Joy In The Longing

Can't Buy Happiness

2009-07-06T15:27:00.000-07:00

On the trip home from a visit to Grandma and Grandpa’s farm, Eiledon was deeply engrossed by her Pokemon Diamond and Pearl game on her Nintendo DS. For those of you who don’t know, it’s a hand-held video-game unit—looks like a tiny laptop. Of course, Eiledon’s is pink. Gavin had decided not to bring his DS on the trip but was perfectly content to lean halfway across the back seat of the car to watch Eiledon play. He can do this for hours. I don’t get it, but hey, no one was fighting.

As dinner time approached, there was a bit of commotion in the back seat—whooping and hollering with glee.

“What happened?” I asked.

“You’ll never believe this!” Gavin shouted. The child always talks loudly, but this time the volume was up to 11. “Eiledon caught a Cranidos!!!!”

I couldn’t have told you the first thing about a Cranidos except that it was obviously quite the prize.

“That’s great!” I said.

There were more exclamations of joy from both children, and an excited conversation about how Cranidos had been obtained from a fossil and how it would evolve into a Rampardos and how it could learn Zen Head Butt after it learned Ancient Power. Seriously. Aren’t you totally jazzed by this information?!? Like I said. No one was fighting.

We pulled off the interstate at St. Michael to grab a bite to eat. We hit McDonald’s first as Gavin wanted a “happy meal” with chicken nuggets, apple slices and milk and, of course, the TOY that came with it. This time the toy was a dinosaur from the new Ice Age animated movie. Eiledon, who dislikes McDonalds entirely with the exception of the fries and chocolate milk-shakes, opted to forego the toy for Subway across the road.

Dan and Gavin waited in the car while Eiledon and I went in to order our meals.

As they munched on their dinners, Gavin regarded his “happy meal” and said philosophically, “I think Eiledon’s much happier than I am. She caught a Cranidos. I just got a fake dinosaur.”

And there you have it, folks. You can’t buy happiness. At least, not at McDonald’s.

A Generational Curse

2009-06-13T12:25:00.000-07:00

The Lord, the Lord, a God merciful and gracious,
slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love and faithfulness,
keeping steadfast love for the thousandth generation,
forgiving iniquity and transgression and sin,

yet by no means clearing the guilty,
but visiting the iniquity of the parents upon the children
and the children’s children,
to the third and the fourth generation.’
- Exodus 34:6-7

I know there’s a lot of controversy among Christian evangelicals and fundamentalists about whether or not the idea of a ‘generational curse’ has any scriptural or doctrinal validity. Being neither an evangelical nor a fundamentalist, I find it’s best not to engage in such debates.

However, I am here today to tell you that GENERATIONAL CURSES ARE REAL.

My evidence for this bold pronouncement? Raiders of the Lost Ark.

No, seriously. I watched Raiders of the Lost Ark with my family the other night. My son, who I knew would find it too scary, lasted halfway through the opening scene before retreating to the safety of my bedroom to play computer games. My daughter, on the other hand, LOVED it and was prone to yell “COOL!” and “SWEET!” and “That was AWESOME!”

I was relieved by her enthusiasm. I hadn’t seen the movie in years and there was quite a bit more graphic gore than I’d remembered. And lots of dead people. Lots and lots of dead people. Dead, half-decomposed, cobweb-draped, misshapen and moldy-looking dead people. One with a large snake coming out of its mouth.

Yeah, I know. SWEET!

But then it was bed time.

“Mama, I’m freaked. Can I sleep with you?”

“Too many scary things in the movie?” I asked with a sinking feeling.

“Yeah. It was great. But that part after the snakes with all the dead people…”

“But we made you close your eyes during the melting faces part,” I offered. “Can’t you just sleep in your own bed?”

“I’m too scared.”

What, you might be wondering, does this remotely have to do with Exodus 34? The answer is that my daughter’s being freaked out by Raiders of the Lost Ark is all my grandmother’s fault.

Flash back, if you will, to 1953. My grandfather was not a big movie fan. His wife, on the other hand, adored movies, especially science fiction movies. Since her husband would not go with her to see these films, she would bring along her son, Marty. My dad. He was only 10 in 1953 and my grandparents were careful not to let him see scary movies like Frankenstein or Dracula. But apparently, Invaders from Mars was okay since it was just science fiction. Invaders from Mars scared the knickers off little 10-year-old Marty.

For the record, I watched the trailer for the film in preparation for this blog entry and I was freaked out. At 37. See for yourself here. If you dare.

So the curse began and was carried through to the next generation. Apparently permanently unhinged by his early movie-going experiences with Grandma Hilda, my Dad developed a love for the same sorts of science fiction as his mom. He loves the Twilight Zone, subscribed for YEARS to Asimov’s Fantasy and Science Fiction Magazine, and just seems to have an affinity for the weird and unsettling.

So now it’s the late 1970s. Marty has four kids of his own and a TV set with local channels that show lots of old movies. In complete innocence he shares his passion for science fiction with his children. His eldest, Danny, is haunted by Day of the Triffids (and in an ironic twist, my dad doesn’t even remember seeing that movie.) His second child, Kathy, is traumatized by Hitchcock’s The Birds, particularly when a young, beautiful woman named Kathy is mobbed to death by a flock of deranged birds. To be fair, his fourth child, Peter, was already well on his way to insanseville at birth so I’m not sure if Dad really contributed much there.

Me? The Incredible Shrinking Man. A movie he still insists was “neat.” I have distinct memories of sitting in church, looking down at my feet, and actually seeing them start to shrink. (The mist! The mist!!) I was convinced I would slowly disappear into a world where spiders were as big as monsters and no one would be able to figure out how to stop it.

And now, in 2009, shaggy spear-pierced Nazi corpses covered in tarantulas are going to pop out of my daughter’s closet with the ark of the covenant.

I already feel bad for her children.

The Power of “Why?”

2009-05-21T05:40:00.000-07:00

There’s nothing like an inquisitive nine-year-old to make you clarify your beliefs. And to make you humble to realize that you’re not a history scholar or a studied theologian, that you know only what you’ve heard or read about, and that there are some things in the world that just honestly make you doubt the ability of the human race to understand real love.

Somewhere, Eiledon heard about the book (now a movie) The Boy in the Striped Pajamas. She asked if I’d heard of it and I said I had.

“What’s it about?”
I attempt to explain, at a bare minimum and in as non-upsetting a fashion as possible, the basics of the Holocaust. Eiledon is, understandably, a little upset.

“Why did they do that?”
I briefly touch on the end of World War I, the demoralization of the German people, the human instinct for dumping downward and the dangers of national pride.

“But, why?”
I talk a little about World War II, Hitler and the Nazi party, the dangers of NOT having separation of church and state. Eiledon is surprised to find out that the Lutheran Church (in which she is being raised) had a key role in the victimization of Jews, Catholics, homosexuals and other groups. I reassure her that there were people, like Dietrich Bonhoeffer, for example, who challenged what the Nazis were doing ostensibly in the name of religion. I tell her that even though we are Lutheran Christians who believe in the authority (though not the inerrancy) of the Bible NO ONE can limit God. No one can say they know what God is or how God thinks or what God’s will is for others.

“Then why did they kill all those people?”
I try to make sense of what happened. I talk about racism, mob mentality, looking the other way, denial. I finally come around to fear. I explain, in as simple terms as possible, what I have learned in my 12-step program: that all defects of human character originate with one of two fears: the fear of not having enough or the fear of not being enough. The situation surrounding the holocaust was rife with both.

“So basically, fear leads to hate.”
Yoda would be so proud of my little padawan! I encourage my daughter to be unafraid of people, to try to see things from other perspectives. To accept and embrace those who are different, to learn from them and to love without fear. I tell her that even though there are some people who want to pretend the Holocaust never happened, we can never ever forget that IT DID HAPPEN. Not because we should dwell on the past, but because if we don’t learn from the past, history will repeat itself in the future.

When all was said and done, I think Eiledon “got it” as well as she could. A few thoughtful moments after our conversation she said, “Can I sleep with you? I’m really kind of freaked.”

“About the Holocaust?”

“About all the people they killed.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I can understand that.” I hugged her and handed her a pillow.

I have had the privilege of hearing two holocaust survivors speak. The first, Michael Guonari, when I was in high school, and the second, Elie Wiesel, who gave the commencement address at my sister’s college graduation (a college, I might add, of the Lutheran Church.) But it won’t be long before we have no direct contact with anyone who lived through the horrors of this genocide. And it is up to us to make sure our children can accept the potential for unbelievable evil in humankind without being paralyzed by the facts to the point where denial just seems easier. I certainly hope I did an adequate job of covering the topic at a 9-year-old level, unafraid of the truth of the past but with hope for a different future.

May we never forget that we need to keep asking "Why?"

Solidarity

2009-04-22T17:38:00.000-07:00

My daughter hates brushing her hair. I don’t blame her. I know it hurts. I know because my hair was just like hers when I was younger. Fine and thin and prone to colossal tangles. With every stroke, the brush yanked strands out of tender follicles and I would yelp.

Now, having kept it fairly short most of my life, my hair is quite thick—still very fine, but, as I’ve been told by several hair stylists, I have a lot of it. It doesn’t hurt to pull it out anymore. That could be because I killed all the nerve endings in my scalp with my childhood brushing. But more likely it’s just because I’ve gotten more hard-headed as I’ve aged.

Eiledon, poor child, is only 9 and still has hair that is fine and thin and prone to colossal tangles. It doesn’t matter how often I remind her that if she’d brush it every night and every morning, she could minimize the agony, she still waits until I walk away and “forgets” to finish brushing. When I stand over her and insist, the outcome usually involves lots of threats and screaming, gallons of detangling spray and heartfelt promises never to let that happen again.

Sunday morning was the last straw. As we got into the car to go to church, I handed her a brush and said, “You have until we get to church to brush your hair. Then I’m going to brush it.” I stayed very matter-of-fact about it. In fact, I was ready to congratulate myself on my wonderful parenting when she exploded into a paroxysm of rage. My nerves, already shot through with hairline cracks, completely disintegrated. I checked the self-congratulation and launched into my unfortunate parenting fallback. I screamed back at her. This is a highly effective parenting technique. For other people’s children. With Eiledon, it just escalates things.

I pulled into the church parking lot mentally tallying the medical bills for my extreme TMJ flare-up. I left her in the car and went in, fuming. (Gavin, while he can be just as belligerent as his sister, adopts this very Eddie-Haskell-like persona when Eiledon flies off the handle. It’s as if he knows he’ll be cut off at the knees if he so much as ventures an opinion in the middle of our face-off. Instead, he becomes the perfect angel child and says, “yes, Mama” and “Can I get the door for you, Mama?” and “I'll carry your bag for you, Mama” in the most ingratiating manner.)

My poor father was the first one to ask, “How are you?” and I’m sure he regretted it at least a little. He and my mom kindly reminded me of my own childhood hair-brushing issues, which I had to concede. Then my mom said something like, “You know, I didn’t just keep your hair shorter because it was easier. I kept hoping it would grow in thicker and stronger.” “It did,” I replied, thoughtful.

Not that cutting Eiledon’s hair would be a simple solution. We’d been down that road before. Every time I told her she either had to brush it or we were going to have it cut short, the result was a fairly substantial meltdown. Once before—two years ago maybe?—I had followed through and convinced her it was the best (and her only) option. It was time to go there again.

After a healthy cooling-off period, I sat down with my daughter. “Eiledon,” I said, “I’m sorry I was such a bear this morning. But we need to come up with a better solution for your hair. If you’re not going to brush it and take care of it, you really can’t keep it long.”

“I wish you didn’t have to brush long hair,” she replied, sullen. It was her mantra.

“But you do,” I insisted. “Maybe it’s time to cut it again. It will grow back and it will probably grow back thicker and stronger like mine did.”

“Fine,” she scowled. “One more time and that’s it forever!”

“I can’t promise that. I had to wear my hair short a lot for it to get this thick. And it doesn’t even hurt when I pull it out anymore.” Inspiration struck. “What if we donate your hair to Locks of Love? They make wigs for kids who lose their hair because of illness.”

“Megan did that once,” she said, warming to the idea. “That could be cool.”

Feeling relief, I said, “I’ll check it out on line and see what I can find out.”

I found out that our local Fantastic Sam’s would do it. No appointment necessary. I went to bed Sunday evening with a sense of real accomplishment and the promise of significantly reduced drama in my household.

The next morning, when I was in the shower, God said, “You know, Rebekah…” I hate it when He does that. “You know, if you really love that little girl, and if you really want to show her, you could donate your hair, too.”

My hair. My grandmother’s hair! The hair I’d been growing for EIGHT YEARS. My long, thick, wonderful, luxurious—well, crap!

I wandered out of the bathroom with a towel on my head. Eiledon and Gavin were munching on cereal and watching cartoons. “Eiledon,” I said, “how would you like it if I got my hair cut for Locks of Love, too?”

I know she can be a real challenge to me, but let me tell you, when that little girl gets excited about something, the entire world brightens three or four shades. She just lit up with a huge grin and yelled, “AWESOME!” We went straight to the salon after I picked her up from school. An hour and 21 inches of hair later, it was done. They didn't even charge for the cuts.

You know, not many things in life are completely clear. But this decision, this show of solidarity with my wonderful daughter, this was the best decision I’d made all year.

A Load of Scrap

2009-04-10T08:17:00.001-07:00

I love to scrapbook. I can’t do it on a regular basis, but when I manage to pull out and organize all my pictures and all the ticket stubs and kids’ artwork and play programs and Mothers’ Day cards that I’ve stuck into a bag over the past couple dozen months, I pour myself into the process.

Still, I can’t help but characterize the scrapbooking hobby as existing at the intersection of visual art and narcissism. I mean, really, if I have any illusions that anyone in the coming generations of my family will spend a tenth the time poring over these gargantuan tomes as I’ve put into assembling them, I’m kidding myself. No matter how the scrapbooking industry (and it’s a monster, I tell you) tries to convince me that I’m creating lasting heirlooms for posterity, I realize that precisely archiving every annual vacation in Michigan, every elementary school carnival, every trip to every park every summer is a little… excessive? Redundant? Irrelevant?

What makes those items from my ancestors so terribly priceless is that there are so few of them. My Nth-generation photocopy of the newspaper announcement of my grandmothers’ high school graduation is a little piece of otherwise obscure history and the fact that I so strikingly resemble her (in the barely discernable photo) gives me a mysterious sense of connection to the timelessness of existence. If my kids get to re-live every event of their lives at the turn of a page, will that make them feel more connected to their history, or, ironically, less so because it loses its impact? Will my grandchildren and great-grandchildren care about the fourteenth time my kids dyed Easter eggs? Even if they get to see pictures of the other thirteen times?

Why do I scrapbook, then, if not to enrich the lives of future Fergus and Moir descendents? Or to purchase a small measure of earthly immortality? Let’s be honest: I scrapbook for ME. Because it’s fun. Because I love the look and feel of patterned and textured paper. I get excited by the way a page pulls together because that one torn piece of cardstock perfectly brings out that one spot of blue on my daughter’s skirt. When I finish a spread and pull out the photos for the next one, I get to re-experience whatever little moment I may have had with my husband or children or parents on a given day. And sometimes I look at a photo I don’t remember taking or there’s something in a familiar photograph that I’ve never noticed before and it gives the entire experience a new spin.

Are there boring pages? You bet. I won’t be sad if I never have to scrapbook another trip to Chuck E. Cheese’s so long as I live. Nothing changes except the clothes we’re wearing and frankly, carrying around a camera doesn’t do much to enhance the experience. Who knows? Maybe my scrapbooks will become more focused and meaningful the longer I do it and while my earlier books may seem excessive to future generations, that later ones will carry that sense of mystery that will make my great great great grandchildren say, “I wish she’d scrapped more.”

Meanwhile, I’ll be hauling a trunk-full of supplies up to my church so I can scrap all next week because I still haven’t finished 2007 (or anything before 2001) and, darn it, I ENJOY it! Scrap on, my friends. Scrap on!

What's In A Song?

2009-03-24T10:51:00.000-07:00

In my last writing, if you can call it that, I made reference to a piece I wrote some time ago about being a creature of the forest. I have read more thoroughly through my journals and still I have failed to find it. As this long five-week month progresses and I have only posted two entries, I feel a certain sense of urgency or anxiety, a need to re-assert my desire to make the discipline of regular writing a reality. For me the forest beckons, that place where I most clearly feel the presence of God.

This past Sunday morning, Dan realized he’d forgotten the checkbook and it was his last opportunity to order Easter flowers in memory of Aunt Joan. Instead of attending the church’s adult forum, he decided to go back home during the education hour to retrieve the checkbook. My car radio is most frequently tuned to Minnesota Public Radio, so as he drove, he listened to Weekend Edition. It just so happened—you know, in the way I’ve come to believe it never actually just happens—there was a segment called “What’s In A Song?” in which American folk singer Connie Dover explained her song “I am Going to the West.”

Dan was excited to share this with me when he returned to church. First of all, I have been in love with Connie Dover’s music since I first heard her sing with the Celtic folk group Scartaglen on a Narada sampler in the early 90s. While I have not actively pursued a collection of her works, the unmistakable tone and quality of her voice and its accompaniment by simple, Celtic instruments, never fails to send a thrill of recognition and joy through me.

But it wasn’t just that. In the segment, they played the song, and in a voiceover the artist talked about the ideas and images that inspired it. She spoke of that need to commune with nature, that longing to become a part of the forest, rather than simply remaining an intruder. Dan said, “Essentially, Bek, she was describing exactly what you've talked about in the concept of 'joy in the longing.’”

I went to the MPR website to hear for myself. Connie Dover spoke of the American West, the mountains and the forests of Yellowstone. Although I have never seen this particular area, I related deeply to her description of the longing that being among the trees evokes. At one point she said that every time she goes west and sees the landscape start to rise, she experiences a “pounding heart and welling eyes” and I realized my own eyes were welling in response to the song and her words about it.

I get that feeling whenever I am in the woods, but especially on my way to the cabin in Michigan. As the car rolls northward and the landscape is absorbed by cool trees as far as the eye can see, my chest feels like it is literally expanding and I can almost hear a voice whispering, Welcome home! Welcome home!

I don’t wonder that it sounds a lot like Connie Dover.

BLURG!

2009-03-13T13:41:00.000-07:00

I can’t thank Susan Hills enough for coining this wonderful interjection. I’m not sure I can explain it eloquently. In fact, I can’t claim that I even understand it exactly, since I’m not the one who made it up. But for me, it is the perfect expression of emotional indecision.

Imagine, if you will, a saucepan over low heat. Toss in a little bit of confusion and frustration followed by both an urge to do something and a complete inability to figure out what, exactly, to do. Add a drop of some strong emotion (to taste, of course) be it joy, fear, incredulity, anger or hope. Slowly increase the heat, agitating that urge to do something, but then add a good shake or two of inaction. When it boils: BLURG!

“Actually, it’s quite good on toast.” --Shrek

I want to write a good blog entry. I want to be witty and inspired. I want to share some of the interesting mental/emotional/spiritual workings of my present Lenten journey. Actually, what I most want to do is either sleep or cry and I can’t even choose between those options. And never mind, really, because the kids get home from school in 20 minutes.

I attempted another cop-out. I know in one of my journals I wrote a serviceable piece on why I consider myself a creature of the forests and lakes rather than the open prairies. Forest imagery seems to be plentiful in my head of late and I can point to lots of times in my history when this theme has cropped up as a conscious or unconscious metaphor for peace, safety and God’s presence. But I spent an hour combing through old journals only to find that I really am quite crazy, that my life journey has been wildly erratic, and that my memory sucks.

So you, dear friends, family and whatever paltry sum of readers bother to stop by this spot, get treated to a focusless rant about absolutely nothing.

BLURG!

I love you, Sue ☺

The Scarf

2009-03-03T11:40:00.000-08:00

On Christmas eve, my twelve-year-old niece was wearing one of those fuzzy-looking scarves, the kind made out of that yarn with all the long hairs. You know what I mean, right? Clearly I don’t knit. But the point remains that I instantly loved her white scarf and thought an off-white one just like it would perfectly complete my Christmas eve outfit. After the service, I told her I was envious of her simple and beautiful accessory and wished I had one just like it.

The next morning, my family opened our Christmas presents. Under the tree was a box from my husband’s Aunt Joan (pronounced “Jo-Ann,” not “Jone”) who lived in California.

Unlike me, Joan was an accomplished knitter and in the box was a warm winter hat for each of the “boys,” black for my husband and orange for Gavin, his favorite color. For Eiledon there was a fuzzy pink scarf and matching hat. For me, there was a long, off-white scarf of the type I had, only the evening before, decided would be the perfect accessory. I was deeply touched and somewhat amazed that the woman had read my mind before I even knew my mind, and had done so from a thousand miles away.

I wrote Joan an effusive thank-you note and shared the Christmas eve story of my niece’s scarf. I wanted her to know how much the gift meant to me and how I appreciated her skillful handiwork.

For the next couple of weeks, I proudly wore my new scarf with my bright red coat, but no one said a word. Not a single comment on this addition to my winter-wear. I supposed a scarf was a scarf if you didn’t know the story behind it, so I would proclaim “Look at this gorgeous scarf! Dan’s Aunt Joan knitted this for me!” And to those who had been in attendance on Christmas eve I pointed out, “Remember what I said about Rachel’s scarf and how I wanted one just like it? Isn’t that AMAZING?”

January came and went, and then February trudged in and the scarf began to be simply taken for granted as part of my winter ensemble. And still, no one ever said a thing about it.

We had gotten word over the new year that Joan’s throat cancer had returned. Now, post surgery, she was doing poorly and the cancer was far more aggressive than it had previously been. But there was no clear indication of how bad things really were until we got the call on March 1st that she had died peacefully at home that afternoon.

Dan and I were thrown for a loop. We had sort of had this vague notion that she was not well, but I don’t think it had occurred to either of us that we might lose her so quickly. We discussed it with the kids in a kind of numb shock and they, having known her only a little and mostly through holiday cards and gifts, weren’t sure what to make of it, though Gavin did express quite eloquently that he was very sad that Gammeltante had died.

After supper, I shuffled off to a meeting, after receiving assurances that Dan wouldn’t rather I skip it and stay home. The two hours of my meeting passed joyfully and I could step away from the confusion and grief that had followed me there.

On the way home, I stopped at the grocery store to pick up some fruit. I dragged my heels through the place, not wanting to get home too quickly, partly, to be honest, because I was hoping Dan would have the kids in bed by the time I got there, but partly because of the sadness. I stared at the various fruit for a lot longer than was warranted for normal selection. At last I made my choices and proceeded to the check-out.

There were no other shoppers that I could see, and the young woman and man at the check-out counter were casually leaning on it and chatting. When I appeared to pay for my items, they snapped to attention and waited on me.

As soon as the woman’s eyes lit on my scarf, she said, “That is a beautiful scarf. It looks really warm and cozy. Does that mean it’s cold out there?”

Casual conversation. Good customer service. But why the scarf? Why not the bright red coat that so often draws comment? Why not the tiny wallet-on-a-string that I call a purse? Someone had, at last, noticed and appropriately complimented my beautiful, hand-made, off-white, long, fuzzy scarf. I had a flash of insight. Joan was somewhere nearby, smiling.

I almost said something about Joan’s passing in response to the compliment, but then chose to keep it and ponder it in my heart. Instead I made some inane remark about the cold, gathered my fruit and headed to my car. I was smiling the whole way.

God vs. Darwin

2009-02-22T11:19:00.000-08:00

No, it’s not what you think, though I did get your attention, didn’t I? Not being a creationist, I fully embrace the theory of evolution. In fact, I want to get a Darwin Fish and a Christian Fish and put them nose-to-nose on the back of my car with a heart over their heads. But I digress…

I’m talking about my son. Specifically, his occasional complete lack of impulse control. As a parent, it’s frightening to know that despite his being a smart, cautious boy who is afraid of getting hurt or dirty, he sometimes does incredibly stupid things. For instance, in a manic energy one evening, he put on a hat, ran through the house at top speed and then launched himself headfirst into our big comfy chair. Sure, it’s overstuffed and soft (and, hey, he was wearing a hat). But he hit it so hard that he jammed his neck and knocked the wind out of himself, terrifying us both.

Then there was the fine, early spring day when he completely disregarded his fear of water and cautiousness around the pond and, at the casual suggestion of a friend, walked out onto the ice. Of course, within moments he slipped and fell headlong into the open water beyond. I aged ten years in about fifteen seconds that day.

As a Christian, I firmly believe that God loves my son and is watching out for him. As a parent, I firmly believe it’s my job to be God’s hands and voice in teaching my son some common sense. As a woman, I firmly believe there is some massive defect in male DNA that causes otherwise completely rational children to do unbelievably moronic things.

My grandfather soaped the end of the trolley tracks near his home so the streetcar couldn’t stop at the end of its run. My father crawled through a cement drainage pipe with NO knowledge of how long it was or where it led. My brother wandered out of the house at 4am in the snow without a coat because some kid said if he went to the school at midnight he’d see Big Foot. I suppose I could chalk it up to the genetics from my side of the family, but I’ve heard plenty of similar stories about my husband and his brother that I’m not at liberty to publish.

Taking pot shots at easy targets aside, the real question for me is how to reconcile my faith that God loves and cares for people with the basic human instinct to try dumb things. In all the above examples, the boy in question lived to tell the tale so that may, in itself, be proof of a loving and merciful God. But there are plenty of tragic tales to be told to make one wonder, “Well, why didn’t God like that kid?”

I have no illusions that I can sort this out in a blog entry when there’s an entire industry working to find out “why bad things happen to good people,” or at least, to sell their own ideas about it. I just pray to God for whatever I need to see my little boy into adulthood. After that, all I can do is hope he doesn’t wind up on the annual “Darwin Awards” list.

Unborrowed Light

2009-02-13T09:53:00.000-08:00

I came across this phrase in a hymn a couple of Sundays ago and it near leapt off the page at me. Something about its profound simplicity, its clarity yet mystery. Just the very words themselves appealed to me in a way I’m not sure I can explain. I wondered why I had never encountered them before.

A little internet research revealed that the hymn’s author, Joseph A. Robinson, was not the first to use the phrase when he wrote “’Tis Good, Lord, to Be Here” in 1888. The same pairing of words appears in Nathaniel Hawthorne’s Twice Told Tales more than fifty years prior. In the late 1600s, a Dr. Charles Scarborough used the term in a rather intemperate elegy to English poet Abraham Cowley and I also found the phrase in Shakespeare (Love’s Labors Lost) and a translation of an ancient Hindu text.

It’s probable that dozens, if not hundreds, of other writers have felt a similar reaction to these two simple words in conjunction and have written articles and blog entries on the idea. But I’m not going for originality here. I’m just enjoying my own astonishment. Because the point is that nothing human is truly original. No matter how brilliant or insightful or humorous something I’ve written may be, any light that shines from me is borrowed.

Now, there’s a humbling concept for you. Shakespeare got it wrong when he wrote of the stars shining with unborrowed light—even their light is borrowed. But at the same time, what a relief! To know that there is only one source of truly unborrowed light in all of existence is liberating! I don’t have to revolutionize the way anyone looks at the world. I only have to honestly examine my daily walk with God and reflect on it (no pun intended ☺). If it connects with another person, it’s because God lent me a little illumination to pass on to the world around me. Cool.

The Goat. (For Christy Heitger)

2009-01-30T10:47:00.000-08:00

Growing up in suburban New York, I guess my school staff was worried about us kids being too far removed from our food sources. For educational purposes, one afternoon they brought a few farm animals onto school property for us to see and feel and think about how they were processed into the unrecognizable items in the grocery store. Okay, I don’t remember that last part specifically, but I’m sure that was the underlying message.

By the wise old age of seven, I had already been on several long road trips from New York to Ohio and Michigan and seen my share of open country and factory farms. To me, the animals were just cute. I liked the little billy goat best. He was the cutest. And since I already knew all about farm animals I had no fear and went right up to that little billy goat and patted his neck with confidence.

The goat, for his part, was too busy munching on the Dixson School lawn to even acknowledge my presence, never mind that of dozens of other squirrelly second-graders swarming around him. As he bent his neck down to reach the grass, I bent down to better scratch him between the ears.

Now I’m not entirely sure why my mouth was open. Was my nose stuffed up? Was I whispering sweet nothings to my new friend? Was I lulled into a moronic stupor by this riveting experience? I guess it doesn’t really matter. What matters is that all of a sudden, someone startled the billy goat and he threw back his head with an indignant bleat.

At that moment, one of his cute little (and obviously surgically sterile) billy goat horns went right through the roof of my open mouth.

I must have screamed, though I don’t remember it. The only striking visual image that remains is a view of my red wind-breaker with the Camp Koinonia patch covered in dark red-brown stains as some grownup held my hand and rushed me into the building.

I also remember the taste of blood. In my subsequent years as a biology geek, no one ever had to convince me that human blood was full of iron. And as much as I’ve enjoyed Anne Rice and Buffy the Vampire Slayer, I just don’t get that vampire thing. Yeesh. Blecch.

The miracle of miracles was that I didn’t need stitches. According to the pediatrician (and again, I have absolutely zero memory of getting from the head start nurse’s office to the clinic) the goat horn had made a “clean” wound right between the hard and soft palettes. My treatment was to consist of eating all the popsicles I wanted until the cut healed. I don’t think they even gave me a tetanus booster.

My beautiful red wind-breaker with the Koinonia patch never came clean. But other than that, no permanent damage was done and the story has gone down in Fergus family history as the single most bizarre accident story ever. I even still think billy-goats are cute.

But I keep my distance.

Cop Out

2009-01-27T14:22:00.000-08:00

I promised myself I'd update my blog every week. I honestly have nothing to say right now. So I thought I'd post the text of a picture book I wrote for my husband in honor of our dearly departed cat, Dolby.

Dolby died August 9th in Dan's arms after what was probably a long history of some sort of feline cancer, though we'll never know for sure. I was with the kids at our family cabin in Michigan at the time and it was very hard for Dan to be here alone and deal with the loss.

Dealing with the loss long-distance and having to tell the kids was no picnic either. But there was a moment of--I don't know, clarity? Comfort? Insight?--for me. I was walking from the living area into the kitchen and had a sudden thought: Dolby is an angel. He had always been and would always be a part of our divine family. It was odd how perfectly clear that thought was, but those things happen to me now and then and I accepted it. Miraculously, my grief vanished, and this story poured out into my journal out of love and celebration of Dan and Dolby, the best of friends.

-------

Dolby

A man had a cat.

Up to then, he had never much cared for cats. But his wife really wanted one. So he agreed.

After all, it would be her cat.

But Dolby had a way of getting into everything.

And it wasn’t long before Dolby got into the man’s heart.

They became the best of friends.

Dolby lived a long and happy life with the man and his family.

When Dolby died, the man buried him under his favorite window.

The man, too, lived a long and happy life.

Very early one morning, he slipped away.

He walked through fields and forests, by hills and streams.

He came to a meadow where young men and women were playing.

One of the youths spotted the man and immediately ran over and embraced him. “You’re here!” he cried joyfully.

“Do I know you?” asked the man, for the boy seemed very familiar to him.

“I’m an angel,” replied the youth. “But you called me ‘Dolby’.”

The man cried out in recognition and threw his arms around his best friend.

Then, realizing he was now as youthful as the others, the man ran off after his friend and joined in the game.

Great Expectations

2009-01-19T12:51:00.000-08:00

This country and all of its citizens owe an inestimable debt to Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Americans of every race, gender, ethnicity, creed, sexual orientation and ability have benefited from his life’s work. His message of love, forgiveness and non-violence revolutionized the American socio-political landscape and inspired millions.

Yet on this day of his commemoration, I also want to remember his humanity. Dr. King was a man, plain and simple, and as a man, he made mistakes and experienced failures. Moreover, his accomplishments did not occur in a vacuum, for he was not the only one marching, preaching or sitting-in.

I say this not to denigrate his importance, but to drive home the essential truths that
(1) each of us has the potential to stand up for truth and justice and act non-violently out of love and service to make the world a better place; and
(2) that none of us can accomplish great things all by ourselves.

On the eve of what cannot be denied as a shining moment in American history, the inauguration of this country’s first African American President, it is of paramount importance that we hold these truths before us. For all that Barack Obama may represent, for all he may inspire, for all his potential, he is still a man. He will make mistakes. He will experience failures.

Those who are caught up in the adulation around his historic ascendancy will set themselves up for bitter disappointment. Those who oppose him will take every opportunity to expose and exploit the slightest misstep in an effort to sabotage any good he attempts. Both groups have the potential to draw the focus away from the real work that will have to be done by all of us if this presidential administration is to succeed in truly benefiting this country and its citizens.

Dr. King, I believe, was fully aware of his humanity. As a Christian pastor, he would have had to know that he, himself, was not God. We have to know that for all he accomplished, he did not eradicate racism in this country. He was unable, for all his efforts, to completely heal the wounds still festering 100 years after the end of slavery. Forty years after hatred and fear caused someone to murder him, these wounds still ooze. At the same time, his work and his message were not buried with his body. Thousands of individuals carried on his ideas and beliefs and, to this day, we remember and honor his ideals.

Mr. Obama, I hope, is also aware of his humanity. He knows it will take heroic efforts—far beyond human capability—to address our factiousness and unite us in a movement toward greater peace and justice in this country and beyond. We have to know that he can’t do it alone. Our work didn’t end when we cast our ballot. The real work—everyone’s work!—starts tomorrow.

Yoga with Cat

2009-01-12T10:14:00.000-08:00

I have recently begun practicing yoga at home. My husband was thoughtful enough to give me this wonderful book to guide me in structuring my practice. I highly recommend it. The explanations are very clear and helpful and the photos are excellent.

There is only one issue I have with this publication. It seems the book was written without consideration for the very real challenges one can experience practicing yoga in one's own home.

To rectify this, I have altered some of the poses from the book to more accurately reflect the circumstances in which I, and I'm sure many others, practice yoga.

Not-Quite-Perfect Pose

1) Assume Siddhasana, or Perfect Pose as described on p. 127

2) Hold perfectly still as cat butts head repeatedly into left hand, wondering why you're not petting it. Maintain pose as cat attempts same behavior with right hand.

3) Continue breath control while cat gives up and gets comfortable in your lap.

Downward-Facing Dog with Cat

1) Assume Adho Mukha Svanasana, or Downward-Facing Dog, pp. 100-101.

2) Hold for the requisite 10-15 breaths while maintaining perfect balance in spite of cat walking back and forth under you, now and then rubbing his full body length against your chin and sticking his whiskers up your nose.

Cat Pose

Actually, that is what it's called. Its Sanskrit name is Biralasana, p. 37.

1) During Step 2, maintain pose and breath as cat leaps onto your back. The added 12-15 pounds of weight will deepen the stretch.

2) As you exhale and move to step 3, rounding your back, cat may jump down as comfortable, concave surface is eliminated.

3) Keeping back rounded and pelvis tucked, maintain balance while cat slams full body weight repeatedly into alternating arms.

4) Accept that you are not a cat and that the cat can just do this pose better than you.

The biggest challenge is to maintain "pranayama" or "breath control" while laughing. This should be its own discipline, I tell you.

Namaste!

Source: Brown, Christina, The Book of Yoga, Bath, UK, Parragon Publishing, 2002

Joy in the Longing

2009-01-05T11:07:00.000-08:00

“Joy in the Longing” is an expression of my spiritual journey. I believe every human being is born with a piece missing, and that if I am truly in touch with my thoughts and feelings, I am aware of that little hole in my self. The longing is a constant fact. It is at times almost imperceptible, while at others it is so acute that nothing else in the world seems to matter. But it doesn’t go away if I am honest with myself, it is an ostinato over which the rest of my life is sung.

It is not a longing on the human plane, as for a bigger house or a better life or a serious relationship (if you strip away any of those longings, you will find, underneath, still deeper longings for things less material.) It is a longing, I believe, for what I truly am, or perhaps more appropriately, for what I truly will be. The way God intended me to be and the way God sees me even now, though I am fully aware of my incompleteness.

Still, while I yearn for that sacred other-ness, that communion with something greater than myself, there are plenty of practical matters to which I ought to attend. I have a husband and children, friendships and family relationships, commitments to various communities in which I claim membership. I believe the ‘here and now’ is an essential part of my being and that in seeking connection with God, I must live ‘life on life’s terms’ rather than trying to alter the fabric of time and space to my own comfort.

It is in this living of life each and every day that joy is found. As a deeply imperfect person, I can get lost in the day-to-day, mired in frustration, bogged down by seemingly incessant difficulties. But when I work (and I do mean work!) to stay present in the moment, to act out of love and service to others, to center myself on doing the next right thing, there are sudden and often unexpected moments of joy. Not simply happiness or satisfaction or contentedness. Joy. Exuberant, transcendent joy.

In the book Surprised by Joy, C.S. Lewis writes:

“It had taken only a moment of time; and in a certain sense everything else that had ever happened to me was insignificant in comparison.... It was something quite different from ordinary life and even from ordinary pleasure; something, as they would now say, ‘in another dimension’ ... [it was] an unsatisfied desire which is itself more desirable than any other satisfaction. I call it Joy.... Anyone who has experienced it will want it again.”

This blog merely contains my musings on living life each day, always aware of that unsatisfied longing beneath, and always grateful for those moments when I can tap more deeply into the longing and experience joy.

Happy New Year

2009-01-01T08:58:00.000-08:00

It's here. No two ways about it. I don't have much to say about it yet, but I wanted to post SOMETHING right away as testament to my commitment to write on a regular basis. I'm out of town at my in-laws' at the moment and I suppose there's plenty of fodder for reflections on "Life on Life's Terms" here. Still, I think I'll just enjoy the purple-blue shadows of trees on the miles of unbroken snow all around, the momentary quiet of solitude, and the knowledge that I have the ability to be of service to those around me. And that's enough.

Stay on target...

2008-12-29T07:27:00.000-08:00

Past entries loaded in? Check.

Link back to main web page installed? Check.

Just need to point the old blog site to this one and we should be golden, right?

Oh. And I need some people who don't have Mac-based browers to look at it and make sure it's not all catty-wumpus.

I just may be ready to fulfill my New Year's Resolution to post every week by the new year! Yee-haw!

So Far So Good

2008-12-28T16:57:00.000-08:00

I've managed to migrate the style (including the awesome photo of the rocks on the bottom of Mullett Lake that my brother photo-shopped so that it repeated without sharp edges (he rocks!)) to the new host.

Next steps:

1) Can I move all my old posts into this new site's archives?

2) Install a link to get you from the blog back to my main website.

3) Point my main website to this for the blog instead of the old one.

Testing 1-2-3

2008-12-27T18:27:00.000-08:00

Trying to create a more user-friendly blog while maintaining some of the design integrity of my old one without very much programming know-how is kind of a b----.

Why I Love Pikachu

2008-09-19T07:08:00.000-07:00

Gesundheit!

No. It's not a sneeze or a baby game (it rhymes with "Peek-a-boo"). Pikachu is a Pokemon. If you have no idea what a Pokemon is, you probably don't have kids between six and sixteen. Pokemon is a popular cartoon (Japanese animation or "anime") about kids who train little creatures with special powers to compete in what amount to sort-of science fiction cock fights. Sound awful? Well, YEAH, when you put it that way!

But anime has a way of making the most ridiculous nonsense seem reasonable. Even endearing. And Pokemon is chock full of messages about love, loyalty and perseverance.

Anime is no novelty to me. I cut my teeth on G-Force, Voltron and then Robo-tech and my husband on Speed Racer and Star Blazers before me. So I don't question the characters' huge, moist eyes and jagged hair in an array of dayglo colors. I may roll my eyes a bit at the little Pokemon creatures whose entire vocabulary consists of their own name: "Pika…CHU!" "Turtwig!" "Roserade!" "Timmy!"---No, wait. That's South Park.

Can I explain the massive appeal of this essentially silly show? No. But I don't have to. I just LOVE Pikachu.

Why?

Sure, he's adorable. But that's not it.

You see, my son, Gavin, has recently become obsessed with the little rosy-cheeked guy. And while it's disconcerting to ask him a question and receive only "Peekah-peekah!" as an answer, he seems to have learned a few positive things from the lightning-bolt-slinging furball.

Gavin is now in second grade and the spelling tests have begun. During his first practice test at home, my little perfectionist couldn't remember how to spell "this" and the result was a howl of frustrated rage. We were teetering on the brink of a meltdown on par with the effects of firing the Yamamoto's Main Gun. I felt myself begin to panic as I envisioned a whole year of battles over this simple process.

Then inspiration hit me like... well... a lightning bolt.

"Does Pikachu win every battle he's in?" I asked suddenly.

This brought Gavin up short. He eyed me suspiciously, but there was something like hope in his huge, moist eyes.

"No," he conceded.

"Does he give up?" I asked.

"No," he said again.

"When Pikachu loses a battle, Ash just helps him train more so he can do better next time, right?"

If words could only convey the radiance of that boy's smile when he made the connection. It was okay to fail! Pikachu did it and he was still the greatest thing going!

"Peeee-kaaaaaah!" Gavin said joyfully and picked up his pencil again.

The next day, he brought home his first spelling test with twelve out of fifteen right. "Not bad for a beginner," he said, philosophically.

That's probably a line from the show.

Subtlety Thy Name Is God--NOT!

2008-06-22T07:06:00.000-07:00

I recently e-mailed my pastor, lamenting my feelings of directionlessness and how they fly in the face of my strong sense of being called in some way. We enjoyed a candid exchange on faith, ministry and mission, service and purpose in life. I wondered if I shouldn't be attending seminary all the while suspecting that ordained ministry isn't where I'm called. Pastor Rob verbalized my misgivings, lovingly cautioning that seminary isn't necessarily "the answer." Finally, I wrote, "Maybe I just need a reading list."

After hitting "Send" I turned my attention to a new e-mail from my best friend, Susan, who lives a thousand miles away from me in Maryland. It was a forwarded message from her sister-in-law's pastor and it contained--wait for it--a reading list.

On that list was Walking On Water by Madeleine L'Engle, a work about faith and art. The description spoke to me. Still reeling from the "coincidence" of receiving this email, I buzzed out to my local library's web site wondering if the system had a copy and how long it would take to get it if I reserved it today.

There were at least a dozen copies in the Hennepin County Library system and my local library had one. Checked in. Right now.

I noted the Dewey Decimal number and hopped into my car. Upon arrival at the library, I bee-lined for the proper section, found the general area and looked down. The book fairly jumped off the shelf at me. I am dead serious. It was smaller, thicker and more colorful than any of the books around it and it was literally the first one I focused on. For good measure, I perused the rest of the section to see if anything else was screaming to be picked up. Nothing. I was home fifteen minutes after I'd left.

I am halfway through the book. My conviction that creativity is a divine call has been reinforced. My faith in fiction as an acceptable Christian discipline has been restored. My reading list is suddenly longer than I can possibly imagine, yet I am excited to tackle it.

One unexpected side effect of this everyday miracle is a feeling of bereavement. I deeply regret than unlike my mother or my best friend, Susan, I will never have the opportunity to meet and speak with Madeleine L'Engle in the flesh. I recall my casual reaction to her dying as just "one of those things" and now I fervently wish I could write her a letter, send her an e-mail, somehow physically acknowledge this profound connection to her I suddenly feel.

If nothing else, I can write. And likely, she will know it.

My Grandmother's Hair

2008-06-04T07:08:00.000-07:00

Somewhere I have a photocopy of an old newspaper clipping announcing my Grandmother Fergus's graduating high school at the top of her class. Though her photo looks more like a drawing in my nth-generation copy, it's clear enough to notice her striking resemblance to me. Or mine to her, I should say.

There was a time I was not so pleased about this. My grandmother had a strong German nose which, more obviously than any other feature, I inherited. The memory of walking into my bathroom at eight months pregnant, in a cotton night-gown with my hair in a bun and being startled to see my grandmother looking back at me from the mirror will always stay with me.

Which brings me to her hair--that bun I mentioned. My grandmother never had one of those old-lady short perms that halo the head in order to hide the thinning. She wore her hair in a bun at the base of her head all day every day. Only rarely did I see it any other way, and then it was down. At bedtime, once in a great while, she would emerge from her bedroom at the cabin in her nightgown and when she would turn to go back in, I would see her long hair trailing down her back. It was fine and gray, and it was wavy from having been bound up all day. It must have reached close to her waist. I remember thinking how cool it was that my grandma had long hair. Not even my mom had long hair.

At the moment, my hair is longer than it has ever been. It has reached the point where I can no longer braid it without bringing it forward over my shoulder. It is so long that when I roll over at night, it gets caught under my shoulders and needs to be pulled free. Sometimes I worry about snagging it in the weight equipment at the gym. And I adore it! Because just recently I realized that I have my grandmother's hair. When I pull it into a bun it has to be wound at least four times and with each twist I think of my grandmother and smile.

Someone once told me that I was lucky I was still young enough to wear my hair long, because at her age (40-ish) it just wasn't acceptable to do that anymore. Hah! My grandmother was 84 when she died, and I assume her hair was as long as ever. How cool is that?

Although there are still moments I think it might be nice to have a nose job, by-and-large I have "grown into" my face and my grandmother's nose suits me. Not the inheritance I might have chosen, perhaps. Her hair, on the other hand, I adore, just as I did in those childhood moments at the cabin. I am grateful to have it and I only hope I can do it justice.

And anyway, wearing my hair long makes my nose look smaller.

Box of Bees

2008-05-21T07:05:00.000-07:00

I dreamt I was holding a box, perhaps the size of a child's shoebox. I don't remember receiving the box, but I knew I'd gotten it from my father. It contained bees. A new hive, partially built, housing mostly larval bees and a few young adults. The hive had grown considerably since it had first been found--it had then been maybe the size of a finger. But it was growing rapidly. I could expect the hive to double in size in the very near future and, it would seem, nearly all at once. If I didn't find a larger box soon, the hive would literally explode sending a swarm of angry bees on the rampage.

I held the box deliberately between my hands as I and a couple others walked through a quiet wood. Although I can still remember the beauty of the forest, in the dream I was too distracted by the box to enjoy the reverent hush. The box was my responsibility: whatever happened to the hive was up to me. My burden made me very nervous, for I am none too fond of bees. As a biologist, I can certainly appreciate them, but as a person who has been stung more than once, I am wary and mistrustful of them. When it came down to it, what I wanted most was to be rid of the box completely.

But there were limitations to what I was allowed to do with the box of bees. I wondered why I couldn't just throw the whole thing in the lake and drown them and be done with it. But one of my companions told me that, no, the water wouldn't kill the bees and my action would just make things worse. I thought of a few other possibilities for destroying the box but these were similarly shot down. No one said anything to imply that I had any moral obligation to the hive or the bees, to guilt me into thinking my desire to get rid of it was necessarily wrong. It just wasn't practical. It couldn't be done that way.

I remember feeling frustrated at this point in the dream, wondering why the hive hadn't been destroyed when it was tiny and harmless. I didn't get a definitive answer from anyone, just the feeling that, once again, that hadn't been an option.

One corner of the box was starting to wear and break along the edge of the lid and I became quite concerned. I found myself with Dan in a house, the two of us observing the box as it sat on the breakfast bar. We could see through the lid, the little fuzzy bees gently undulating and humming as they drank nectar and grew. It was almost sweet, this little nursery I had charge of. But that tear in the lid was worrisome.

Then it struck me. I could tape the rip with clear packing tape. And if I could do that, I could tape the entire box completely shut. Seal it with layers and layers of packing tape. That would prevent the box from exploding when the hive suddenly grew and effectively suffocate the bees.

As I started wrapping the box, a few of the young bees escaped. Eiledon came up the stairs at that moment and smiled to see the little bees flying around. I, on the other hand, felt sick with anxiety. While Ledon saw cute, bumbly baby bees, out of the corner of my eye I could only see them as sinister wasps with long, skinny bodies and trailing hind parts hanging threateningly--and far too close.

We managed to return them to the box. Eiledon accidentally killed one with her fingers but only giggled and said, "Oh, they're squishy!" I continued to wrap the box as tightly as I could, hoping if I just covered every speck of surface, my problem would be solved. Yet I was aware of someone telling me, "No, you can't do that. At the very least, you need to allow a small hole for thus-and-so" (I can't recall the specifics) and I kept thinking, Why does it matter if, ultimately, I was supposed to destroy the box, or at least dispose of it? Wasn't I?

I awoke still with that awful, heavy feeling of unease. I was grateful the dream was over and I no longer had to try to figure out what to do with this silly box with which no one seemed to be able to help me. I couldn't destroy it, though I felt I was supposed to be rid of it. I couldn't give it away but I had no idea why I had it in the first place. When I tried solving what I thought was the problem, it created more problems. And through it all was this sort of dull dread that at some point soon, if I didn't figure all of this out, the box would explode.

What could it mean? I wondered, half awake. What on earth WAS that box of bees?

"Eiledon," said a voice. Not an actual voice, but the revelation was so clear and sudden it seemed spoken aloud.

The previous night she had been particularly difficult. I could grasp the significance of that fear I have of being stung. I want to do what's right, to be a good parent, but I'm tired of being the target of her anger. Much as I try to blow it off, those cute, fuzzy bees lurk, wasp-like just out of clear view, sinister and frightening. I find my worst character defects rising in response: anger, self-righteousness, the need to WIN the power struggle. I find myself seriously disliking my own child—or worse, wanting her to THINK I dislike her in an attempt to shock her into common courtesy or, at least, obedience.

It doesn't work, of course. Backfires every time and then I've my own guilt and shame in addition to the heaps I've just ladled onto her with my icy stare and dark scowl.

I don't know what to do with this box of bees. As a parent, I have to grapple with the implications of realizing that I wish she were other than she is. That she comes to me in my dream as something dangerous and unpredictable. There must be some instruction in the dream. Is it enough that I identify my own part in creating the problem? It's a start, I suppose. Maybe the box is my own heart and it needs to have room for the WHOLE Eiledon, not just the cute and fuzzy parts.

Bees are wild and beautiful, they fly, they sing, the make the world more verdant and bountiful. Eiledon is all these things. And ready or not, she is growing up. I need to find her a bigger box, and soon.

Action

2008-04-14T06:57:00.000-07:00

My grandfather lent me a biography of Dietrich Bonhoeffer quite some time ago. I still had it on my shelf, unread, when he died in January of 2007. I'm not sure what possessed me to pick it up and read it this past week, but on the heels of the Children's Summit, it was a potent reaffirmation of the need to DO something in this life.

Bonhoeffer was given a teaching position in New York during WWII, but after only a month in the United States, he felt he had to return to Germany because he deeply believed you could not be a person of faith and stand idly (and safely) by while others suffered gross violations of human rights. He later wrote, "...our being Christians today must consist of two things: in praying and in doing what is right among men."( 1 ) He also wrote in verse:

Action
Daring to do what is right, not what fancy may tell you,
valiantly grasping occasions, not cravenly doubting--
freedom comes only through deeds, not through thoughts taking wing. ( 2 )

Is it enough to be a writer? I wonder.

As I struggled with the implications of Bonhoeffer's ideas and my own feelings of being called to service, I had an assignment in my 12-step program to discuss the following quote from the book Alcoholics Anonymous: "We are sure God wants us to be happy, joyous and free. We cannot subscribe to the belief that this life is a vale of tears, thought it once was just that for many of us." ( 3 )

This quote refers, of course, to the self-manufacture of misery in which I, as an addict, used to wallow. But I grappled mightily with the juxtaposition of this idea that God wants us (not just ME, but everyone!) to be "happy, joyous and free," the horrifying realities of the Holocaust, and the current epidemic of poverty, oppression, war and genocide.

Do I give up family, safety and comfort and wade into the fray at the cost of my own life, as Bonhoeffer did?

At the moment, I will return to Bonhoeffer's words: "...our being Christians today must consist of two things: in praying and in doing what is right among men." I will pray and in so doing, I will ask that I might be shown how to do what is right and for the courage to do it.

--------------

Citations

( 1 ) Wind, Renate, Dietrich Bonhoeffer: A Spoke In The Wheel, Eerdmans, p. 168

( 2 ) ibid, p. 169

(3) Alcoholics Anonymous, p. 133

Overwhelm

2008-04-07T07:01:00.000-07:00

I want to go to Seminary. No, wait. I want to go to the U of M and study human development and spirituality. Scratch that. I want to create, write and edit an ecumenical magazine for grade-school kids. Actually, I want to start an ecumenical online community called "FaithBook" that will focus on acceptance, justice and mission and stay away from the hate- and fear-mongering of so many so-called "faith-based" media resources. Whoa--too much? I know: I want to start a kids drama group at church that acts out Gospel lessons during worship. Or an intergenerational worship-experience program. Or a kids' mission partnership with an inner city church Sunday School. Or...

I left the April 4th and 5th Children's Summit at Luther Seminary absolutely overwhelmed with joy, hope, ideas, excitement, purpose and motivation. I actually had to leave Saturday's keynote address ten minutes early lest my heart and head explode: I simply could not take in any more.

Now it's Monday. My kids are back in school after an eventful Spring Break. The house is quiet. I have time to think.

I am still overwhelmed.

During the "Public Summit on the state of children and how Christian communities can respond," I jotted this in my journal: There is so much hope in this room it is overwhelming. I am filled and moved almost to tears. How do I maintain that hope when faced with the day-to-day realities we are all confronted with?

Before I could even end my last sentence with a dangling preposition, one of the Summit speakers, Dr. Lisa Kimball, of the University of Minnesota, opened her mouth and spoke my heart, rhetorically asking the entire assembly this same question, albeit with more eloquence. Even though I know God works that way, it still brought me up short to have my unspoken question voiced by another.

I thought I was a novelist.

Yet all I can hear are the words to a piece I once sang in choir:

Listen!
Listen, God is calling;
Through the Word inviting;
Offering forgiveness, comfort and joy!

All I can see are images of the children at Kinyago Dandora school in Kenya whose needs were supported by our Vacation Bible School mission project a couple years ago.

All I can feel is this crushing urgency in my gut at direct odds with a sense of directionless paralysis.

I am a mom. A writer. A Lutheran. A singer and actor, a public speaker, a teacher, a church member, a volunteer, a dreamer of dreams and a seer of visions, a planner and organizer... What is it that God wants me to do? Because in the end, a much as I'd like to, I cannot possibly do it all. I can't single-handedly change the state of children in the world. All I can do is serve where I can.

And where, O God, might that be?