bernards and I don't pretend to know how they feel, but given the proper privacy and reprieve they may have wished their son's offering to one day be shared with the entire world.
Mr. and Mrs. Bernard, I am sorry for your loss and so sad that there are those who would dismiss your grief and ask you to, once again, sacrifice -- your pain, for their gain.

'Nuf Said

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R0rQzUVQjd8

Thursday, September 3, 2009

I Pledge...

I have been reading and listening to the backlash regarding Obama's proposed speech to public school children (to take place Tuesday) and the "I Pledge" star-studded spectacular that has already been shown at a school assembly or two. And, once again, I side with Penn Jillette and many others on this.

In the video, some of Hollywood's biggest and brightest (if that isn't a red flag right there...) pledge to be nicer to one another, buy hybrid vehicles and "smile more." Great. Annoying, but benign, until... Someone pledges to be "of service to Barak Obama." That's when I think, "Wait a minute. Isn't this about being an American? Aren't we supposed to be pledging service, hard work, efforts to our country?" Then it gets better! Another servile sycophant proudly pledges to be "a servant to our President." A servant to the guy America put in office? A servant to the man who is supposed to be serving us? A servant? Is that, like picking up his dry cleaning or pouring his coffee? Are you the one who stands by to light his cigarette, fan him with palms, or feed him grapes? Oh, girl, I hope you're going to feed him grapes.

Well, this "special assembly" coming to a socialist public school near you, comes complete with its own lesson plans. One for younger age children -- "Are we able to do what President Obama is asking of us?" (Anyone know a fourth grader who wants to be viewed as weak or unpatriotic?) And another one for older students -- "Is President Obama inspiring you to do anything?" (As my sophomore would say, "Um, yeah, get a new President.")

So, today this is my pledge...

"I pledge to watch less of Hollywood and more of the government -- 'Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?' -- and I encourage others to do the same."

Oh, yeah, and pray -- really, really pray!

Wednesday, September 2, 2009

Happy to Have Been Exposed!

My parents didn't know the meaning of the word "privacy." In our house, a door was merely something on which you hung a robe or a towel. The bathroom door was revolving, regardless of occupation. We slept with doors open until I discovered "the flashlight" and the devilish joy created when paired with the perfect book under crisp cotton sheets; I started asking my mom to shut my door at night.

As I reached my teen years, a door was my only valve -- shutting off issues I didn't wish to address, or bottling up emotions best kept to myself. I couldn't imagine allowing "their world" in mine, and I had no desire to be part of theirs.

When I married, modesty and secrecy were normal and comfortable to me. I would never think of sleeping unhidden, vulnerable, my door open to a lifeless house. My morning and nightly routine took place behind closed doors, as if brushing my teeth was some secret sin. My thoughts, my dreams and my feelings were just as carefully protected.

When my husband and I divorced, everything was laid bare. There it was -- the truth -- unmasked for all the world to see. I had trusted, I had opened my home, I had opened my heart -- I wound up exposed and unprotected.

As I write, Scott is shouting something to me from within the bathroom. When Olivia is tired of chewing her gum, I have been known to chew it myself until I can properly dispose of it. Just last weekend, someone was yelling about the owner of an unfinished water bottle; Joe replied, "Who cares? Just drink it -- we're all family!" Christine and I regularly assist one another in "zit blitz." Both Madison and Olivia are notorious for standing between the shower curtain and the transparent liner, talking to me as I shower.

Scott is my best friend; I love each and every one of my children. We are a family, and for once in my life, I've got nothing to hide.

Tuesday, September 1, 2009

What Happens to Frozen Pizza in the Back Seat of a Black Truck, in August, During a Heatwave in Pennsylvania

Grocery shopping can be an ordeal. I spend much time fighting the temptation to cater to every child's slightest whim, or working crowd control -- prohibiting folks from demonstrating their latest dance move in the open aisles of the store, or curtailing everything from batting practice with baguettes to wind surfing from the nether regions of the grocery cart. Solution: I make out my list when the weekly circulars arrive on Thursday, and shop Friday after work -- alone!

This week I grabbed a few frozen pizzas for the moments when everyone succumbs to the munchies, about fifteen minute into "Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives" on Saturday night. Unfortunately, discerning critics that they are, my family only likes one brand of pizza, and on Friday morning, that brand was stocked with multiple variations on the "meat pizza," but no "plain cheese" whatsoever. I pondered, selected, reconsidered and compromised, finally leaving with, I thought, three pizzas despite my desire to "stock up." As I was leaving the market parking lot, I encountered one of those nice folks who like to cut across rows of parking at break-neck speed to grab the spot closest the front door, thereby eliminating the need for physical exercise or shoe repair. I "locked 'em up," as they say, and heard my groceries slide past me. Well, not quite, but I was certain I'd be picking slices of bread from the air conditioning vents. When I got home, Christine helped me unload the car and stow my plunder. Something told me I should check for any stray cottage cheese that might have made its way under the seat during my abrupt stop, but I let it go.

Saturday night, after several days of 90-or-more degree temperatures, we decided to take a ride to Georgio's, a local ice cream/ water ice institution, to get a little relief. As we were climbing in to the car -- six people, one dog (Belle had been a bad girl when getting ready to leave, and had to stay home) and visions of sublime confections dancing in our heads -- someone barked at Olivia to "Move Over!" "I can't!" she responded, "There's a pizza here!" There was no surprise in her voice -- nothing unusual about a pizza in the car. Her oppressor's reply was, of course, "Well, move it!" Once again, no surprise, no disbelief. It was a very simple problem, and a very simple solution.

After I replayed Friday morning's events and decided on an answer to the question "Why is there a pizza in my car?" I considered going back inside the house with the wilted saucer of botulism. OK, turn off the ignition, shutting down the A/C, take the house keys, open the front door, turn off the alarm, take off my shoes, run to the kitchen trash - no, better make it straight out back to the garbage cans -- so carry my shoes with me to slip back on before I head out the back door... Plan B: toss it in the first dumpster we pass.
As Scott was lobbing eight dollars into the trash can at Burger King, I began to think about some of the speed bumps or even road blocks of life, that we encounter from time to time. Children only begin to ask "why?" as they age or are taught to ask such questions. When they are young they have an "It-Is-What-It-Is" attitude, and respond with a "Just-Do-It" solution. Sometimes that can be most frustrating for a parent who is trying to teach their child to think, ask questions about their environment, and make wise choices. But sometimes, we need a little more of that in all of us.

When faced with someone who has treated us unfairly, we gossip and rage. When "the impossible" is put upon us by spouses or bosses, we whine and worry what "the other guy" is doing. Our government is great at appointing special committees to decide "why" before we make any adjustments to "what," thereby delaying the approval of medications and burying bills that provide a succinct solution to what is wrong. And, me? I am great for developing, at least, a ten-step program to tackling my spiritual blight. By the time I get to step three, I've given up and decided to "cook some breakfast first."

So, today I am going to work on "getting the pizza out of the car" and worry less about how it got there. Chances are, I really don't need to think too long to know how it got there in the first place, I just didn't try too hard to prevent it.

Sunday, August 30, 2009

If It Ain't Broke, Don't Fix It

Two posts in one day? She must be down with the flu or suffering from some sort muscular atrophy in her lower extremities, you decide.

No, just one of those days when it seems to be coming at me from all directions -- when it's not a matter of what to write, but which to write. Some days I want to write until I am exhausted, so I do, but I am wise to not have you suffer through it; I journal a bit, save some for a rainy day, and post some for you to read. Interestingly enough, today I am compelled to post about posting.
Many artists have their muses -- some living and breathing, some merely places in time which inspire and impel. I have many sources of insight -- not that they are all up and running collectively, but I can usually find some groundwork for creativity. However, I recently asked the question "Just how far I would be willing to go?"

Some sports legends have refused to change their socks. I'll be honest, I can be as lazy and uncouth as any frat boy. I can eat like I've never seen pizza before; I can stay in my pajamas and forego shaving for days. Refusing to change my socks, though? Hmmm, what else ya got?

My mind goes to the Brady Bunch episode in which a consultant of some sort advises the family to engage in a ridiculous exaggeration of "method acting," in order to deliver some award-winning performance in a detergent commercial. Alice has time to go to the salon for an elaborate "updo" now that the detergent has done such a fabulous job on the laundry and freed her up for extracurriculars. So, should I don a clerical collar for divine inspiration, or slip into some winged tulle, rife with sparkles, for a little children's literature. I try to envision Eric Carle sitting at his desk, putting thought to paper while garbed in the fuzzy green vesture of his fictional ravenous caterpillar. Just not working for me...

Meditation? Well, if meditation involves sitting on a mat, coiling my legs into a half windsor, chanting some meaningless drivel or "auming" until I lull myself to sleep, uh -- no. But praying for God to direct me, make my words His words, and lead me according to His Will -- absolutely. Yep, that works for me!

A Thankless Job

"She looks a little frustrated. It looks like Marybeth is having trouble following our rules. Let's go give her a hand..." Stacey and Clinton dash to her aid, rushing in to pick the perfect wardrobe and save the day.
A favorite "guilty pleasure" of mine is TLC's "What Not to Wear". Truthfully, I have no idea what channel TLC is, or what time the show airs; I just know that from time to time, I catch it when someone is channel surfing, and it can, like any other addiction, lead to hours wasted and a desire for more. But, comfort comes in knowing I am not alone; Christine will watch it, Scott will watch it.

There is universal appeal in watching the transformation of a Plain Jane in PJ's to a fierce femme fatale, ready to conquer the world of business or intimidate the other moms at the school bus stop. It's an alluring concept that goes far beyond "what not to wear." It is the story of rescue. Stacey and Clinton ride in to town, single out some unsuspecting waif in need, and rescue her from the perils of mom jeans and mane clips. They hand over a credit card worth $5,000, stipulate the terms of her expenditures, and set her loose in New York to indulge her wildest dreams. After a "recoiffe" and some gentle reproach over eyeliner, the lesson is complete. At the end of the show, our damsel in distress faces her family and peers, some of whom could spend a thousand or two themselves, to "show off her new look." Rave reviews and a modeling-type photo shoot fade to black as we are left to imagine how much better her life is now that she has been pulled from the mire.

From time to time, I am not the cheery, optimistic little sprite that I appear to be. Even then, Stacey and Clinton smile their way into my doldrums and brighten my day or, and this is so much better -- become the objects of my odiousness. I disparage their every effort, and criminate their suggestions. I encourage Marybeth to "be comfortable -- wear sweats." Indignantly I cry, "Who died and put them in charge of skivvies? Who are they to tell anyone how to dress? Do they even know what life is like outside their Designer Row bubble" I scoff at the likelihood their Cinderella will abide by their rules for more than a week or two. "Oh, sure, she looks like that now, but when she goes back home to BillyBob who comes home from work smelling like something between auto paint and raw sewage, and she's been nuking chicken nuggets for the crumb snatchers all day, she'll slip right back into flip-flops and hair scrunchies. Nobody can look like that all the time! What happens at six in the morning when she stumbles to the kitchen in her cut-offs and robe for a quiet cup of coffee and a moment of escapism, only to find she's out of half & half? You really think she's going to don her Jimmy Choos and curl her lashes before she heads out to the Swiss Farm? Please, it's a drive-thru! You'll be lucky if she brushes her teeth!" And, "What about the morning after pizza night, when her size ten body feels like a fully-expanded size fourteen water balloon? You think she's going to put on dress slacks and 'the perfect blazer' to pack bagged lunches and clerk at the Walmart?"

Despite all this, Stacey and Clinton forge ahead, lurking behind racks of clothing and "tsk,tsking" at their pitiable, recalcitrant trainees who flounder in a sea of empire-waist blouses and embellished necklines. Conclusion: they are certifiable, altruistic, or making a fortune. I'd like to think they live with the belief that, if they can help just one person, it will have been worth all the effort. (Isn't that what philanthropists say when they are discouraged by public apathy?) Unfortunately, today I am feeling a bit "unsprite-like," and I am willing to bet they are renegotiating their contracts with every muffin-top they eradicate. Then again, bringing fashion to a population of wannabe strippers in belly-hugging spandex or moms who wear knee socks with granny skirts and Birkenstocks? There's not enough money in the world.

Sunday, August 23, 2009

What Does My Dog Have Against Martha Stewart?

Yesterday the family went out to do some errands -- silly little things like exchanging or returning, dropping items off for repair, things I usually try to get to through the week. With fuel prices steadily rising once again though, I had saved up a few stops for a more distant part of the county; now it was time to care of those things.

Scott had gone out a little earlier in the morning, stepping back through the front door with his usual, "Every nut in PA is out on the road today!" (He grew up in Jersey, and has little tolerance for Pennsylvania drivers -- IMAGINE THAT?!) Knowing his flair for the dramatic, I responded with prodigious interest, "uh-huh." I was to find, later, it was true. I cannot count the number of "unsignaled" spontaneous lane changes, illegal u-turns, and brake riders. Aloud, we wondered where these people got their licenses and why they thought their actions were of no consequence to the hoards of drivers sharing the road with them.

When we reached our first stop, I watched as a woman took her empty shopping cart and placed it ever so carefully between two parked cars, and drove away. Now perhaps, this was this middle-aged woman's first try at the shopping cart thing; maybe she's never watched as a cart has savagely taken out the side panel of a new vehicle once its gained untold momentum through the "salt flats" of overflow parking. Maybe she's new here -- her alien ship spent the entire night hovering over some remote part of the county, dropping shoppers. No doubt a part of the worldwide economy stimulus program -- an exchange with some distant planet for the "compassionate" judge who released the Lockerbie bomber.

At another store, a "helpful sales associate" barked at Scott and Joe that the purchase Joe was making was going to "destroy his game system in six months". A moment later he scoffed at Maddy and I for "looking for the Burger King having dinner in McDonald's" -- we were looking for a DS game in a bin that was, apparently, full of Playstation Games. (Will the madness ever stop?!) I chalked it up to the fact that this 30-something works 34 hours a week for minimum wage at a video gaming store, and lives with his mother and her dead husband's "apparition."

Our final stop began easily, scooting into a spot in the farthest reaches of the parking lot, leisurely strolling toward the store, our group staying safely and innocuously together, giggling and talking. A woman walked just seven or eight feet ahead of us, turning around only once to see who was behind her. As we approached the entrance, I reached out to grab the door from her only to find she had let it go; it silently fell flush before my grasp. Door #2 -- same scenario. I wanted to declare, "No, it's OK! I got it!" but I know this is why God gave me children -- to keep my big mouth and sometimes antisocial attitude in check. Once I'd just about raised my "first set" and my disposition hadn't improved, He gave me the second set as insurance I'd watch my p's and q's. (At this rate, I'm going to be parenting children well into my nineties).

This morning I was letting the dogs out after breakfast. Tinkerbell did her usual constitutional in the middle of the yard; Bishop, however, went straight to the barbecue grill and lifted his leg on the gray canvas cover -- a Martha Stewart exclusive. Aside from the fact that this dog keeps relieving himself on my patio, requiring me to scrub with bleach and a broom in ninety-two degree heat with the eighty-six percent humidity that is vaporizing our part of the country right now -- I wonder, "What does he have against Martha Stewart?" We have a tree, we have potted plants, we have two vehicles with eight stock-still, amenable wheels just begging for a good soaking, but Martha? Why her? What did she ever do to warrant such tactless consideration?
Oddly enough I thought back to yesterday and "all those nuts." We've all been wronged, we've all wronged others. Sometimes there are deep-seated motives, sometimes we are self-absorbed, sometimes there is intent. And sometimes, like Bishop and Martha, there is no excuse except there is no excuse. We just do it -- whether out of habit or lack of focus, or maybe from sheer ignorance. Now, that's not to say Martha must continue to suffer such indignity, and Bishop is permitted to persist in such disgusting behavior, but none of us is above doing the wrong thing. None of us can say we are better than a door slammer, or cart abandoner, or no-signaler, and sometimes the anger we feel when we are the victims of such outrage, stems from thinking that we are. We are sinful, imperfect, mortal beings (Romans 3:23) who desperately need God's forgiveness (I John 1:9) and the forgiveness of one another (Col. 3:13). We all engage in behavior that is not only displeasing to God, but may strongly affect those around us. Today's society seems to capitalize on victimization, and fix itself on ensuring our "persecuted" remain trophies for our crusade, no matter how ungodly the cause. We turn every infraction or oversight into some deliberate attack on our faith, our politics, our ethnicity, even our choice of vehicle. We have become a pampered, self-righteous, defensive people.
II Chronicles 7:14 is God's clear, concise plan for action. It starts within each of us -- humility, repentance -- and culminates in the forgiveness of our sins and the restoration of our land. Imagine a world where smiling people consider others before themselves, where buggies are carefully stored in the cart corral and "helpful sales associates" are so sure you will return their courtesy that they are truly unapologetically helpful. Imagine, if you dare, a world where a simple pitbull and a homemaking icon can get along...

Saturday, August 22, 2009

Traveling Into Tomorrow

The Little League World Series is on in the family room. Normally, trying to write while the television is on simply "kills my mojo." Tonight though, it is actually my inspiration -- well, the game is, anyway.

About five years ago, "the roadtrip bug" was creeping its way into my every thought. Road trips have always been our preferred method of escape. As another school year was encroaching on our lazy August afternoons, and my denial had become no match for the uncertainty and pressure of a failing marriage, escape was an inviting option.

I checked out some destinations far enough away to "get away" but close enough to cover in a long weekend on a small budget. I decided on the Pennsylvania Grand Canyon. Horseback riding, canoeing, and a scenic train ride were all within a few miles of an inexpensive, clean little lodge in the "middle of town." Perfect.

As we drove, anticipating the nuances that come with travelling to a new location, we talked excitedly about the things around us. We wondered where those riding in the lanes next to us were headed. We pointed out cloud shapes and the patchwork colors of rolling hills of farmland. We looked for deer and fox, marvelled at "painted" bands cut into the rock that towered above us along the road, and drew in the fresh clean smells of the country. Of course, even my children knew, our road trip would not have been complete without a stop at Starbucks on the turnpike, or a nostalgic meal at the Red Rabbit Drive-In on Route 22 in Duncannon, PA.

Now personally, I have learned more about baseball in the past three years then I had ever wished to know in my life. Joe is a fount of baseball information. I am amazed by his diligence and commitment to the game and its players; he spouts off statistics from years before he was born and maintains surveillance on the Phillies like an AC pit boss. However, at the time of our Grand Canyon roadtrip, I had not had the pleasure of dating my future husband or meeting my future stepson. So, as we began to drive toward Williamsport, I was oblivious to the town's significance, particularly in the last days of August. Traffic had started to form, and I thought there had been some sort of accident or emergency. I noticed the area was abuzz with what seemed to be a majority of families, and businesses were -- well, very busy; I imagined a county fair or fireworks. "Best to wait this out," I thought. The sun was just beginning to set, so we pulled to the side of the road to look out over the mountains and hills, watching the colors emerge and slowly sink back out of sight. As darkness crept over the heavens, the sky around Williamsport began to glow with the 1000 watt lamps of ambition. Back in the truck again, we passed the first sign welcoming little leaguers, and I suddenly realized the local radio station we'd been listening to was hyping up its listeners for the big game, The Little League World Series.

We moved on that day; we had our destination as did those players and their families. But, each August when the news turns to the series I can't help but remember those fleeting days, as summer was bidding farewell, and even its warm breeze seemed to carry within it the golds and saffrons of fall. When I stood by the roadside, with the dusty greens and characterless browns of unspoiled acres fading into the darkness of night. Watching the day, watching the summer, and maybe even an entire period of our lives come to a close. Not knowing exactly what was up ahead, in a new day, a new season, but knowing that it was there and as we moved toward it, it was ours to capture and steward.

Sunday, August 16, 2009

Are We Passing Muster?

I am at a loss here, today. Not because I have no ideas but, as usual, have too many ideas. I could tell you about the four pounds of London broil missing from my kitchen counter after Bishop's first foray into "guarding the fort" while we all ran quickly to the grocery store. I could tell you how angry I am about some of the nonsense in political media these last few days. I could even tell you about the ridiculous discussion going on upstairs right now, regarding the girls switching rooms. But none of those things seem to suit.

When I began this blog, I prayed for God's leading. Almost every (and I wish I could say "Every") time I sit to write, I pray for His direction; I pray that my words are His words. I even have a word of counsel taped to my computer monitor, advising me to bring every issue before the Lord; examine every relationship, business decision, even each purchase, in light of God's directions and precepts. I'm not big on Post-Its or clutter, pictures or cutesy little slips of Chinese fortune plastering otherwise vast expanses of nothingness on the faces of my equipment or appliances. So, for me to post this caveat was big; it "spoke" to me. And yet, I still forget who this is about.

It's most certainly not about me. But neither is it about my family, or our dogs, or crazy experiences at the checkout, or even the Right or the Left. It is about the Author and Finisher of our faith (Hebrews 12:2). It is about the Alpha and the Omega (Revelation 22:13). It is about the One Who has us engraved in the palm of His hand (Isaiah 49:16) and has a plan for each of us (Jeremiah 29:11) if we are only willing to seek His face and listen to His direction. It is about the Trinity: the One True God, His precious Son, Jesus, and the Spirit of God, sent to counsel, guide and help us until Christ's return.

So, I will save these ideas bobbing around in my head, for another day. But for right now, leave us with the question, "Who is it about in my life?" Who do we seek to please? Who's standards do we seek to meet? Start with me today and make it about Him.

Thursday, August 13, 2009

More To Love

It's been a very busy week.

Scott and I spent the entire weekend, sans children, working on our ceiling and attempting to get our living room in order. Despite our stagnant finances, we decided to bite the bullet and spring for some of the amenities required to complete the room in which the family spends the most time. Collectively, we spent almost fifty percent of our time at home improvement stores; we looked, decided, undecided, decided again, then waited. At one Home Depot we waited so long for service in one department, they gave us 10% off our entire bill! At another store, the associate seemed so glad to see someone on a Saturday night, he chatted on about the Phillies and gave us updates on the score as we browsed. Another associate gave us a lesson on "how not to operate a fork lift," and Scott followed up with a lesson on"how to chose the best wood for your project."
In the process of embellishing our living space, we enlarged our family -- by one more pit bull. For those who are counting, that's two adults, five children (four at home) and two canines. I realize there are plenty of folks who might meet that body count and raise it by three or four more, but I still cannot grasp the logic behind it. This was more of an emotional decision, I guess -- a beautiful, gentle dog that needed a home or otherwise would be forced into some very undesirable conditions. Rationale and reason took a back seat. It's been chaotic ever since, and the younger three children aren't even here yet! So, I had to post a picture...