Saturday, April 10, 2010

What Needs To Be Said

I've always enjoyed writing; it helps me put things into perspective and allows me to vent ideas that may be considered socially unacceptable or, worse case might get me an EZ Pass to a court ordered psychotherapist.  I can share my thoughts with others or banish them to a flash drive, if I so choose.  Sometimes I revisit those ideas until I am able to find a comfortable place for them in my psyche, even if it means a place in the "Wait and See" File.  When I sit down to write I am never sure if I am exorcising demons or entertaining angels, but by the time I get it all down I am usually at a place where at least, I can settle.

One of the issues I deal with on a regular basis is the issue of my son, Steven.  Despite years of his rebellion, I still revisit the "what ifs" and "whys" from time to time.  I try to figure out when things went wrong.  I look to determine my role in his defiance.  I re-examine every hug, every "I love you" and to see if they were genuine or he was merely playing me.  I wonder what it will take for him to straighten out his life, or if he is lost forever.  I do not dwell, but sometimes we must, at least, glance backward when moving forward.

Not long ago, my mother, who took Steven in when no one else would, who believed far longer than anyone else that Steven could make a better life for himself, became one of his victims.  He took incredible advantage of her kindness and stole from her -- a lot.  A senior citizen, on a fixed income, in love with her grandson and wanting his companionship, and he crushed her.  He destroyed her home, stole her possessions out from under her, and buried her dignity.  (I'm sure my repulsion at his actions is a tad obvious here.)  This same woman, just the other day, said, "I can't imagine what you must be going through.  I can't imagine how you must feel."  You're kidding me, right?

Four years ago, when Steven ran away, Scott and I took him back, sat him down, explained what we expected from him as a young man and a family member.  Steven defaulted, stole some money from us and spent the next few years in a loop of running and violating the law.  Scott and I both knew that without some serious lifestyle changes, Steven would never be part of our lives again.  While it was a difficult decision, I learned a long time ago that we answer for ourselves and our roles in life; Steven knew the difference between what was right and the life he chose, but it was his choice.  I may not have been the best mother, but as a mother, I tried to do my best.  I raised him in the church, punished him when he was wrong, and did without so that he could have.  But there are no guarantees, and parents come to expect being unpopular in their decisions.  I knew he was a thief; I knew he would hurt and lie and steal to get whatever it was he was after.  Though my job was unfinished, he left us no choice but to severe ties.

But my mother?  What is a grandmother's job?  To love, to guide, to be a cheerleader?  My mother didn't ask for her role, but she filled it magnificently!  She was always there for Steven, and their bond was deep and founded on love.  To see him turn on her the way he did is the most hurtful and hopeless thing of all.  And for my mother to declare her concern for me?  It brought me to tears, and words eluded me.  After much writing and soul searching I have come up with an answer.  It may not be the final answer, but it's what it is for now:

As for Steven, I have no choice but to accept; rules are never popular with children.  My job was to raise him, and I recognized its occupational hazards.  Your job was only to love him, and you did your job impressively.  It is you who has made the greater sacrifice -- the sacrifice of self with no other purpose but to love.  Once again, thank you, Mom for loving unconditionally.

Friday, April 9, 2010

A Plan and A Purpose

Well, here we are, back at Acts 13.  Did I mention I just love this passage?  Verse 17: The Israelites are slaves in Egypt, and during this period God "made the people great."  The New King James version says God "exalted the people." 

Without a lengthy discussion as to why God allowed the Egyptians to enslave His people, let me just say that when I think of God's plans and purposes I am reminded of the movie Bruce Almighty -- a little strange, I know, but just stick with me on this one.  "Bruce" has been given the task of being God, an object lesson of sorts for a guy who can't stop complaining about the way God treats him.  He uses his Godly powers to grant everyone exactly what they want, or so he thinks; he quickly finds that the windfall of one is the downfall of another.  The story of the Israelite people is an awesome example of God's mastery of this principle; His timing is perfect, and His plans are perfect.  He allows the Israelites to remain slaves in Egypt while the Amorites, a heathen nation that was just begging for God's judgment, more or less fashions enough rope in which to hang themselves.  While He's at it, God metes out some justice on His own people, subjecting them to slavery much the same way their fathers sold God's beloved, Joseph to slavery. 

Lastly, and this is the purpose that resonated most clearly with me, He develops them.  He increases them in strength and number while they sit, and toil, and suffer, and question, and even vilify Him.  One of His purposes for allowing the Jews to become slaves was, they were not ready for the inheritance He had for them!  Whether it is a period of illness, separation, misdirection, or just stagnancy, God has a plan for it!  It seems even the most trying of circumstances provide for us some answers, some "light at the end of the tunnel," some "worse before it gets better" philosophy.  But what about those times when we are just spinning our wheels?  When it is the same old, same old every day?  In those times it is hardest for me to keep on praising, and keep on trusting; in those times it is most important for me to do so!  God wants to grow me, to develop me for the next stage of my journey.  He wants to make me stronger and fiercer in His service.  And for that, I guess sometimes I'm gonna have to make a few bricks.

A Message Regarding Homeland Security

I don't think I have to tell any pet owner how quickly our pets capture our hearts and become integral parts of our lives.  Our two beasts are no exception.  They have discovered our moods, our routines and our personalities as well, if not better than we have discovered theirs.  Belle is our Guardian of the Perimeter; at the first hint of weather above "arctic blast," she spends her time out of doors protecting terra firma.  Bishop is my personal bodyguard; he goes where I go and, because most of my activities are centered around the inside of our home, he is President of Homeland Security.  Just this very morning, our in-house defense detail was being debriefed regarding scheduled visitors later today.

We are having some work done around the house, and are in the process of garnering estimates; two businesses will be out today -- one reason for Scott's "security summit."  With regard to these foreigners, our defenders were told to "stand down."  Proper paperwork had been filed, clearances and ID checks were all as they should be, threat level is green -- "low threat."

Our proposed dinner guest?  Well, he's a different story.  Christine has been invited to attend an event with a "young gentleman" we do not know.  We will after dinner tonight.  Christine has been told in no uncertain terms she will not be attending if we are not properly introduced or we do not approve of the relationship -- a rule that applies whether her friends are male or female.   She just becomes a little more offended by our meddling when a guy is involved.

And Scott's security summit?  Though I am surprised he kept the surveillance slides, pie charts and wanted posters to a minimum, I barely flinched when he mentioned the need to "take a bite out of crime."  Bishop's eyes never left Scott as he explained the intentions of unscrupulous young men who would seek to harm Christine or sully her good name.  Tinkerbell seemed to understand her role would be minimal unless she was at any point, required to escort said young man from the premises.  Once everyone had their marching orders and our threat advisory for the dinner hour was set at orange -- "high risk" -- the three of them, I am proud to say, refrained from reaching paws and hand into the center of their circle and giving a team cheer.  No one was seen out back filing canines to a point, or sparring to ready themselves for tonight's main event.  Providing this kid has the good sense to keep his hands to himself and carry a few Milk Bones, he just might have a fighting chance.

Thursday, April 8, 2010

Facing the Truth About Me

I am pig-headed.  (My husband is somewhere sucking oxygen and looking for a chair; he knows this about me.) 

My daily Bible reading has taken me to the Book of Acts, a book I've never read beginning to end, but it's quickly becoming one of my favorites, especially Chapter 13.  In Acts 13:16 Paul begins a little history lesson of the nation of Israel; he begins with their captivity in Egypt, using phrases like "God of Israel," "made the people great," and words like "chose."  All words to indicate just how special the people of Israel were to their Father.  Then comes the phrase that holds nothing back: "He put up with them."

Record scratch.  Squealing brakes.  Wait a minute, here.  These were God's chosen people, the elite.  These were the guys with beards as long as their robes, and sacrifices, and scrolls, and a mobile temple!  They fought for God and won His battles like nobody's business; they didn't have sexting and drug cartels.  In Exodus 32:9 God tells us His people were "stiff-necked," and He was to the point where He was ready to wipe them out because of it!  And, much to my dismay, pig-headed and stiff-necked seem to be synonymous -- "self-willed, obstinate, stubborn."  It was that everyday, willful nonsense that God found offensive; a ceaseless "returning to the same God-less, self-sufficient way" that irked their Father to the point of annihilating them!  In Exodus, Moses pleaded their case (I wonder if those self-loving people ever truly appreciated what he did for them?) and God continued "to put up with them."

Does this sound like God forcing a big sigh, shaking His head, hands on hips?  If God is anything like Scott, it does.  That is my wonderful husband's patient, tolerant, but relenting reaction when I insist on reaching the can of olive oil on the very top shelf, all by myself.  That is how Scott reacts when I hop up, mid-pedicure to get one of the kids a snack, instead of asking his help.  Like the Israelites, I will insist on "handling it."  Out of love?  Out of necessity?  Nope!  Out of the exclusively arrogant school of thought that tells me no one will do it as well as I.  That, my dear friends, is what pig-headed is all about.  And while my husband may "put up with it," maybe even plead my case as Moses did for his people, and my Heavenly Father may "put up with it," what benefits do I lose out on by being so arrogant?  What depths of relationship do I sacrifice by being stiff-necked?  Like snooping before Christmas, I forego the wonder of God's plan by insisting upon having control of everything, rather than trusting.

"He put up with them."  Is that really what I want my family to do -- put up with me?  Is that really the relationship I want with such an awesome, loving God?

Wednesday, April 7, 2010

My Dogs Listen Better Than My Husband... Sort Of

After three "get downs" and one or more mostly idle threats, they hit the floor.  Certain things I do throughout my day serve as clues, intended or otherwise, for our dogs that now, this very instant is a perfect time to beg for treats, beg for a walk, catch a scratch.  Sitting down gives them license to solicit some lovin'.  The squeak of my chair as I back away from my desk indicates I am on the move, possibly to the refrigerator, and it would be in their best interest to follow.  The snapping shut of the little plastic legs on the underside of my computer keyboard signal I am closing up shop, at least for a little while, and it could be a wondeful time for a walk!  Tossing around in bed in the early morning tells Bishop, it's almost "awake time," or at the very least, time for a trip outside; Belle who generally sleeps through the night with no bathroom breaks, knows when the lock on the back door clicks into place, it would behoove her to trot on down to the kitchen so she too, can snag a post-potty treat. 

In addition to "green lights," they also know when their chances are slim; this is where they fare better than my husband.  They know Mom doesn't slide any table food their way, at the table or otherwise.  They know when I open the refrigerator, they'd better be a good three freet away, because if I catch them with their noses in it they're gonna get thunked.  And rough house?  Not in Mom's vocabulary.  Walks take place on the short leashes -- nobody gets full throttle here.

Scott could do with a lesson or two from these guys.  For instance, Mom heading to her wallet DOES NOT necessarily indicate she is ordering pizza, or buying Dad a tool, or forking over cold hard cash; it may, however indicate, she is going to the store to buy yet another gallon of milk.  Mom bending over to pick something up does mean she dropped a sock; it does not mean, well, you know.  Mom goes to the basement to do laundry, not to grab corn chips from the pantry when Dad has just had two Oreo Cakesters and half a bag of salt and vinegar potato chips.  Grocery shopping with Mom means buying food, not taking advantage of every sale on Breyer's and Ellio's pizza they've got going.

Does anyone have a number for the Husband Whisperer?

Sunday, April 4, 2010

With No Apology to Crappy, Pre-Fab Easter Basket Makers

I remember when I was a child, looking at those Ready-Made Easter baskets with eyes wide, almost salivating at their colorful, bounteous yield of toys and candy.  I would hope against hope my mother would do like the "cool moms" and forego our traditional wicker baskets with those huge fruit and nut eggs and that pesky plastic grass, to spring for one of those cellophane wrapped festivals of favors!

When I had children of my own, I became astonishingly uncool.  I decorated my chidren's Easter baskets, opting for cloth ribbon and wicker that would stand the test of time and gale force winds.  I bought the Peeps, jelly beans, Binky's and all the other edibles that would remain in the refrigerator until they were white with age or petrified and subject to Carbon-14 dating.  I purchased fruits and nuts in an effort to be more health conscious, and invested in trinkets that would actually last past 4 PM on Easter Sunday.  I scoffed at Ready-Made, and wondered at the character of the financial genius who stuffed chintzy baskets full of dollar store junk, wrapped it in shiny "come hither" wrap and slapped a paper bow on top, only to charge as much, if not more than I spent on my lovingly hand-selected and meticulously designed baskets.

My children too, begged for cheap, pleaded for tawdry and whined for "cool."  I was even tempted one year to give them what they wanted.  Maybe I should have, the way God sometimes gives us what we ask for.  We beg for junk that to us seems "the real thing."  We are lured by garish "come hither" wrap and we whine until we get it.  When our Easter dinner is over, the chocolate from our baskets is insipid or even vile, our trinkets are little more than tacky party favors or have met their fate in the bottom of the kitchen trash can, we know we have gotten just the crap we asked for!  Matthew 7:11 tells us that even we who are failed, mortal and evil know how to give those we love good gifts; imagine what a perfect Father and loving God can give us if we will just let Him.

Well, if allowing God to work in my life means walking past that gaudy plastic packaging and overdone self-adhering bow, I pray for the wisdom and courage to be uncool.

A VERY HAPPY EASTER

The tears came so quickly.  A sniff.  That wretched lump that tightened my throat.  Something so simple, and yet, I couldn't help myself.

I tend to be an extremely emotional person, given to bursts of exuberance and vexation, particularly on I-95.  But, tears?  Rarely.  In fact, when they do come they last less than a minute or two and usually go undetected by even my closest companion.  Today was no exception, but the swiftness with which they came, and the situation in which they were summoned threw me for a loop.

Christine's Mom-Mom sold Avon for many years.  Sometimes I was certain she was her best customer.  She would get some of the most adorable things for the kids, and always had something unique for them on holidays.  One year she had an Easter chick that chirped "Happy Easter!" in the cheeriest, tiniest voice; it was impossible to feel bad when it chirped its greeting.  Even now, when I hear someone joyfully proclaim "Happy Easter," that fuzzy yellow chick and its lilting little voice come to mind.  Today however, my mind's transition from fuzzy little chick to cherished memories was immediate, and so were the tears.

I miss Eloise; I'm saddened I could not see her before she was gone.  I miss the Easters when my children were small and my church family was large.  I miss Steven; he, too, left without saying "goodbye."  I miss the unknown -- what could have been if things had been different.  I miss the days when my mom could remember.

This morning the girls woke up early and tip-toed down the stairs to get a preview of their Easter bounty.  Their alarm left me snickering to myself beneath the covers of our warm bed.  "Maddy's Easter basket was empty except for an egg with a dumb message, and my basket is missing!"  Daddy and I had played a little joke on our Peeping Tinas -- Madison's "dumb message" was the first in a series of clues leading her right to an Easter treat; Olivia's basket was safely stowed, left to discovery only after she completed the puzzle we'd left her.  Their giggles and sheepish grins as they moved through the house searching and second-guessing possible solutions was priceless.  Their Easter morning came not only with treats, but a sense of accomplishment -- in my opinion, a much better gift than any dumb bunny could bestow.  For Scott and I, Easter morning brought another batch of memories that will one day return to me brought on by the cheerful chirp "HAPPY EASTER!"