tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9543690049142942722024-02-19T18:31:31.663-05:00Kim KusliAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06231818670835653986noreply@blogger.comBlogger107125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-954369004914294272.post-8883543405984206022015-04-13T10:34:00.002-04:002015-07-17T02:24:19.712-04:00$10 InvestmentI refused to buy a new bike, but my in-between child was hitting his knees on his handlebars so not buying a bike wasn’t an option either. And so, for that reason, I left the boys with their griping father on a typical, miserable, gray Pittsburgh Saturday and followed New Texas Road into the heart of Plum to check on a black and green used mountain bike a friend had seen for sale by the side of the road. <br />
<br />
Praying that no one would rear end me as I slowed down on that 30MPH road that everyone likes to take at near 60, I rolled into the inclined driveway flanked by trees and saw that my friend was right. It was a perfect bike, and it would have been perfect for my son. If he were 6’2”.<br />
<br />
I’m not sure if I was more disheartened by the prospect of not bringing home a bike for my boy or of pulling out of that hidden driveway back onto New Texas. But, moments later, having survived the venture back onto the road, I felt confident that miracles could happen. So I kept my eyes peeled as I twisted my way back down New Texas, past the one lane bridge, the enormous cemetery by the creek, and the horses quietly munching the lawn in front of the house near the corner of New Texas and Renton Road. And then I saw it. About a 100 yards down the road, just a little past an ancient red tractor sitting off on the other side of the road was a sign that said, “YARD SALE & LEMONADE,” and behind the sign two ladies sat on lawn chairs, two early-adolescent girls did cartwheels, and one tween with a hopeful smile held a pitcher of lemonade in one hand and a stack of paper cups in the other. And in the middle of it all sat two used bikes.<br />
<br />
I pulled off beside the tractor and made my way across the street. They wanted ten dollars for the bike and a dollar for lemonade. Remembering the many summer days I sat at the end of my own driveway with a pitcher of lemonade and a stack of paper cups, I immediately forked over the dollar and sipped the lemonade as I sized up the bike. It would be just a little on the big side for my oldest son, BJ, but he would probably grow into it quickly and could manage it now if I put the seat down. I smiled to myself. It was perfect. Except for that fact that it was purple. And was a girl’s bike.<br />
<br />
The fact that it was a girl’s bike actually brought back memories of the year I was to turn seven, like my son, when my grandfather took me out to buy me a used bike—my first two-wheeler (what can I say? I’m not a natural biker). I loved that bike, as long as it had the training wheels. I never did catch on to riding without training wheels, no matter how hard my family tried to teach me. But the point of my memory was not about training wheels but about the fact that the bike had been used and a boy’s bike, and I had learned the important lesson that things don’t have to be perfect in order to be fun and useful.<br />
<br />
So I handed the older of the two ladies a twenty and the younger one handed me back ten dollars in change. I walked the bike back across the street and, with only a few prayers and some minor manipulation like removing a car seat, putting down half of the back seat, and forcing the front wheel through the new hole, managed to coerce the bike into my trunk and shut the lid.<br />
<br />
BJ had different ideas about that bike, but after some tears, a discussion with Grandpa, and a trip to Stanford’s Hardware Store for a can of red spray paint, he had been persuaded that the bike could be made palatable enough for his use.<br />
<br />
In the end, we never did paint that bike because the instant we returned to the house and the neighbors saw us wheel it from the back patio to the front parking lot, we were surrounded by cries of “Is that yours?”, “What can it do?”, and “Can I try it?”<br />
<br />
Every boy in the parking lot—about six of them that day—wanted to—and did—ride that bike. And not a single one mentioned that it was a girl’s bike, and one even said, “Cool! This purple makes it look like Buzz’s space bike.” It took me a moment before I realized that, yes, indeed, Buzz Lightyear from Disney Pixar’s Toy Story, which comes out with a new movie every ten years—just often enough to keep all of the toys marketable—is predominantly purple and white, just like the bike. If I added neon green accents and lasers, it would be Star Command compliant.<br />
<br />
The kids had a wonderful time, and not just that day but all summer. The bike was part of a larger lesson in sharing that I had been pushing on the boys since we came back from Korea. Although I had always harped on not touching other people’s stuff without their permission because it’s a nearly unforgivable sin in the US, I had equally pushed sharing your stuff with others because not sharing is an equally unforgivable sin in Korea and, and the key to raising kids who are culturally fluent in more than one context is to find a way for them to negotiate those conflicting and equally rigidly-held “morals” from the get go.<br />
<br />
And so they learned to share with those who don’t share and to not hold it against others when they didn’t share. My kids understood that they lived in two worlds and couldn’t expect anyone else to live in those same liminal spaces. But the amazing part of the whole thing, and maybe by virtue of some other kids whose families were two-culture families making their kids third-culture kids, was that the whole community of our little parking lot seemed to follow those rules that summer and for several summers after that. If the bikes were left out front, most of the kids were willing to share them. After some lessons on breaking communal property early on, they treated all of the bikes with care and respect because, in the end, if they ruined the bikes, they ruined their own ability to ride them.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXcYqj8p4l0Fm4bvSUGlsYJxkABNWXpgAV9NpLXFWnGlKddIwrJFCxbc3OfOTBjhVGqmbPLzR50V1qGCrCEx6oP2Q42BcNg4RyvIViAF_-qQF8wmbaRxURYQeOh9uhJr0_XG0SnKbuLiE/s1600/DSCN3819.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXcYqj8p4l0Fm4bvSUGlsYJxkABNWXpgAV9NpLXFWnGlKddIwrJFCxbc3OfOTBjhVGqmbPLzR50V1qGCrCEx6oP2Q42BcNg4RyvIViAF_-qQF8wmbaRxURYQeOh9uhJr0_XG0SnKbuLiE/s1600/DSCN3819.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
And so that bike was passed from family to family around the lot as one kid outgrew the bike or had it replaced by a gift from family or friends. Over the next four years, that bike was cared for by several parents and grandparents. Several dads got out their wrenches on weekends and adjusted the seat over and over again so that it was sturdy enough not even the heaviest kid could “sink” it. One grandpa bought a new inner tube for the back tire, which was perpetually going flat. It soon became apparent that the rim of the tire was causing the slow leak and no matter what you did with it, it would always go flat. So I sat on the porch with the pump, ready to fill and refill the tire during the duration of play.<br />
<br />
Then the other night, I went to take out the garbage and saw that bike sitting next to the dumpster. I sighed as I gave my final farewell to that dear old friend. Most of the kids that used that bike have moved on and/or outgrown it. The seat is completely worn and ragged across the back. It no longer stays elevated no matter how much you tighten the bolt. One handle is missing half its grip, and the back tire is permanently flat. But the lessons and love it stood for were all learned, and now those slightly older kids are learning new lessons—caring for those younger than you, setting a good example for little ones, listening to BOTH sides of the story before you pronounce judgment, and being fair when you don’t feel like it.<br />
<br />
I don’t think I’ve ever invested ten dollars better.<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06231818670835653986noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-954369004914294272.post-24876772083704210622014-10-28T12:04:00.002-04:002014-10-28T12:04:39.436-04:00Wage Peace: Part 2 Listening and Humor<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve made about a dozen transglobal trips. They never work the way I expect them to;
something always goes wrong. I’ve been
stranded in airports, rerouted through cities I never expected, and once kept
from boarding because of a visa issue until they actually had to hold the plane
for me while my now-husband and I raced across the international terminal. And this is all before children.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That said, the pre-children trips were less entertaining
than the post children trips. Of course,
like all early airplane trips with children, there was the requisite
screaming. There was pacing. There was pacing and screaming and exemptions made so that we could pace when the fasten seatbelt signs were on because ever the attendants couldn't handle any more screaming. In the years before the in-seat computer
screens, there were the years when the child in the bassinet stood up and made
shadow pictures on the movie screen. Fun
times. Like the trip sans husband when
the little one was potty training. Not
only did the little one have the exquisite sense of timing that sent many an
attendant scurrying backward with the drink and snack cart, but he had the
urgency that made the scurry <i>fast</i>. And once, ensconced in the bathroom with a
toilet seat far too tall for a two-year-old’s aim, I was stuck holding the
child horizontal, like an airplane, singing the theme song to Superman while
the four-year-old, afraid to be left alone, opened and shut the bathroom door
behind us joyfully screaming out the Korean word for peek-a-boo. One of the attendants chuckled and told me she
wished she had a video camera.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And she wasn’t the only one laughing. We had quite an audience. By this time, I was quite familiar with the
types of people who made up these trips:
the post-business baby boomers who work/travel/volunteer around the
globe, the college students returning home, the immigrant/emigrant families
(which one do you choose when you are between borders?) coming and going, and
the soldiers. As the children have grown
older, I have had them thank those soldiers—men who looked so mature to me when I began making this trip fifteen years ago and now look like young boys—for their
service. My big one dutifully bows (the
Korean is strong in him) and solemnly repeats, “Thank you for your
service. <i>Komapsumnida.</i>” He always adds the Korean for thank you as if
he’s not sure what language anyone speaks in this liminal space. The little one, on the other hand, considers
every direct order to be a challenge (he takes after his mother). On
the latest flight, he considered my directive, turned his sweet little face
toward the soldier in the aisle seat, and wailed, “Meee-oooow!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The soldier, who had nodded at my big one, broke into a grin
and began to sing, quite loudly, “Meow, meow, meow, meow,” to the tune of the
old Meow Mix commercial. Delighted, both
boys danced along to the tune before we were propelled forward by other
passengers eager to reach their seats. I
don’t know that the soldier will remember the big one’s thanks. I’m certain he will remember the meow. And that’s no comment on the weight of his
service. That flight was connecting out
of Seoul. I’ve seen enough soldiers
coming out of the DMZ to know that he and his colleagues in that row of seats
were heading out of the no-smile-zone.
But there are days we need to smile.
We need to laugh. No matter what
we are coming from or where we are going.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And it’s not for the rest of the world to judge how or why
we laugh in those moments that we are just clinging to life day by day. That laughter is not about making light of a
situation to somehow negate its severity.
It’s making light of a situation in the same way that I fumble with a
match when the power goes out.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s the hair jokes in the face of chemotherapy, the crazy
jokes as you pull into the psychiatrist’s parking garage, the integrity jokes
when your BFF has stabbed you in the back, the diaper jokes when the baby is sick, the
true-love jokes when the love of your life is gone. In bad taste?
Maybe. But by and large, they are
jokes made when nothing more can be said.
They are told only in front of trusted friends. They are an attempt to continue to walk when
it feels as if your feet have been cut off.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because in those moments, you have a choice to make. You can see the world as an enemy who stands
against you—and sometimes they really do stand against you. Sometimes, that classmate really meant that
slam. There are days that the
administrator wants your child to fail so that she can look back at you and
say, “I told you so.” The catty in-law
may really be waiting for you to fail so that she can bring it up after the
blessing at the next family dinner. Your confidant may mean to betray you, and that <i>boy </i>may not be your <i>friend </i>at all<i>.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You can choose to stand against them, and, in seeing all
that they do, infer that everyone likewise is untrustworthy. And while that may be a wise course, let me
assure you that it leads to strife, arguments, and eventually violence.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Or you can see those who have hurt you as they are and hold out the hope that,
even though you may avoid those people and make no bones to others that they cannot be
trusted, not everyone is as untrustworthy.
You can choose to see that, even if the glass is nowhere near half full, even a splash of water at the bottom relieves a dry throat better than
nothing at all. You can choose to reach
out. You can choose to laugh.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A dear friend of mine has faced divorce, placement for one child, multiple interactions with CYS over her special needs kids, and the possible
prospect of no job, bankruptcy, and losing her home. Every weekday, she texts a bunch of her friends a joke so
bad you groan. When there was nothing in
her life to laugh at, sure as hell, she still laughed. And now that her life is looking up, she doesn't begrudge any of us our emotional crutches.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So by God, smile and don’t judge.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
And, so, as we were leaving one home once again and heading
for another home, as my child said goodbye to one family and feared the school
waiting for him on the other side of the ocean, I empathized with him when he
got excited over a possible water landing and the chance to use the inflatable
slides on either side of the plane. How
could I reprimand him too harshly when he cried out at each bump of turbulence,
“Ohhh, yeah! We are goin’
DO-O-OWN!”? I couldn’t. For a few minutes, I thought that I could stem
this train of thought as I explained that if the plane really did have a problem
at cruising altitude over the Pacific, there was no way that we would survive
the impact. “You mean we’d break into
little pieces when we hit the water?” the little one hollered. I glanced at the white-knuckled passengers
around me and noticed that their faces blanch even more. Maybe I wasn't making things better. Maybe the better approach is just to chuckle and
be grateful that the alcohol is free on transcontinental flights.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06231818670835653986noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-954369004914294272.post-17899792797131311732014-09-26T02:18:00.000-04:002014-09-26T02:18:19.386-04:00Wage Peace: Part 1The other morning, I was tired, and not just because I woke up to fight the renegade toilet at 4 something AM (because, honestly, although I'm good at remembering numbers, I'm not good at reading the display of the clock at that hour). <br />
<br />
So I did what any woman does after being awakened too early. I booted up the computer and checked Facebook. And, of course, because it was the middle of the night here, the active statuses on my feed were from my friends in Korea, where it was the middle of the day.<br />
<br />
Now, many of my friends in Korea are ex-pats, and when I first arrived there fifteen years ago, there were two types of ex-pats: teachers, the group to which I belong, and military personnel, a group to which I certainly do not.<br />
<br />
I had always seen my job as part of a peace-keeping process. Teaching the lingua franca of the world, in my mind, helps to pave the way for understanding, and where there is more understanding, I have assumed, there is more peace. I'd thought of soldiers as peace-<i>keeping</i>, but I'd never much thought of soldiers as dedicated to the active peace-<i>making</i> process, not when I saw Korean soldiers marching during reserve training at the local Korean universities, not when I heard their guns fire during monthly refreshers, not when the military aircraft, both US and Korean, practiced scrambling in the skies above the mountains and sweet potato patches, and not when I glimpsed the American soldiers, armed and strident, just beyond the fences of the local bases.<br />
<br />
But on this other morning, when I was too tired to talk, too tired to <i>comment</i>, I chose to listen. Watch. Observe. Appreciate.<br />
<br />
And I noticed so many of those military men posting pictures of their children: little boy scouts, juniors sitting atop shoulders, little girls with sparkling eyes at father-daughter dances, young ladies heading off to college. <br />
<br />
Maybe there is more caring going on than I had previously thought.<br />
<br />
Now caring is something most people tell you has gone downhill and by the wayside, but it hasn’t. It can be found if you just take the time to look. It's there in the hushed conversation between two mothers agonizing over problems with their children. Love overflows every time my three-year-old neighbor runs out to bid his father farewell, crying, “I love you, Daddy! Don’t walk out into traffic!” I see it when the sari-clad grandmother on the corner walks toward Rt. 286 hand-in-hand with her teenage denim-wearing granddaughter, something that always makes me nostalgic for my own grandmother.<br />
<br />
The caring overflows even at the mundane places like the grocery store. As I climbed into my car in the nearest plaza last month, I looked over toward Wendy's, initially wondering if I should take a turn through their drive thru and bring my kids surprise Frosties. But two men riveted my attention instead. An enormous serviceman, clad in his camouflage cap, olive drab tank, and camouflage cargo pants, stood tall and confident beside a small, blue sedan with a US Marines decal adhered to the rear window. He thunked two Wendy's bags down on the roof of his car, opened the passenger door, and then with extreme gentleness, cupped the elbow of his elderly grandfather, now frail but with every shadow of having been as strapping as his grandson now was, and eased him into the car.<br />
<br />
The back of my nose stung, and I was glad I'd given up wearing mascara as I felt the tears coming. More and more, the grocery store is becoming a dangerous place for me, and I cry there with great regularity because there is nothing more incredibly moving to me than simple acts of great love. Apparently, Shop 'n' Save is a breeding ground for such activity, and when faced with it, I often feel like I am eavesdropping on a private moment of someone else's life. I have watched a grandmother indulge her preschool grandson again and again, smiling as he scales the cart like a Discovery Channel primate. He chatters that whole time, but she never screams, "BECAUSE," no matter how many times he has asked, "Why?" I have smiled as I saw a husband tenderly steer his very pregnant wife throughout the store, possessively protecting her as if some rogue can of spaghetti sauce might be out to do harm and all the while sneaking glances of awe at her and her belly. I tried not to stare at the adult daughter carefully assisting her aging mother through the produce section. Her careful smile never wavered even after her mother squeezed all but three peaches and then decided not to buy any of them.<br />
<br />
Driving home, I was blessed enough to run into my other neighbors, an older Jordanian couple who speak little English but abound in love. The wife was crying about something when her husband extracted a tissue from his pocket, gently wiped her cheeks, and then tucked her small frame under his arm and tenderly led her home. As they turned toward their door, they passed an older gentleman walking his grandson's dog while his grandson is stationed in Germany, and once again, I think about war and peace.<br />
<br />
Too often we talk about war as the price of peace without realizing that peace has to be taken as much as it is protected. In other words, peace is not merely developed by showing our ferocity against our "enemies." It is equally established by those who insist on demonstrating loving gentleness toward our neighbors: choosing kindness toward strangers, taking care of the weak, and loving our families. <br />
<br />
These are the rights our soldiers die for. This is the home they mean to protect and the way of life they hope to establish.<br />
<br />
And perhaps the first step to peace is recognizing that and practicing it.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06231818670835653986noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-954369004914294272.post-74688926244432302472013-06-02T22:45:00.002-04:002013-06-02T22:45:21.365-04:00Ten Painful Prayer Lessons"Never pray for patience," my mother once told me, "or God will give you something so terrible that you will need it."<br />
<br />
Was this the divine version of "If you want to cry, I'll give you something to cry about?"<br />
<br />
No, it was more like "No pain, no gain" or "It hurts to be beautiful." <br />
<br />
And here's how it hurt (for me, at least). <br />
<br />
<ol>
<li>When I pray for God to do mighty deeds, He lets me fail a few times so that I know He did it, not me.</li>
<li>When I pray to be a peacemaker, God throws me between warring factions. After all, that's where peacemakers are needed.</li>
<li>When I pray for God to get the glory, He lets the world see my mess. That way they understand it wasn't me that made something of myself.</li>
<li>When I pray for faith, God disables all avenues of assistance so that I have to trust only Him. Only then do I see deliverance.</li>
<li>When I pray for God to change my neighbor's heart, He begins working on mine.</li>
<li>When I pray about the things that made me angry, God replaces that anger with sorrow and a desire to help and love those I once despised.</li>
<li>When I pray to be able to forgive, God gives me something to forgive. Forgiving is not fun. Sometimes I need to do it again and again. And again. But with each time comes more love. And more love. And more love. And then the addendum...</li>
<li>When I pray for greater love, God sends me more difficult people. </li>
<li>When I pray for more gratitude, God sends me things that are more difficult to be grateful for. And I learned that the garment of praise really does lift the spirit of heaviness.</li>
<li>When I pray more, I care less and less about the difficult path ahead and more and more about holding the Guide's gentle hand.</li>
</ol>
That said, my oldest is praying for a dragon, so the painful lessons might not be over yet! <br />
<ol>
</ol>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06231818670835653986noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-954369004914294272.post-45074806559563947382013-05-28T10:18:00.001-04:002013-05-28T10:18:55.478-04:00Citizens<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span class="text Josh-5-13"><sup class="versenum">13 </sup>Now when Joshua was near Jericho, he looked up and saw a man standing in front of him with a drawn sword in his hand. Joshua went up to him and asked, “Are you for us or for our enemies?”</span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span class="text Josh-5-14" id="en-NIV-5949"><sup class="versenum">14 </sup>“Neither,” he replied, “but as commander of the army of the <span class="small-caps" style="font-variant: small-caps;">Lord</span> I have now come.” ...</span></blockquote>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Joshua 5:13-14 (courtesy of <a href="http://www.biblegateway.com/">www.biblegateway.com</a>) </blockquote>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I have purposely waited until Memorial Day was over because our soldiers--and all soldiers--who fight to protect others and their rights deserve our unqualified respect and honor. I do not want anything I say here to be taken out of context. But I have something very important to say to American Christians, particularly ones whose churches make large nationalistic celebrations and preach charged, politicized sermons.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
We are citizens of Heaven <i>first.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Our leader is the Lord of Heaven and not any man.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Therefore, do not worry about what man may do or what the government may say.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Seek the Kingdom of God first. </i> </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The question is <i>not</i> whether God is on our side. It is whether we are on His.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Let us not worship at the altar of national pride or national fear. Let us come before our Maker in reverence, awe, and confidence that He is able to do immeasurably more than all we can ask or imagine. Let us know that He so loved the world (John 3:16), that He cares for it (Matthew 10:29), and that He does not discriminate (Galatians 3:28). And let us begin to act that way. </div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06231818670835653986noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-954369004914294272.post-36010038613518019122013-05-18T23:13:00.001-04:002013-05-18T23:13:12.560-04:00God Loves Baby GatesOn Wednesday, I had to apologize to a parent.<br />
<br />
"I am so sorry. I thought your son was going to hurt someone, and I yelled to stop him. I made him cry. I'm so sorry."<br />
<br />
I won't forget her uncharacteristic response.<br />
<br />
"Oh, noooo," she said, drawing herself to her full height, her eyes flashing as she peered past me toward her son. "I know my child. Thank you for not letting him get away with it."<br />
<br />
And that stuck with me. I, too, have thanked teachers for keeping my children to a standard. My kids have issues. They are <i>not</i> bad kids. They <i>are</i> hyperactive, creative, and occasionally strangely inflexible due to sensory issues which <i>literally</i> make their brains incapable of rationalizing until the problem stimulus is adjusted.<br />
<br />
And the whole thing reminded me of Psalm 139, so often quoted in reference to abortion. But that's not the part of the Psalm that most sticks with me. The part the most resonates to the core of my being is this:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span class="text Ps-139-1"><sup class="versenum">1 </sup>You have searched me, <span class="small-caps" style="font-variant: small-caps;">Lord</span>,</span><br />
<span class="indent-1"><span class="indent-1-breaks"> </span><span class="text Ps-139-1">and you know me.</span></span><br />
<span class="text Ps-139-2" id="en-NIV-16242"><sup class="versenum">2 </sup>You know when I sit and when I rise;</span><br />
<span class="indent-1"><span class="indent-1-breaks"> </span><span class="text Ps-139-2">you perceive my thoughts from afar.</span></span><br />
<span class="text Ps-139-3" id="en-NIV-16243"><sup class="versenum">3 </sup>You discern my going out and my lying down;</span><br />
<span class="indent-1"><span class="indent-1-breaks"> </span><span class="text Ps-139-3">you are familiar with all my ways.</span></span><br />
<span class="text Ps-139-4" id="en-NIV-16244"><sup class="versenum">4 </sup>Before a word is on my tongue</span><br />
<span class="indent-1"><span class="indent-1-breaks"> </span><span class="text Ps-139-4">you, <span class="small-caps" style="font-variant: small-caps;">Lord</span>, know it completely.</span></span><br />
<span class="text Ps-139-5" id="en-NIV-16245"><sup class="versenum">5 </sup>You hem me in behind and before,</span><br />
<span class="indent-1"><span class="indent-1-breaks"> </span><span class="text Ps-139-5">and you lay your hand upon me.</span></span></blockquote>
Now, mothers don't have divine omniscience, but we certainly search our children, and it does indeed begin pre-birth. What was it I ate that kept that child up (and kicking) all night? Didn't I know that everyday at 2:30 I would need to pat my eldest's little butt that was protruding forward in the gap under my sternum between my ribs? After about ten minutes of patting, he would settle down and presumably fall asleep. The whole pattern was destined to repeat once he entered the world, and I had already discovered that the butt pat was the key. Eight years later, we have an exercise ball where he can bounce (on the butt of course) and calm himself down (one of the sensory issues I mentioned above, in fact). I <i>did</i> know him. I <i>searched</i> him to know him (although I wasn't originally seeking to discern his patterns out of love--it was more to alleviate pain).<br />
<br />
And what about that whole sit and stand and perceive thoughts from afar? Almost every mother can tell you what her child will be doing in a certain situation. Take last fall when the men were repairing a roof in the neighborhood. My little one asked, "How did they get up there?"<br />
<br />
"I think they climbed the ladder on the other side of the building," I answered.<br />
<br />
The little one began to sprint around the house.<br />
<br />
"Don't think of climbing that ladder!" I yelled.<br />
<br />
My friend, standing beside me, began, "He wouldn't...."<br />
<br />
"Awww, Mom!" the little one shouted, throwing his backpack on the ground.<br />
<br />
"Oh, yes, he would," I said.<br />
<br />
And I knew he would because we mothers know these things. We know when they have used toothpaste and when they have brushed with only water solely by the number of seconds the water has run. We are, indeed, familiar with all of our children's ways, which brings me to the most profound part of that passage:<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span class="text Ps-139-5" id="en-NIV-16245">You hem me in behind and before.</span><br />
<span class="indent-1"><span class="indent-1-breaks"></span></span></blockquote>
Was I the only one scrambling to keep children from scaling balconies, climbing out windows, descending into creeks, and generally tempting death multiple times an hour? Do you know how this line, this idea that the Creator of the Universe does the same for us, calms me? And do you know how it turns the whole abortion argument, the whole consequences argument, the whole they-are-condemned-to-hell argument on its head for me? All of those things may be true, but the Lord of Creation created the mother contemplating abortion, the sinner, and the unrepentant just as surely as He created the Psalmist. In fact, I really believe that God allows us to read the Psalmist's words:<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span class="text Ps-139-19" id="en-NIV-16259"><sup class="versenum">19 </sup>If only you, God, would slay the wicked!</span><br /><span class="indent-1"><span class="indent-1-breaks"> </span><span class="text Ps-139-19">Away from me, you who are bloodthirsty!</span></span></blockquote>
specifically because those are <i>not</i> the thoughts of God. And how would I know this? Well, does it sound like the God who told Abraham to wait more than 400 years for the promised land because "<span class="text Gen-15-16" id="en-NIV-377">the sin of the Amorites has not yet reached its full measure" (Genesis 15:16)? Or the God who said, "</span><span class="text Jonah-4-11" id="en-NIV-22580">And should I not have concern for the great city of Nineveh,
in which there are more than a hundred and twenty thousand people who
cannot tell their right hand from their left—and also many animals” (Jonah 4:11)? Or the God who said, "</span><span class="text Deut-23-7" id="en-NIV-5508">Do not despise an Edomite, for the Edomites are related to you. Do not despise an Egyptian, because you resided as foreigners in their country" (Deuteronomy 23:7)?</span><i> </i>Or more importantly, the God who sent His son to <i>die </i>for our <i>sins?</i> <i>We</i> are the ones who jump to anger and revenge, not God. He is slow to anger. He lets us read the Psalmist's cry for revenge precisely so that when we come to the Psalmist's plea:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span class="text Ps-139-23" id="en-NIV-16263"><sup class="versenum">23 </sup>Search me, God, and know my heart;</span><br /><span class="indent-1"><span class="indent-1-breaks"> </span><span class="text Ps-139-23">test me and know my anxious thoughts.</span></span><br /><span class="text Ps-139-24" id="en-NIV-16264"><sup class="versenum">24 </sup>See if there is any offensive way in me,</span><br /><span class="indent-1"><span class="indent-1-breaks"> </span><span class="text Ps-139-24">and lead me in the way everlasting.</span></span></blockquote>
we understand that even though the Psalmist <i>does</i> love God, there <i>is</i> an offensive way in him, just as we <i>all </i>have offensive ways, offensive ways that are just as clear to God as the Psalmist's are here. And He "hems" us in. This chapter has completely changed how I see myself and those around me. I don't pray for judgment, and I don't worry as much about the unborn babies. I pray for hemming in. God loves baby gates even more than I did. He catches His children far better than I ever caught mine. And He knows His wayward children, even better than I know mine, and loves them more than I could even imagine, which is a whole lot. <br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06231818670835653986noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-954369004914294272.post-88633362309772168312013-04-25T22:11:00.000-04:002013-04-25T22:11:03.553-04:00Listening<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“Be-eth!”</span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I looked up and immediately shaded my eyes.<span> </span>From his perch in the crook of the great
flowering tree outside the door to Atherton Hall, Sam was busy calling me.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“Hi, Sam,” I said.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“Damn!” He contorted his body through the branches toward
the ground.<span> </span>“I was hoping you’d think I
was God.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Sam was a typical little-brother type.<span> </span>He had a knack for poking people and getting
a rise out of them.<span> </span>I am a typical
older-sister type, immune to most poking.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">One evening while Sam was busily riling up conservative
fundamentalists in our scholars dorm—an easy enough feat since, in my opinion,
you can’t spit on the Penn State campus without hitting a conservative or
fundamentalist or both—he asked me what I thought.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">While I may hold some fundamentalist views, I tend to
apologize for apologists.<span> </span>I take the
view that we should stop trying to explain God because we just don’t know—and,
to be honest, I wonder, especially around liberal intellectualists like Sam,
why anyone would want to follow a God who was so mundane he could be completely
understood and explained.<span> </span>Part of my
draw to God is that he knows more than I do.<span>
</span>I like it that way.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">So Sam asked me, “Do you really think that God answers
prayers?”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">And so I said, “Yes.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“When?” he wanted to know.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“My brother,” I answered, going into the very long, not-coincidence-laden
story of his adoption.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“Fluke,” Sam said.<span>
</span>“What else?”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“Coming here,” I said, going into the story of how I knew I
had ended up where I was supposed to be.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“Come on,” Sam said.<span>
</span>“I want something more concrete.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“Okay,” I said.<span>
</span>“Here’s concrete—and unorthodox—but this is how God works with me.<span> </span>In everything.<span> </span>Just like this.<span> </span>I try to do it myself, like I did this
morning with my socks.<span> </span>I look
everywhere.<span> </span>I look where I last put
them.<span> </span>I look where they’re supposed to
be.<span> </span>I look where they’re <i>not</i> supposed to be but where I’ve just
been and might have left them.<span> </span>I look in
places that they might fit but no one has looked into possibly since the
erection of the building.<span> </span>No socks.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Sam looked at me like I<span style="font-size: small;"> was </span>crazy<span style="font-size: small;">,</span> and I now had the attention
of the room.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“So I finally pray,” I continued. “’Lord, please help me
find my socks because my feet are cold and I’m going to be late for
class.’<span> </span>And I hear a little voice, just
in my head, like. ‘Open your eyes,’ it says.<span>
</span>And there, in front of me, where I had already looked, are my socks.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“That could be anything,” said Sam.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“It could,” I say.<span>
</span>“But it always works that way for me.<span>
</span>If I don’t pray, I go sockless.<span>
</span>When I pray, there they are.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“You really hear a voice?”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“Yes.<span> </span>Kind of.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“How do you know?”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“I just do.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">So Sam started calling me at odd intervals, trying to trick
me into believing he was God.<span> </span>He finally
gave up after a year or more.<span> </span>Of course,
my real trouble has never been mistaking Sam for God but mistaking my own
conclusions for God’s voice.<span> </span>I don’t
think God really cares about my socks.<span> </span>I
mean, he might, but really, I think he cares that I know I can’t do it
myself.<span> </span>And I think he cares that I know
the sound of his voice and know that he’s listening.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Bearing the way God and I relate in mind, you will
appreciate this story.<span> </span>Recently, after
some silence from God on some rather big topics, I wasn’t altogether serious
when I prayed, “And Lord, no one is going to take me seriously with this
falling-apart purse.<span> </span>But I don’t have
the time or money to do something about it right now.<span> </span>So if you want someone to take me seriously,
you’re going to have to take care of the whole purse issue.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The next morning, as the bus pulled away from the bus stop,
my friend turned to me and asked, “Hey, do you need a purse?”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I walked home with <i>three</i>
brand new purses.<span> </span><i>Three</i>.<span> </span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Of course, I didn’t immediately thank God for them.<span> </span>Instead, I prayed, “Really?<span> </span><i>Really?</i>
You listened to the purse prayer?<span> </span>What
about the <i>house</i>?”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I just heard laughter.<span>
</span>Someone’s listening after all.</span></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06231818670835653986noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-954369004914294272.post-74895561300084950372013-04-16T10:03:00.000-04:002013-04-16T10:03:01.823-04:00Terror<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimkv0PL63tmUKV83RbT11lDcSa-KmFozLWCVfm1or8OQP8M08Lw4lYcAVkFHvH1_L5oIs9SgybYMaQhcqwHb91FzEa5KCkSkZFdmyT2rwNJmaXDSw_L_T_Q08w0L_Ie_H9OYygA1uFXQQ/s1600/DSCN0598.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimkv0PL63tmUKV83RbT11lDcSa-KmFozLWCVfm1or8OQP8M08Lw4lYcAVkFHvH1_L5oIs9SgybYMaQhcqwHb91FzEa5KCkSkZFdmyT2rwNJmaXDSw_L_T_Q08w0L_Ie_H9OYygA1uFXQQ/s1600/DSCN0598.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Somewhere today, there is a scooter that will stay empty. There is a sink that will escape the toothpaste drops that had so plagued the lady of the house. There is a mom who can blow kisses that no little boy will dodge. Somewhere, an eight-year-old boy is not coming home.<br />
<br />
But the most important thing to remember is that the eight-year-old boy who doesn't come home is not really only <i>one</i> eight-year-old boy. All over this country, all over this world, little boys are not coming home. Mothers and fathers rock as they did when they carried their new little baby, only this time their arms are empty and they are the ones crying. The boys may have been taken in many ways. Yes, one boy was taken by an as-yet-unnamed bomber, but others have been taken by car accidents, cancer, and other diseases.<br />
<br />
No one misery lessens the other. No one life is more valuable, no loss more more sorrowful.<br />
<br />
The difference is in the attitude of those surviving. Some will be terrified. They will feel out of control, helpless, lost, alone. I have been among them at times. I have held my blue baby in my arms and screamed to God for mercy, knowing full well that I have no control over the situation. I have wept those tears. I have watched other parents, other spouses, other families and friends lose. Lose. Lose. Lose.<br />
<br />
It doesn't matter if the loss is caused by a madman, a rampant disease, or a genetic defect. It doesn't matter if it happened intentionally, accidentally, or in due course. It only matters that it happened, it hurt, and you couldn't stop it.<br />
<br />
Terror happens when you feel alone and powerless. <br />
<br />
<i>Terror is a lie.</i><br />
<br />
We are not alone, and we are not powerless.<br />
<a href="http://www.businessinsider.com/inspiring-images-from-boston-2013-4"><br /></a>
<a href="http://www.businessinsider.com/inspiring-images-from-boston-2013-4">Take yesterday as an example</a>. Yes, we missed that bomb, but those victims were not alone. Bystanders came racing forward to help, to carry them to safety, and to comfort. Nor was the community powerless. The hospitals were flooded with people donating blood. Individuals in the area offered accommodations to those who needed them. Restaurant owners opened their dining rooms and offered their food to anyone who needed it, regardless if they could pay. Some of those who helped were victims also, people who had suffered great loss themselves, <a href="http://www.motherjones.com/mojo/2013/04/cowboy-hat-carlos-arredondo-boston-marathon">like Carlos Arredondo</a>.<br />
<br />
The same is true of other tragedies in life. There <i>are</i> others who have faced the same circumstances, who are willing to come alongside us, hold our hands, and guide us through. No one likes walking through the Valley of the Shadow of Death, but we need not walk there alone.<br />
<br />
You see, this is the very important part. We are not alone. We are not powerless. Failure to understand these basic facts leads not only to our own terror but to the committing of terror. Look at the other acts of terror committed on Patriot's Day. Did Timothy McVeigh bomb the Oklahoma City Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building for fun? No. He did it because he felt alienated (alone) and unable to change the problem within the system (powerless). If the fires at the Branch Davidian compound in Waco were really set by the Davidians, as has been alleged, were they set because the Davidians felt powerful? No. Absolutely not. They were set because they were alone against the perceived enemy and powerless to prevail.<br />
<br />
So let us not be afraid. Let us continue to reach out. Let us love our neighbors and treat them as fellow travelers in life instead of as possible suspects. Let the thoughts of our hearts, the words of our mouths, and the works of our hands prove that we will build our community rather than tear it down. Then we will not only alleviate our own terror, we will prevent its perpetuation.<br />
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06231818670835653986noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-954369004914294272.post-56854295866668413952013-02-23T21:32:00.001-05:002013-02-23T21:32:18.411-05:00Raising my *precious*About a month ago, I was awakened around 5:30 by barking coughs from my sons' room. The little one (the usual cougher) was sleeping. It was the big one. <br />
<br />
"I can't breathe," my eight-year-old rasped between hacks.<br />
<br />
I dragged him to the bathroom, propped him up on the toilet lid, and turned on the shower. The steam quickly fogged my glasses and the mirror.<br />
<br />
The big one shook his coughing head vehemently. "I don't want a shower!"<br />
<br />
"You're not getting a shower," I said, still squinting in the sudden brightness of the over-the-mirror lights. "Just breathe in the steam."<br />
<br />
He did his best to breathe it in, but his lungs seemed unwilling to open their gates. In spite of the croupy bark of the cough, I started to bet that this was asthma. So, having an albuterol inhaler from his brother and knowing that he'd been treated with albuterol in the past, I gave him two puffs.<br />
<br />
Moments after the first puff, his cough became productive. Fifteen minutes after the second puff, and his breathing was near effortless.<br />
<br />
But we had a new problem. Albuterol makes a person jittery. It raises their heartrate, increases anxiety, and makes it very hard to sit still. Apply those side effects to a child that's already hyperactive. Can you picture my living room at 6:00 AM? If you're visualizing the walking dead in close quarters with a ping pong ball on crack, you've done a pretty good job.<br />
<br />
Two hours later, we were at the doctor's office. The big one was still <em>very </em>hyped up. It was hard to catch what he was saying as he announced to the receptionist as I was signing in, "I'm BJ and I'm home sick today because I can't breathe and Mom says that means no video games and only educational shows like math ones and National Geographic and I hate that breathing medicine and Mom says I don't have to go back to school today even if I can breathe now because she doesn't trust it and do you have a bathroom because I need to use it now and it's really hot in here did you know that?"<br />
<br />
They led us back to an exam room quickly, which was good because it was easier to contain the ping pong ball in there, even though it meant that he hit the walls more often. Divested of his winter coat, he was freer to move and was over the chair, under the chair, spinning on the doctor's seat, checking out how the computer cords wound through the garrotte and plugged into the power bar, and hanging off the end of the examination table to study (upside down) how the sanitary paper was wound and attached.<br />
<br />
"Where is he?" the nurse asked as she entered the room. I pointed below the table where the big one had locked his body up underneath. He jumped out.<br />
<br />
"Gotcha!" he shouted as he danced around her. The nurse tried to face him for a bit, but after rotating a time and a half, she gave up and just turned her head.<br />
<br />
After originally doubting my reports, the doctor did confirm it had been asthma, and, somewhat exhausted after our visit, he sent us on our way visibly relieved.<br />
<br />
And so began a beautiful day spent with my sick-at-home eight-year-old. We read together <em>(Goldilocks and the Three Dinosaurs</em> and <em>Scene of the Crime</em>)<em>,</em> went over math facts (multiplication), and watched those educational shows on TV. <br />
<br />
"Do you remember the first time I ever watched Mythbusters?" he whispered in my ear. "It was magical."<br />
<br />
And that moment--the one I was spending cuddled with my son, not the first time he watched Mythbusters--<em>was</em> magical. And I enjoyed (almost) every minute of it.<br />
<br />
But it also brought something home to me, something that I fight all the time both with myself internally and externally. It is so easy for me to apply descriptors to my son: the big one, asthmatic, hyperactive, ADHD, boy, fantasy-loving. And sometimes the labels seem to take a life of their own, either demanding special treatment or special griping. But in the end, what is most important for me to remember is that these descriptors do not even come <em>close</em> to encapsulating my son. While they help me to deal with aspects of his personality, I don't ever want that ping pong ball on crack to be confined by the walls of the house or the restrictions of a label. And I need to draw back from them as often as I possibly can.<br />
<br />
When all is said and done, I am raising my precious one, and that is the only thing that matters.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06231818670835653986noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-954369004914294272.post-63590291593584889532013-02-03T17:02:00.003-05:002013-02-04T22:05:19.559-05:00Sometimes You Just Need to LaughI don't usually do posts with pictures, but this one requires pictures to understand. It is the story of my life.<br />
<br />
A year or so ago, my big one went to a birthday party at Chuck E. Cheese and walked out with the most beautiful picture of himself from the sketchbook picture machine.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgooAz-2K_Q4qZa8MZyH1E3sUsN3HcExsgw0ZpavCW115Pv2xnAl-sirLD4AD9B1zrQU4_kOtv3aSdwQhr3l9wQu-YKAe-0zshaG5aAJwmWufRv4XZrFcTuMk-F7xguGAPUC_kOXskYlrE/s1600/DSCN0452.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgooAz-2K_Q4qZa8MZyH1E3sUsN3HcExsgw0ZpavCW115Pv2xnAl-sirLD4AD9B1zrQU4_kOtv3aSdwQhr3l9wQu-YKAe-0zshaG5aAJwmWufRv4XZrFcTuMk-F7xguGAPUC_kOXskYlrE/s320/DSCN0452.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
See? Amazing. Beatific. Somehow the machine captured his fleeting angelic side which now has permanent residence on our refrigerator door where I sigh every time I put away the milk. Could I really be this blessed?<br />
<br />
So this past December my friend scheduled her daughter's birthday party at Chuck E. Cheese and invited us. Immediately, I made up my mind to acquire more of these inspiring portraits, which also happen to be nearly instant at approximately two minutes from start to finish and reasonably priced at two tokens apiece.<br />
<br />
So away we went. I instructed both boys to stop by the machine at some point during the party and to bring their pictures back to me. The big one immediately complied, and this is what I got.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmkE9nYzGLUtA2NAGZo4vTn9NbdXkK5AHQ6J-yTlFbUSbG_b6KpVUjvS6QZKPIuYA5vx_Fv-A7clPoZbUZ1Ho9TcRVcBjKjrS9W07RI4D1XVA7qojS_V1P7JXFXEucKPZaUH_IOQx_q2E/s1600/DSCN0456.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmkE9nYzGLUtA2NAGZo4vTn9NbdXkK5AHQ6J-yTlFbUSbG_b6KpVUjvS6QZKPIuYA5vx_Fv-A7clPoZbUZ1Ho9TcRVcBjKjrS9W07RI4D1XVA7qojS_V1P7JXFXEucKPZaUH_IOQx_q2E/s320/DSCN0456.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Once again, it was gorgeous. My active, bouncing, perpetually noise-making son had been reduced for one breathtaking moment to the air of open-mouthed wonder and curiosity that generally fuels his frantically roving, weaving, diving, heaving body.<br />
<br />
I reminded the little one about the machine.<br />
<br />
He didn't want to waste his tokens there.<br />
<br />
"Fine," I replied. "I'll use some of these." I snatched a few from a cup of extra tokens that my friend helpfully proffered. I motioned for the big one to follow.<br />
<br />
When we reached the machine, I turned around and realized that only the big one had come. Fine. I wanted a picture with the big one, too, so the two of us posed together. Since he turned his body at the last minute, it was not as lovely as the big one by himself. Instead of the camera catching him with his mouth open in wonder, it caught him ready to snare a bug with his tongue.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_V1O93apXRyCw1bQKaDljhrlFCSrH2_DRn2QIXdx6UJMzQotif-13vKYuobKdd5JRYQ2bhBUxO2orj_16PXMb2ICVpsY8SdAv03aQ7IHEFQWrZBszSg6JBjukE3xhvoVfa8PFABrbArY/s1600/DSCN0454.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_V1O93apXRyCw1bQKaDljhrlFCSrH2_DRn2QIXdx6UJMzQotif-13vKYuobKdd5JRYQ2bhBUxO2orj_16PXMb2ICVpsY8SdAv03aQ7IHEFQWrZBszSg6JBjukE3xhvoVfa8PFABrbArY/s320/DSCN0454.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Still, this version of the big one is also fairly accurate. So we added the picture to the pile and went in search of the little one. We caught him steering a pirate ship.<br />
<br />
"My turn isn't up!" he protested, even though we could clearly see the "Continue?" countdown blazoned across the screen.<br />
<br />
"Yes, it is!" the big one cried. "You are such a liar!"<br />
<br />
"I am not! I want to play!"<br />
<br />
"Tough noogies." I interrupted the two, grabbed the little one by the elbow, and steered him toward the machine.<br />
<br />
"Can I be done?" called the big one now grasping the pirate ship's wheel himself.<br />
<br />
"One more picture and you're done," I told him. Moaning loudly, he traipsed after us.<br />
<br />
We arrived at the machine, and the big one dutifully sat down. The little one squirmed and attempted to twist his elbow from my grip. I forcibly plunked him on the seat next to his brother only to discover that the red "picture" oval that marks the camera's area of focus is too high for the little one when he's sitting down. When he's standing up, however, his forehead is cut off by the upper limits of the oval. I tried to adjust him to a knees-bent stance. Meanwhile, he tried to escape toward me. His escape was aided by his brother, who decided to use his head in the same way that a steer does during mating season. With great force, he pressed his skull against his brother, trying to force him out of the circle. I intervened, shoving my hipbone against the little one's head, preventing his escape and pushing the big one's head in the other direction with my right hand. With my left hand, I gripped my little one's left arm and attempted to keep him the right height for the camera to catch him.<br />
<br />
Do you know how long two minutes can be with all of that going on? But the picture turned out okay.<br />
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<br />
If I hadn't told you, would you really have noticed my hip and right hand? I did manage to keep my left hand out. One of three is still better than none, right?<br />
<br />
The picture dropped into the little receptacle, and the big one grabbed it out to check that he had really made it into the picture (as if the red oval was somehow lying) and promptly dropped it on the floor before racing off to play.<br />
<br />
Now I may have neglected to mention something important. If there is something to be kicked, stepped on, or in any other way easily touched by foot, my little one will kick, step on, or otherwise touch it with his foot. So the instant that picture landed on the ground, all I could think of were footprints.<br />
<br />
I immediately snatched it up, held it between my fingers to prevent wrinkling, and used that same hand to pin the little one to the back of the machine for his solo picture. The solo picture dropped into the receptacle, and without the big one there to remove it, stayed there. Without looking at it, I seized the little one by his waist, hauled him onto my lap, and deposited our last two tokens for the final picture. Despite his squirming and face-making, the picture didn't turn out half bad.<br />
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<br />
Who am I kidding? The <i>computer </i>even agrees with me. I've tried turning this picture in all the image editing software I have, and Blogger <i>still </i>won't upload it right. I'll never show that picture out in public. But it does live in my purse because I have no picture covers in my wallet and no pictures on my phone. No one has ever asked me to see a picture of my boys, but now I don't feel like such a bad mother. At least I carry their pictures with me now--even if they're not pictures I intend to show.<br />
<br />
But now that the whole ordeal was over, I shuffled my picture with the little one to the back and looked at the little one's solo picture for the first time.<br />
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<br />
I had had no idea that my hand had made it into the shot. With the white background of the paper, you can easily see my fingers woven back and forth, although it's not at all clear why I've done it.<br />
<br />
Sometimes a picture really does say it all.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06231818670835653986noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-954369004914294272.post-39047379015367097572013-01-11T00:13:00.001-05:002013-01-11T00:18:26.048-05:00This I PrayTwo days before the school sent letters to the parents suspending the current parent-child lunch policy in response to security concerns following the Sandy Hook shooting, I had lunch with my little Star Student in the elementary school cafeteria. As lines of children looped around us, eventually "settling" themselves on the bench seats of the tables (as if six-year-old butts ever really settle anywhere), we opened our lunchboxes, surveyed the contents, and asked God to bless our lunches. Together. About two feet from the principal, which AJ's friend was good enough to repeatedly point out to me. "That's our principal," she said with a mouth full of ham, cheese, and goldfish-shaped bread. She leaned closer and hissed, "Scary!"<br />
<br />
It was really rather hard to greet this warning with alarm, especially after the principal looked at her, smiled, and asked, "How is your lunch, K____?"<br />
<br />
She smiled the missing-toothed grin of first grade and moved the mouth of her goldfish-shaped sandwich to answer, "Chewy."<br />
<br />
It was all very first grade and very normal. And that's partly my point.<br />
<br />
I have read a number of rants on not having prayer in American schools and on the government keeping us from being Christian.<br />
<br />
This assertion is patently untrue.<br />
<br />
We do not have teacher-led, school-sanctioned and/or -mandated prayer in schools. But any private citizen acting in a private capacity in the school building is not only perfectly capable of praying but has the full backing of the first amendment endorsing his freedom to do so.<br />
<br />
We spend lots of time saying, "Use it or lose it." Well, my friends, this situation is one of those cases. We have rights--not just rights to guns and rights to rant--but rights to assemble and to pray. If you would really like to live the life of the sword, you can do that. I would simply remind you that it was Jesus who said, "Those who live by the sword die by the sword" (the old interpretation of Matthew 26:52), not me.<br />
<br />
But if we would like to keep our rights to assemble and pray, then I suggest that we use them! The Lord clearly tells Christians, <span class="woj"><span class="text Matt-18-19" id="en-NIV-23747"><span class="woj">“Again, truly I tell you that if two of you on earth agree about anything they ask for, it will be done for them by my Father in heaven.</span></span> <span class="text Matt-18-20" id="en-NIV-23748"><span class="woj">For where two or three gather in my name, there am I with them.”</span></span> (Matthew 18:19-20) And He has so much more power than I do! When we pray, <i>I see things change</i>. I have repeatedly been delivered from danger, healed, and preserved. When there seems to be no escape, a way is made. When it seems I will never forgive, love comes from a place not humanly possible. HE is the way, the truth, and the light. And this does not mean that I think you have to be in church to find HIM. I believe beyond a shadow of a doubt that <i>whoever</i> seeks <i>finds</i>. And I don't think it matters where they find HIM. I think we will know them not by their congregation, affiliation, or baptism, or Christian FAITH but by their LOVE in the I Corinthians 13 sense--no matter where they come from. </span><br />
<br />
<span class="woj">But that brings me back to our freedoms.</span><br />
<span class="woj"><br /></span>
<span class="woj">Do not fear, my friends. We are clearly told, "</span><span class="text Gal-5-22" id="en-NIV-29185">But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness,</span> <span class="text Gal-5-23" id="en-NIV-29186"><sup class="versenum"></sup>gentleness and self-control. <i>Against such things there is no law</i>" (Galatians 5:22-23, emphasis mine).</span><br />
<span class="text Gal-5-23" id="en-NIV-29186"><br /></span>
<span class="text Gal-5-23" id="en-NIV-29186">You see, all I am required to do I cannot be kept from doing. The One I answer to has made a way for me. Why should I complain? Why should I worry? I either believe in HIM or I don't. And if I believe, why should I be afraid of the government, the principal ("scary," according to "K"), or anyone else?</span><br />
<span class="text Gal-5-23" id="en-NIV-29186"><br /></span>
<span class="text Gal-5-23" id="en-NIV-29186">And that takes me back once again to prayer and assembling. Yes, I pray on my own, but I also pray in groups, and I have to tell you that my friend is on a kick that reminded me about group prayer. She's into flash mobs today. And she found a terrific one:</span><br />
<br />
<iframe width="560" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/sTHXIzHPyqE" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>
<br />
<br />
And then she said something fantastic. She said, <b>"The thing I love about flash mobs is the universal joy of the people who watch one. It's totally universal. It's in the international ones too. Everybody stands surprised at first and confused watching all of these weird people, and then they change and smile and laugh. There's joy in seeing this together."</b><br />
<br />
And she was totally right. <i>There is joy in seeing this together!</i><br />
<br />
About a year ago, I wrote a blog post on <a href="http://kimkusli.blogspot.com/2012/01/unto-us-child-is-born-flash-mobs-and.html">Christmas flash mobs</a>. And I'm reminded of that here in two very important ways. First, by not praying together, we are missing the joy of seeing GOD work together. And secondly, by not praying together, we are missing the opportunity of spreading the joy that comes by seeing a community at one in purpose and heart and joy, and wasn't that what the angels--what I consider the world's best EVER flash mob--said? JOY TO THE WORLD! Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06231818670835653986noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-954369004914294272.post-85376081382663604872013-01-03T14:02:00.000-05:002013-01-03T14:02:39.683-05:00Follow up: The Fallacy of Using Your WordsA year or so ago, I wrote a <a href="http://kimkusli.blogspot.com/2011/11/go-to-war-in-shoes-of-peace.html">post</a>, Going to War in Shoes of Peace, on using your words and how it sometimes doesn't work (it's in the center of the post if you're looking). And I posted it before everything with the neighboring child was actually done, but I never followed up on it. So here it is.<br />
<br />
The child in question, who has long since moved out of our little neighborhood, continued to run over other children, literally. They would be playing, and he would run up to play and just keep going--right through them, right over them--leaving them lying crying on the ground with the occasional shoe print emblazoned on a sleeve or a sock. Needless to say, it was a problem.<br />
<br />
At the time that I wrote the other <a href="http://kimkusli.blogspot.com/2011/11/go-to-war-in-shoes-of-peace.html">post</a>, I didn't know how everything had concluded that afternoon. Once I went inside, I was ignorant of what had occurred outside. What I did write about were the threats the parents made (what I meant when I asked, "Are my neighbors serious or just running their mouths (which I know that they do from time to time)?"). The threats were so blatant that I actually called the school and spoke to a fill-in principal (the actual principal was on vacation), who advised me to call the police. While I know many good police officers, it seemed to me that this situation--one that required prevention and not punishment--was not yet a job for the police, who, in my experience, can do little to prevent but a lot to punish.<br />
<br />
And so I did what I do when I don't know <i>what </i>to do. I prayed.<br />
<br />
One afternoon a week or two later, four children (to the best of my recollection. These are the four I remember) and I were standing in front of a neighbor's door. I'll call the kids "Little One" (my little one), "Said Child" (the child I have been speaking about), "Cutie" (the neighbor whose house it was who is devilishly cute and just as devilishly ornery--though devoid of malice), and "Ivana the Terrible" (a neighbor from a different complex who is adorable but doesn't always make the most peace-making of choices. To be honest, I think she could incite a riot at a prayer meeting).<br />
<br />
Ivana the Terrible had a new toy that she was showing to the other kids. I forget what it was. Like all youngsters, showing the toy generally consisted of thrusting it under the friends' noses in turn at a distance of two inches and forbidding them to lay hands on it while they admire it with a necessarily cross-eyed gaze.<br />
<br />
"I wanna touch it!" cried Said Child, advancing toe-to-toe, and perhaps actually toe-<i>on</i>-toe, with Ivana.<br />
<br />
Cutie intervened, "No! It's hers!"<br />
<br />
Said Child tried to grab the toy. Little One stepped up. "She said, 'No!'"<br />
<br />
Said Child whirled, pushing Little One, intentionally or not, to the ground. Little One's head missed the brick wall by millimeters.<br />
<br />
"Sto-o-op!" Cutie wailed. "Back off!"<br />
<br />
Said Child advanced toward Cutie, who fell backward into a deck chair in front of his door.<br />
<br />
That's when I, who had been momentarily stunned for the 15 or so seconds it took for all of this to happen, stepped in--literally. Squeezing myself between Cutie and Said Child and assuming Momma-Bear Stance (drawn up to full height, chest puffed out, feet shoulder width apart, arms akimbo), I said in my sternest tone, "He asked you to back off."<br />
<br />
"It's everybody's porch," intoned Said Child.<br />
<br />
"But you are inches from his face in front of <i>his </i>door. This is <i>his</i> space. <i>Back off."</i><br />
<br />
Said Child retreated three inches.<br />
<i> </i><br />
<br />
"That's not backing off," I said. "Keep going."<br />
<br />
Said Child moved a foot or so away.<br />
<br />
"Not enough. You go play by your own door." Never turning away from me, Said Child walked backward a few yards down the porch.<br />
<br />
"You can't keep me here," he said.<br />
<br />
"No, but I will absolutely tell your mother if I find you here again after you've been told to leave Cutie alone."<br />
<br />
At this point, Ivana the Terrible, who had actually been cowering behind my back, decided she might like me. We've been friends ever since. Little One, who saw the action was done, now decided that his hands hurt more than he thought and started to cry. Cutie stood up from his chair and puffed out his chest, a young lion naturally asserting dominion over his territory. I dusted Little One off and started to lead him home across the parking lot. I glanced back and, no surprise, saw Said Child advancing on Cutie.<br />
<br />
"I still see you!" I called. Said Child retreated. In spite of the December chill, I kept the window open till dark that day, occasionally crying out, "What did I say?" when Said Child advanced on Cutie. I didn't bother with Ivana. I knew from experience that Ivana could take care of herself.<br />
<br />
But I knew the time had come. I had to talk to The Parents. Again. I prayed a whole lot that afternoon. I even asked a couple of others to pray. I decided to try The Mother since the last time I had initially spoken to The Father. I watched out the window for The Mother's car. I saw her come home. I saw her husband leave. I decided to wait 45 minutes or so to give her some down time. <br />
<br />
With my children settled in front of their favorite show and with one more prayer on my lips, I headed across the parking lot and knocked on the door. Said Child opened it. He was busy shedding his clothing.<br />
<br />
"Is your mother home?" I asked. The Mother bounded down the steps at that moment and gasped. "Said Child! You can't <i>do</i> that! Go get dressed!" She turned to me geared for war.<br />
<br />
My heart was suddenly moved toward her. You see, that's what God does and what I'm not capable of doing. "Mother," I said, and I think she could hear the concern, kindness, and absence of judgment--that God had suddenly wrought in me--in my voice. "I need to talk to you about something, but I don't want to be in your face and I don't want to be here at a bad time. If you need some time right now, I can come back later. I just really need to talk to you."<br />
<br />
After all, I know what it's like to have kids who act up and act out (have you read <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Dancing-in-the-Rain-ebook/dp/B009ITQR10/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1357223399&sr=8-1&keywords=dancing+in+the+rain+autism"><i>Dancing in the Rain</i></a>?). Who am I to judge? We are all hanging in there together.<br />
<br />
The guardedness on The Mother's face melted. "Just give me a minute," she said.<br />
<br />
She closed the door for a few moments and then reappeared.<br />
<br />
"Is this about Said Child?" she asked.<br />
<br />
"Well, yes," I said, "But I don't want you to change him, and I don't want to complain. I am having some problems, and I want your advice on what you think would be the most effective and beneficial way to handle it." Those words were God's, not mine, because I don't think that way. And it was apparently what she needed to hear because she leaned back and listened.<br />
<br />
"I have a rule with my kids," I continued, "That they are not to touch Said Child. They're not supposed to hit anybody, but especially not Said Child. I have explained that Said Child just wants to play and doesn't understand that he's rough and sometimes hurts. They are supposed to tell him when they think he's being too rough and to get me to stand outside or to come in if he doesn't stop."<br />
<br />
The Mother started, "Oh! He shouldn't be doing those things..."<br />
<br />
"I understand," I interrupted. "We have issues in my house, too. It's a learning experience, and changes are slow. I'm not trying to change Said Child. I am just trying to make playing safe."<br />
<br />
"But," I continued, "we have a new problem. A few times, Said Child has pushed Little One. Little One is too small to defend himself against Said Child. It's normally on grass and not a big deal. But today, Little One almost hit his head on the brick wall. I don't know what to do other than tell Little One to push back. Do you have any ideas? I don't think that Said Child means to hurt Little One. But Little One's going to get hurt, and I need to prevent that. Do you know a way that I can communicate this to Said Child so that he understands, his feelings aren't hurt, and he doesn't feel like a bad kid?"<br />
<br />
The Mother nodded. She was quiet for a moment, then she said, "Let me try to talk to him a bit, and I'll get back to you." She started to go in and then paused. "I'm sorry he pushed your son."<br />
<br />
"It's not your fault, Mother," I said. "I know you're trying. We're all in this together."<br />
<br />
She went in, and I went home.<br />
<br />
The next morning she came up to me at the bus stop. "I think he should be a little better now," she said. "And I also wanted to say you were right when you came up to our house and told The Father that it was dangerous for Said Child to play outside that day. Another kid beat him up. Bad." Then The Mother went on and on about The Other Child. She is not the only mother to have gone on about this Other Child, but at the same time, she didn't recognize (nor did some of the other mothers) that <i>her</i> (and <i>my</i>) child contribute to Other Child's behavior.<br />
<br />
She began intervening more, and I spent more time outside. I tried warning more, not just The Mother, but every mother if I saw a problem coming. I tried to be more involved in preventing.<br />
<br />
And, in many cases, it worked. The Mother and I became friends. She and The Father gave Little One a bike to use until he was tall enough for a big one, and they offered to help with a number of other things. When The Father got a great job that included rent on a house, I was happy for them.<br />
<br />
The thing was, it wasn't just my words that solved the problem. My first words did nothing to prevent Said Child from being beaten. The only staying of action happened through physical intervention. Thinking that The Mother's words to Other Child's Mother were probably enough for Other Child's Mother, I chose not to talk to Other Child's Mother. Perhaps I ought to have. There would be other problems for Other Child, and perhaps they could have been prevented.<br />
<br />
But in each case, Other Child had used his words in the presence of adults before laying hands on any other child. When actual actions were taken on the part of others--when I physically stood between Other Child and Said Child, when I physically stood between Cutie and Said Child--then things changed. <i>It was never the words alone.</i><br />
<br />
I cannot overemphasize this point enough: <i><b>Words only work if they are heard and followed by action.</b> </i><br />
<br />
Yes, I needed to warn The Mother. But more importantly, I needed to watch, call, and stand between. Yes, I needed to talk to The Mother, but I don't think it was my actual words that made any difference. It was the absence of judgment and the honest concern for the well-being of <i></i>both Said Child <i>and</i> Little One. And I don't think it was only her talking to Said Child that made a difference; it was her <i>presence</i> outside, her watching him, her intervening, the two of us together agreeing on fairness <i>in front of</i> all of the children playing outside. <i>Intervention</i> made a difference, not words alone.<br />
<br />
And I want to make abundantly clear, Other Child also had issues. Other Child repeatedly has responded to others with violence. But Other Child also has a history of protecting children. Other Child often takes responsibility for others, walking dogs, escorting little ones home. No child is perfect, and we all agree on that. But neither is <i>any </i>child--any human--worthy of demonization, and I think we forget that often.<br />
<br />
But I bring up Other Child because he would later be punished by the justice system for later violence, as is often the case with violence. <i>But it was not surprising. </i>And not just surprising because it was Other Child. It was not surprising because I had heard Other Child say that he couldn't handle the situation. Not just once. Several times. I heard him <i>ask</i> the bus driver to be moved. I saw that the request was ignored. I know that he was given an assigned seat and so moving away was out of his power. <br />
<br />
<i><b>I heard his words, but I did not act. </b></i>I wish I could change that. Another child was later hurt, and Other Child was punished formally before officials. Other Child is also a victim here--a victim of adults who heard and <i>did nothing.</i> Yes, the end might have been the same, but then again, it might not have.<br />
<br />
If I had done something, not just listened and seen that the request was ignored, maybe <i>both</i> children could have been spared what happened. I am not averse to punishment, but I don't think it has many reforming attributes. And I am all about prevention and reformation.<br />
<br />
So when I saw trouble coming again--not with Said Child or Other Child in particular, but with <i>several</i> children. I didn't just talk once, and I didn't just listen. I <i>kept</i> talking. I found support in official places, and those people got the right people on board, and <i>they took action.</i> And I make sure I am there. Once again, I <i>truly believe </i>presence, a physical reminder, is the most efficient enforcer. I see you. I won't shut up, and if you want to cause trouble, you're going to have to go through me. No one has tried to go through me. <br />
<br />
No, things are not perfect. But no one is currently sitting in judgment. Community is working. But it takes more than just words.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06231818670835653986noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-954369004914294272.post-16984661172976849672012-12-29T22:27:00.001-05:002012-12-29T22:27:41.020-05:00Beauty Is Everywhere<br />
Beauty is in the usual places: in the sudden snowflakes, the stretching flowers, the leaf-laden trees, the unfurled sunset.<br />
Beauty is where you least expect it: in the rainbows in a puddle of leaking oil, the iridescent shimmer of a cockroach's wing, the green oxidation patterns on old copper pennies.<br />
Beauty is where you choose to find it: in the odd shape left by the dust bunnies, the lovely shades that bruise is turning, the intriguing shadows cast by peeling wallpaper.<br />
And sometimes, my friend,<br />
in the curve of a lip,<br />
the curl of a finger,<br />
the twinkle of an eye,<br />
there is something<br />
too beautiful<br />
for words.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06231818670835653986noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-954369004914294272.post-72640099590583641532012-12-25T01:33:00.000-05:002012-12-25T01:33:23.637-05:00A Matter of DegreesIf you have been living in the US over the last 10 or so days, it may have been a bit hard to keep your spirits up. This statement is not to say that everyone's down. Certainly, everyone isn't. And some people have written beautiful, eloquent posts on how they are not really down, including my friend, Sarah Marple, in her blog, <a href="http://www.waterwatereverywhere.net/2012/12/fear-and-hope-in-wake-of-sandy-hook.html">Water Water Everywhere...</a>. And you should read it because it's lovely, beautifully written, and true for her. It gives me hope. <br />
<br />
But I haven't bounced up so quickly, and that's neither right nor wrong as it isn't right or wrong for <i>anyone</i> to celebrate or not. And I don't think I'm alone. Our churches weren't more full, our children didn't bring home any more treats (in fact decidedly fewer), and there were fewer "Merry Christmas"es than usual from passersby. And this is okay too.<br />
<br />
But what changed for me was not the enormity of the sadness that Sandy Hook brought down on us but the pervasiveness of it, just as my sinking in September was not because of the death of one parent-friend, but the death of <i>four</i> and the knowledge of <i>So.Many.Hurting. </i>And with it was the knowledge that so much could be done to prevent it. There is <i>so much </i>peace and love to be had if we just <i>reach</i> for it. <br />
<br />
But we don't always reach.<br />
<br />
This week, I've had trouble reaching. It takes real effort, real conscious decision, sheer force of will. I have not done <i>nearly</i> what I normally do for the holidays (although <i>that</i> trend started back the day after Thanksgiving). And God has been <i>exquisitely </i>kind to me.<br />
<br />
Now you see, you have to understand. I do not always appreciate God's kindnesses. I know that He's kind, and I thank Him many times a day for food, for life, for the bills, for my kids, for my husband, for socks, for the car, for my neighbors, etc. I'm a big realizer that life is fleeting, and I would be an idiot if I didn't realize that God is my Provider. And I am thankful for that. I really am.<br />
<br />
But I'm also a big fan of Nonviolent Communication, and I often find God to be a little low on the empathy side of things. I mean, there's a lot of times that it's just not there--like when Moses is standing on the edge of the Red Sea and he sees the Egyptians riding out to meet him. He maintains a cool front for the people--"stand still," you know, "the Lord will fight for you" (Exodus 14:13-14) and all--and he calls out to God. I don't know about you, but I would call out to God too. I would not be happy in that situation. No, sir! I would have some choice words to say. But God does not empathize with Moses. Not at all. He does not say, "I know it looks tough now, but I've got a plan." He doesn't say that. What he says is, "<span class="text Exod-14-15" id="en-NIV-1905">Why are you crying out to me? Tell the Israelites to move on" (Exodus 14:15). And, you know, God and I have had words about this situation because I feel He is being patently unfair to Moses.</span><br />
<span class="text Exod-14-15" id="en-NIV-1905"><br /></span>
<span class="text Exod-14-15" id="en-NIV-1905">And I have <i>looked</i> for His empathy. It is there, but seldom. He shows it to Elijah before giving him Elisha. He shows it to Daniel when he stands confessing the sins of Israel. There are moments when I feel it for Isaiah and Ezekiel (though He doesn't save Ezekiel's wife for reasons this human can't fathom and for which Ezekiel regularly has my prayers--is that strange to pray to God to comfort the person that you feel God has ordained the hurt for? Or perhaps strange to pray for the comfort of a long dead <i>prophet? </i>Aren't they supposed to be too holy for all of this emotion? But I am irrational. Let's leave it at that).</span><br />
<span class="text Exod-14-15" id="en-NIV-1905"><br /></span>
<span class="text Exod-14-15" id="en-NIV-1905">And so I don't really look for empathy from God. I thought it wasn't His thing. But this last six weeks, His caring, His kindness, His empathy has been <i>amazing.</i> Little things--a card from my little one, a kind word from my big one (which is so rare--he just said, "You're pretty cool, dork," while he gave his brother a headlock this very afternoon, and that's about the height of his overt affection), a call from an aunt, a gift from another, a surprise kiss from the mother of a childhood friend--have come at just the right time. They are just the right things.</span><br />
<span class="text Exod-14-15" id="en-NIV-1905"><br /></span>
<span class="text Exod-14-15" id="en-NIV-1905">Some days I wonder what difference I can make in such a humble situation and such a lowly state. If I get discouraged so easily, what can I do? But that discouragement need not stand in my way at all. It is nothing compared to the unsurpassable greatness of the One I serve. Even on this humble night 2000 years ago, I doubt that Mary was much in the mood for visitors. I know <i>I </i>wasn't after delivering my children, and I didn't even have to think of cleaning up my room. Where to begin for her? What must the smell have been? And then to have a mess of <i>shepherds</i> want to come in and <i>hold the baby???</i> I don't know about you, but I had trouble handing my kids over to <i>anyone </i>else--husband, mother, father, doctor. No way. I'd been taking care of that kid for the last nine months, and I was going to hang onto him just a little longer, thank you very much. But God had other plans, and Luke 2:19 tells us that "</span><span class="text Luke-2-19" id="en-NIV-24993">Mary treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart." God can change our attitudes too. He <i>does </i>have empathy after all, and it is <i>astounding.</i></span><br />
<br />
<span class="text Luke-2-19" id="en-NIV-24993">But He showed me something else too. He showed me He also works small to do <i>great</i> things. <i> </i>Sure, there are some really <i>awesome</i> big things He does big. Just read <a href="http://www.cracked.com/article_20157_the-6-most-aggressively-badass-things-done-by-pacifists.html?fb_action_ids=4727221512530&fb_action_types=og.likes&fb_source=other_multiline&action_object_map={%224727221512530%22%3A138673849621892}&action_type_map={%224727221512530%22%3A%22og.likes%22}&action_ref_map=[]">this</a> for 6 terrific examples. But He uses small things too--loaves and fishes, tears, some water in some jugs. It is not the grandness of our gesture toward peace nor the observed magnitude of its ripple in our community. It is the eyes fixed on the One Who gives life and the feet walking, however slowly and with however tiny steps, in His direction.</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06231818670835653986noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-954369004914294272.post-23508626892833260242012-12-17T13:12:00.000-05:002012-12-17T13:12:48.757-05:00"I see you. You matter. I care.""Jon?" demanded the voice on the other line.<br />
<br />
"Hello?" I reiterated.<br />
<br />
"Barb?" came the voice. This time it was a guess, not a demand.<br />
<br />
"Hi, Nora," I answered, recognizing my neighbor's voice. "It's Beth, but everybody says I sound just like Mom."<br />
<br />
"Oh. Okay," she answered. "I saw lights on, and I thought your parents were out of town. I just wanted to be sure everything was okay."<br />
<br />
"Thanks, Nora," I answered. "You're right. They are out of town. My husband and I just stopped by to bring the mail into the house."<br />
<br />
"Oh. Okay. Well, I'll just go then. Have a good night."<br />
<br />
"Good night, Nora," I said. "And thanks again for checking."<br />
<br />
Nora passed away a few years ago while I was out of the country, and even though I love her daughters who still live in the house next door to my childhood home, I miss her and what she stood for--the completely nosy neighbor who told us what we should and shouldn't do, who watched us from behind the curtains in her window, and who plied us with pizzelles every chance she got. There was never any doubt where Nora stood, just as there was never any doubt equally that she loved you no matter how often you'd failed. In many ways, she and a couple of our other neighbors taught me what neighbors should be.<br />
<br />
Other neighbors, not so grown up, have taught me what neighbors <i>can</i> be.<br />
<br />
"You don't belong here," said one.<br />
<br />
"She told you to go," insisted another. "I'm watching you. Go."<br />
<br />
These were my neighbors my freshman year of college and they were talking to a stalker I had, and whom I had reported but for whom there would be no investigation for another two-and-a-half years. I never followed the investigation. It was too close to home, too disturbing, and there was nothing that I, someone who had been suffering from post-concussive syndrome at the time of my distress, could legally do to help strengthen their case in court.<br />
<br />
But these neighbors did not wait for the authorities to do something. They did not pick up weapons. And they did not think it was just my problem. They saw this situation as <i>our</i> problem, and they saw the power of their own gaze, their own ability to say, "I see you."<br />
<br />
Two years later, before I was aware of the new investigation into the stalker, my friends and I dealt with a felon roommate. We were told, "Pretend you don't know anything. You don't want to compromise the investigation."<br />
<br />
I have never made a bigger mistake than following that advice. My refusal to say, "I see you," allowed her to continue to dig herself in a bigger pit. But worse than that, it said to her of me, "Your welfare does not matter enough to me to intervene. I don't care what happens to you." But I did care, and I do care, and I have never regretted any decision before or since as much as I regret that one. <br />
<br />
<br />
Believe it or not, I started this post Wednesday morning, before Connecticut, before the bullies on Surfside Drive, before the endless Facebook discussions on gun control, mental illness, violence. I started it in response to my own failings in this realm, my own recognition that for whatever reason last week, I was not able to respond in the way I wanted to the people around me.<br />
<br />
I still struggle, and I don't claim to have all the solutions. But from the time I first saw both bully and bullied cry--a rainy afternoon on a miserable February day in a second grade classroom in Plum, Pennsylvania--I decided to pay more attention to how to make this pain stop.<br />
<br />
Over the years, I have discovered that there is no top-down answer to this problem, but there is a bottom-up strategy that, while immensely difficult, drastically reduces these issues of violence, loneliness, and discontent. Perhaps not surprisingly, it's reflected in many major religions, psychology, and political philosophy. It's not new at all--only difficult and something that must be implemented on an individual level.<br />
<br />
Are you ready for it? It's only three simple sentences that sum up almost everything we know about solving social problems from almost any angle.<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li><b>"I see you."</b></li>
<li><b>"You matter."</b></li>
<li><b>"I care." </b></li>
</ul>
If you want to read a little bit of the referenced (and by referenced, I mean names of the big thinkers only, but at least enough to give you a hint of where I am coming from theoretically), please read <a href="http://kimkusli.blogspot.com/2012/12/brief-background-to-i-see-you-you.html">this post here</a>.<br />
<br />
<i><b>I see you.</b></i> When faced with injustice, there is no reason to pretend we don't see. We are not blind. By pretending not to see, we give more power to the attacker. But many attack because they either want attention or because they are trying to meet unfilled needs. If I say, "I see you," <i>before</i> the situation comes when I am witnessing problematic behavior, I am building the necessary bridges and nets to say, "This is a cooperative place here. This is a community to which we both belong." I am establishing a new in-group. I am recognizing a fellow human being. I am building a foundation for peace <i>just by making the most casual of conversations. </i>There is a chance to give that attention, to know that need, and to meet that need <i>before </i>the situation ever comes to violence. And if it does come to violence, then my gaze has all the more power because I have seen them, I do know them, and I can do something.<br />
<br />
<i><b>You matter.</b></i> "You matter" is obviously harder, but it is still relatively simple. It is a matter of listening. The listening could be verbal. It may be observational. So much can be communicated to a child when you attempt to tie his or her shoe. If he is older, he might be offended. If he is younger, he may be grateful.<i> </i>Either way, in this time in which I often suspect the average bystander would rather watch my child run down in the road than shout "CAR!" in warning, the child will remember you, and, even if they were insulted, they will likely remember you as someone that thinks something of them, someone who sees them. And we all long to be seen. We all long to matter.<br />
<br />
<i><b>I care.</b></i> Nothing says more than this simple expression. How do we say, "I care?" We say it every time we remember what someone said the day before and follow up with a question the next day. We say it when we remember the names of the kids at the bus stop. We say it when we offer coffee, when we pick up mail, when we smile and say, "I missed you." And we <i>really </i>say it when we continue to listen when the news is not good and when we are willing to be slightly put out to do something that makes a big difference. It's surprising how very much a small sacrifice can mean to someone else. You don't have to be right in what you do. You may really mess up. But so few people take the time to say or do anything at all that what we say and do makes a huge impact.<br />
<br />
And we don't need to do this kind of talking and acting just at home. We need to do it everywhere. I have seen it work. It works in our places of employment, in our schools, and in our churches. It sounds simple and overly optimistic. But it works. It is, in a nutshell, loving your neighbor as yourself. It is doing justly <i>and</i> loving mercy. It is tolerance and forbearance <i>while </i>still being connected.<br />
<br />
So what is my point?<br />
<br />
When it comes to building a community through personal action, the time to start is right now, <i>before</i>
it looks like there is any problem. And the point of saying "I care"
is not to mean "I care that you are punished," but "I care that you
flourish." And the person to begin saying "I
care" to is the person standing next to us, the one who looks like us,
the one who doesn't look like us, the one who annoys us, and the one who
blesses us. The time to love our neighbor is right now, whether or not
it looks like our neighbor needs it because <i>our neighbor needs it.</i><br />
<br />
And here is the secret: we need it just as much as our neighbor does.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06231818670835653986noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-954369004914294272.post-27542144867228654862012-12-17T13:11:00.001-05:002012-12-17T13:13:36.403-05:00Brief background to "I see you. You matter. I care."Note: This post is meant to accompany "<a href="http://kimkusli.blogspot.com/2012/12/i-see-you-you-matter-i-care.html">I see you. You matter. I care.</a>" <br />
<br />
What follows is just a very quick jaunt through my readings and research in these areas. It is not exhaustive because I am writing this portion in response to questions that this is all in my head. It is not well referenced because my goal is not publication, it is insight for practical living.<i><b> </b></i><br />
<br />
<i><b>I see you.</b></i><br />
<br />
What major religion
doesn't start with the premise? God knows you/You belong to God
(Christianity, Judaism, Islam, Hinduism). You are a part of the universe
(Buddhism). <br />
<br />
What philosophy of government doesn't
operate under this principle? You see the point of watching in John
Locke, Niccolo Macchiavelli, and incredibly in Foucault. Seeing is part
of governing. Think of our court systems. The word of witnesses is
the means by which we decide guilt or innocence.<br />
<br />
Think psychology and the role of voyeurism. Or simply think modeling.<br />
<br />
Why
is it such a big deal to parents that a child is born blind? Because
so much of our thoughts and society function around the ability to see.
Seeing is equated with knowing. "I see," we say when we understand.<br />
<br />
It's
also equated with liking and valuing, which every child knows the
instant she begins badgering her mother, "Look at me! Look at me! See
what I can do!"<br />
<br />
But looking isn't always easy. It requires facing that which we would often like to deny. Seeing takes <b>courage</b>,
the first tenet in Brené Brown's description of wholehearted living. It
takes being willing to take our eyes off ourselves and turn them
outward to the world (not the television, computer screen, or smart
phone) around us.<br />
<br />
<i><b>You matter.</b></i><br />
<br />
Once
again, the importance of the individual in the grand scheme of all
things underlies most major religions. We are a piece of the atman
(Hinduism). We are a part of the universe (Buddhism). We are a chosen
people (Judaism). We are sought after (Christianity). It matters to us
that we matter.<br />
<b> </b><br />
<br />
In governing as well, the
individual matters by virtue of the rules he breaks. Once again,
Niccolo Macchiavelli comes to mind, as does Foucault. Locke and
Rousseau both impose limits to liberty, and Marx, who generally rules
out the individual and speaks of class as one, recognizes that the
breaking of reciprocity/fairness (so called by Jonathan Haidt in his
works on morals) underlies the rising of the masses. Dan Ariely
underscores this importance as he studies why we break rules and how we
deal with rule breakers. Both Ariely and Haidt's studies revealed that
most people will follow the rules when rule breakers are punished. The
subjects <i>enjoyed</i> watching them punished and, in one of Haidt's
studies, contributed to a fund for punishing them. But the long and the
short of it is the premise that individuals (and their actions) matter.<br />
<br />
In
psychology, mattering is also a big deal. Erickson's stages of
psycho-social development hinge almost exclusively on concepts of
mattering in the universe: trust (do I matter to someone?), autonomy
(do I matter enough to make a difference in my own life?), initiative
(do I matter enough to make a difference outside myself?), industry (do I
matter enough to do something of importance?), identity (who I am
matters), intimacy (I matter to someone else), generativity (I matter to
this new generation), ego integrity (I have mattered, and I'm ready to
move on). The failures in all of these stages are all failures to
matter.<br />
<br />
In terms of Brown's fundamentals of wholehearted living, we could call mattering "<b>connection</b>."
We are connected to one another. In the words of John Donne, "No man
is an island,/Entire of itself.../Therefore, send not to know/For whom
the bell tolls./It tolls for thee" ("No Man Is an Island," 1624).<br />
<br />
<i><b>I care.</b></i><br />
<br />
This one is the hard one<i><b>,</b></i>
but it is just as crucial. How do we choose to care? Do we care in
the sense that we will bully, punish, and cast out? Do we care in the
sense that we forgive? Do we forego all consequences?<br />
<br />
Brown's hierarchy would call this "<b>compassion</b>,"
and I will deal later with how I see compassion working. And I say
right now that I am not the poster child for compassion. It might be
hard to find someone with less innate sense of social cues than I have.<br />
<br />
Looking
through the religions, caring shows perhaps the biggest variation.
Hinduism shows both extremes: Vishnu the preserver and Shiva the
destroyer. Buddhism has varying forms of non-aggression, sometimes
bordering on a refusal to participate in the world to which they claim
we all belong. Islam and Judaism (how odd to put them in the same
sentence) both adhere to strict rules with severe penalties.
Christianity, as it is practiced, ranges from extreme reliance on the
letter of the law and an unforgiving God to the point in which some
churches take the forgiveness of sin to the extreme of permissiveness of
sin. How they care is shown in acceptance or rejection and punishment.<br />
<br />
The
radical nature of religion in theory, apart from religion in general
practice, is that it espouses mercy for the weak and lifts up the
humble, recognizing the sacredness of life in the least of these. And
that particular belief is found across religions. <br />
<br />
In
looking at political philosophy, perhaps Macchiavelli makes the most of
shows of caring. Macchiavelli is never one to suggest that the prince
should <i>actually </i>care about his subjects, but he does repeatedly
show that measures extended to the prince's subjects which demonstrate
care and trust will gain the prince valuable allies. (And to all the
guns-rights advocates out there, who may think I pick and choose what I
believe, I freely admit that Macchiavelli counseled the prince to arm
his subjects because, Macchiavelli believed, it would make the subjects
(1) feel the prince cared for them and wanted them to feel secure; (2)
feel the prince trusted them and did not fear ill will from them; and
(3) prone to fight on the side of the prince should the need arise.)
Locke and Foucault's versions of care were largely hands off unless
punishing. Foucault, I should mention, did not so much propose how a
government ought to operate so much as describe how many governments do
operate, thus his focus on penal issues and systems may not actually
reflect his feelings about ideal forms of government. Marx focused on
providing for life across the board. Rousseau believed a righteous
government would share and cooperate (of course, Rousseau had another
thing coming).<br />
<br />
In the Western political arena, clearly, care = punishment.<br />
<br />
In
psychology (and later in educational psychology), care takes on a far
different face. Care is not about separation but attachment. It is not
about penalty but pleasure (Foucault spends three books examining how
the seeking of pleasure and the regulations of society but heads). It
is not about pruning but about growth. It is about nurturing,
supporting, uplifting, and healing those within the society.
Theoretically, although not in our psychological practice, the aim is to
nurture the individual or group <i>before</i> they come to crisis, so that in crisis they will survive.<br />
<br />
Caring in psychology is founded on the ability to empathize. Empathy with others only happens when one empathizes with one's self and vice versa. You cannot have one without the other. I'm not sure where the original thought came from, but several psychologists mention this truth over and over: Real, Brown, Pipher, Rosenberg, Burns, etc.<br />
<br />
In the end, I would argue that this psychological truth is the foundation of Matthew 6:12 "<span class="text Matt-6-12" id="en-KJV-23295">And forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors" and Matthew 7:1-2 "</span><span class="text Matt-7-1" id="en-KJV-23318">Judge not, that ye be not judged.</span><span class="text Matt-7-2" id="en-KJV-23319"><sup class="versenum"></sup>For with what judgment ye judge, ye shall be judged: and with what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again." It is not that we ought to forgive or ought not to judge. It is that judgment and forgiveness are reciprocal. As we do, it shall be done to us.</span><br />
<span class="text Matt-7-2" id="en-KJV-23319"><br /></span>
<span class="text Matt-7-2" id="en-KJV-23319">Caring and empathy in psychology looks a lot like loving your neighbor. It looks a lot less like hell. That time may be coming, yes, but if we believe Jude 1:9 "</span><span class="text Jude-1-9" id="en-KJV-30682"><sup class="versenum"></sup>Yet
Michael the archangel, when contending with the devil he disputed about
the body of Moses, durst not bring against him a railing accusation,
but said, The Lord rebuke thee" that not even Michael the Archangel sought fit to judge in God's stead, what role ought those of us who claim to be Christians take in judging our neighbor?</span><br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06231818670835653986noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-954369004914294272.post-63220807166827301992012-12-03T14:00:00.003-05:002012-12-03T14:54:43.392-05:00Imperfect Gifts Sometimes Fit PerfectlyWe are having a crisis of faith at our house. <br />
<br />
Last Sunday, my big one saw a broken bird egg outside. The vanilla shell, the size of a broken thimble, captured his imagination.<br />
<br />
"Mommy, I think it might be a baby dragon. Wouldn't it be awesome if it were a dragon? Do you think I could keep it as a pet?"<br />
<br />
"It's probably a sparrow or little bird egg, sweetie. Remember the Wild Kratts? Reptile eggs are soft and leathery. This egg shell is hard."<br />
<br />
"I'm going to pray, Mom. I'm going to pray for dragons to be real."<br />
<br />
And so he did. Repeatedly.<br />
<br />
We kept the blinds open Sunday night so that we could see the dragon if he came before dawn.<br />
<br />
"How are you going to see him?" I asked. "It's dark out."<br />
<br />
"Dragons have <i>fire</i>, Mom," the big one answered. "Besides, the street lights are on."<br />
<br />
At a quarter after six Monday morning, the big one rushed down the steps, swung open the front door, and thrust his head out into the chilly morning air. As snowflakes floated past his ears, he couldn't contain his disappointment. Leaving the door wide open, he flew across the room and flung himself on the couch.<br />
<br />
"There are no dragons! God didn't hear me!"<br />
<br />
We had real tears. <br />
<br />
It was a long week. By Wednesday.<br />
<br />
I told my friend about it. After a laughing a little, she confided. "I remember my best friend and I praying <i>forever</i> that we would be magic."<br />
<br />
I smiled. I had prayed for blue eyes. "God, if you love me, please, please, please, please let me wake up with blue eyes." But God knew the plans He had for me, and my eyes stayed a hazely brown. After all the time I've spent in Korea, I'm now thankful for my brown hair and hazel eyes. I stick out enough. I don't need any more help in that department.<br />
<br />
Similarly, there are times God gives me things I didn't even ask for, didn't even <i>want</i>, like concussions, felon roommates, a second language, eczema, etc.<br />
<br />
And from many of those experiences, I have emerged with great beauty and new understanding. Did I really need to live in another culture and learn another language to recognize that manners and morals are completely different entities that are often confused in the minds of most people? Why, yes. Yes, I did. I did not enjoy the lesson one bit. Not when I was being judged. Not when I was judging. Has it made my life richer having learned it? Why, YES! A much <span style="font-size: large;">bigger </span><b><span style="font-size: x-large;">YES!</span> </b>And I wouldn't take back that lesson.<br />
<b><br /></b>
And in that sense, God has given me an earthly example of Himself: My beloved husband.<br />
<br />
My husband loves to buy me things. Often he shops at Sam's Club, so I get a year's supply at once. He hardly ever buys what I would have asked for. In fact, sometimes asking for something is the surest way not to get it. Many times, what he buys is not even what I <i>like.</i><br />
<br />
Take the year before my first child was born. We went out of town for Valentine's Day. Of course, it wasn't a Valentine's Day trip, <i>per se</i>; we traveled because I was speaking at a conference. I booked a reservation at a hotel with a gym because my husband loves to exercise. I, however, do not love to exercise. I had packed intending that he could go to the gym while I presented.<br />
<br />
My husband had different ideas.<br />
<br />
That night, he bought me tennis shoes, dark blue with yellow trim and white laces. I winced when I saw them.<br />
<br />
"We can work out together." He smiled so innocently and with such enthusiasm, I swallowed all the things I was going to say.<br />
<br />
It was one of the best evenings we have ever had.<br />
<br />
Sometimes, my husband, like God, knows what I need far better than I do.<br />
<br />
Sometimes imperfect gifts fit perfectly.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06231818670835653986noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-954369004914294272.post-4987814891662160422012-11-23T19:33:00.003-05:002012-11-25T09:02:13.356-05:00Lonely Cooking & the National Day of ListeningWhen I was young, I loved the chaos of Thanksgiving. Not too much of it, mind you, but enough to fill the house with activity and laughter for a few hours.<br />
<br />
The kitchen excitement that resulted in the later dinner lit up the whole house—or at least filled it with tantalizing scents (and a few not so tantalizing) and the sounds of vibrant voices (frequently colored by good-natured bickering). One grandma never cooked the turkey long enough. The other didn't make the stuffing right. Ask one aunt to do the gravy. Keep another away from the mashed potatoes. I found similar trends in Korea. <i>Hyungnim</i> slices the thinnest. <i>Halmoni</i> makes the best vegetables. Regardless of what's done, though, <i>someone</i> is unhappy with it. Life is the same the world over.<br />
<br />
But through all the bustle was chuckling and stories of meals past, of the general hardships of life, of funny things that had happened the other day, of new trials we were grappling with.<br />
<br />
It was more a meal for the soul than the body—even if some of us did need to break out the stretchy pants.<br />
<br />
The last few years, I have cooked alone. The first few times, I cried. Now I realize that this lonely preparation period is only a temporary moment of life. There will be more women in the family eventually. The kids will be calm enough to sustain a full day away at the homes of other relatives.<br />
<br />
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The boys eating the legendary "Pink Stuff" (Great-Grandma's recipe)</div>
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And the combination of my warm memories of family stories and the longing for those missing moments is why I encourage you all to share with one another and listen to your loved ones. For all of our globalization, we are sadly lacking in fundamental connections with one another. Let's build some today and this holiday season.<br />
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And after you have listened, after you have shared, you may find that you want to keep on sharing. I strongly recommend that you follow through on that thought.<br />
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Sharon Lippincott has written an excellent book, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-Heart-Craft-Lifestory-Writing/dp/0979299802/ref=sr_1_sc_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1353715912&sr=8-1-spell&keywords=the+heart+and+craft+of+lifewriting"><i>The Heart and Craft of Lifestory Writing</i></a>, to help you get your life on paper.<i> </i>She has written her life stories (and is still writing them! But take a look: <a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-Heart-Craft-Lifestory-Writing/dp/0979299802/ref=sr_1_sc_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1353715912&sr=8-1-spell&keywords=the+heart+and+craft+of+lifewriting">this one</a> is free!). You can write them too.<br />
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"But," you say, "she's an author. I'm not."<br />
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Paul wasn't an author when he started her class. He's written <a href="http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/pdohrman">two books</a> and is nearly done with a third.<br />
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"But," you continue, "I can't write that much."<br />
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So don't! Amazon allows you to put out shorts on Kindle, like my <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Dancing-in-the-Rain-ebook/dp/B009ITQR10/ref=sr_1_9?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1353716449&sr=1-9&keywords=Dancing+in+the+rain">Dancing in the Rain</a> </i>(free through Sunday) and <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/What-Mother-Didnt-Know-ebook/dp/B00A79UKAY/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1353716580&sr=1-1">What My Mother Didn't Know</a>.</i> It doesn't cost you anything at the outset.<br />
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"But," you say <i>again</i>, "I'm not sure I want to publish a book."<br />
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Then don't. Blog. Join a group. Share in pieces. Consider Plum Borough's <a href="http://shareapair.blogspot.com/">Share a Pair of Stories</a>. Sharing a single story isn't so tough, and it really does touch others.<br />
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"But...," you begin.<br />
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Even if you only write it for yourself, the writing is healing. You won't be sorry you did.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06231818670835653986noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-954369004914294272.post-75692356798771305742012-11-21T10:28:00.000-05:002012-11-21T10:28:16.383-05:00Shameless and Thankful: Dancing in the RainI wrestle with depression. I have since I was seven years old. I was thirteen the first time a doctor looked at me and <i>told </i>me I was hyperventilating and under thirty when another doctor told me what I thought were heart palpitations were panic attacks. I don't have Asperger's, but I had to be <i>taught</i> to empathize, painstakingly, implicitly, <i>repeatedly <b>taught</b></i>. Even now, I draft something once and go back later to add the feelings. I have never been diagnosed with ADHD, but my thoughts come in a rush, often so fast I can't form sentences. I don't run around like some children, but I was never able to sit <i>still</i> either. I can't count the number of chairs I've broken by wiggling too much. I'm great at multi-tasking. I <i>can't</i> single task. I can count on one hand the nights I've fallen asleep easily. <br />
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People might say I'm just weak or it's all in my head. I know I'm not and it's not. I know these issues run in my family. I know I've passed them on to my children.<br />
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I fight these tendencies with conscious control of my thoughts, deep breathing, meditation at times, exercise, prayer and praise, lists, alarms, and reminders—more coping skills than I have time to write about. <br />
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I didn't talk about these things before my children struggled with them because I didn't want them to define me. Yes, I will most likely struggle with these issues all the days of my life, but they are not who I am, who I choose to be. I could let them carry me away, but I will not go gentle into that good night.<br />
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Some people are confused and think that a depressed person can feel no
joy. It's not true. The joy is muted at times, yes, but for me, joy is
a weapon<i>. </i>Put on the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness. For me, this isn't a putting on <i>instead of </i>but a putting on <i>in response to,</i> a kind of medication for, a conscious choice to fight. <br />
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So many times in life, it rains.<br />
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You can't stop the rain, but you can choose how you react to it. <br />
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You must choose to laugh or cry. I choose to laugh. Again and again, I choose to laugh.<br />
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And for my children's sake, I've decided it's time to be shameless and joyful. And that's why I published <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Dancing-in-the-Rain-ebook/dp/B009ITQR10/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1353502730&sr=8-1&keywords=dancing+in+the+rain+autism"><i>Dancing in the Rain</i></a>, which is free on Amazon from Thanksgiving Day until Sunday, November 25, 2012.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8xPdCWYsA5wqLZXsadLov5UHeckTW7-odP4e17mtz1htzOx1TnsY9n2_ePGwcqI8MahL-rFxEcXm8DMCHYtMPAeWi7PfJM42PeQp7vByBk4yj7s72COlX6-CH-d0sx9WZ5F9gW8_EjuY/s1600/HPIM5235.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8xPdCWYsA5wqLZXsadLov5UHeckTW7-odP4e17mtz1htzOx1TnsY9n2_ePGwcqI8MahL-rFxEcXm8DMCHYtMPAeWi7PfJM42PeQp7vByBk4yj7s72COlX6-CH-d0sx9WZ5F9gW8_EjuY/s320/HPIM5235.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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Dancing in the rain tells five (hilarious) true stories of our struggles with our issues. My hope is that it shows that there is joy in parenting these children and that, first and foremost, these children are people and not diagnoses. They are full of love, joy, and creativity and fill my life with blessings every day—even the ones when we're asked to leave the store, playground, or church.<br />
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I am not ashamed of who we are. I know who we are becoming. And I am thankful I can share it.<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06231818670835653986noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-954369004914294272.post-86906452453106626682012-11-13T15:34:00.001-05:002012-11-13T15:34:33.803-05:00Mercy!I know I have written about riding in the car with my children before, but in case you have missed it, riding in the car with my children is an adventure, particularly when we are going to church. It doesn't matter which church we are going to or why we are going there; I am convinced that my children consider this ride a challenge to prove that I am the biggest hypocrite under the sun. A typical ride to Royal Rangers a couple of weeks ago began with the fuzzy end of the two-sided ice-scraper/snow remover brushing my ear lightly as it slowly extended its way toward the rearview mirror. <br />
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"Get the scraper back there!" I hollered over the kids' Christmas Pageant music, struggling to compete with the words of "The Night That Jesus Came Down."<br />
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The scraper retreated toward the back, knocking my glasses from my right ear in the process. I righted my glasses and peered in the rearview mirror to catch the little one beating the big one over the head with the hard end of the scraper. <br />
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As I drew a breath to holler at the little one to cut it out, he had the gall to yell, "Mom! He(the big one)'s taking my scraper from me!"<br />
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"I'd take it too if you were using it to hit me over the head," I call back when I notice that the big one has actually opened his window and is feeding the scraper slowly outside, theoretically to dump on the highway. "But HEY! We can't throw the scraper out the window!"<br />
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The big one halts just long enough for me to swat my right arm blindly into the back of the car, seize the fuzzy end of the scraper, wrestle it out of the hands of both children while managing to somehow stay in my own lane, and drag it to the front passenger seat. By the time we finally arrived at church, I was threatening my children with imminent destruction only to turn around and see one of the lovely moms of the angelic preschoolers. Of course. I was certainly at my most Christian. *closing my eyes and wishing the ground would swallow me whole*<br />
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And this is how car trips with my children generally go.<br />
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So the other night we were headed to church again, Christmas pageant blaring, when the little one asks, "Hey, Mom? What's mercy?"<br />
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"Marcy?" I ask over the voice of Halo Hattie. "Who's Marcy?"<br />
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"No!" he cries. "Mercy!"<br />
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I attempt to turn down the volume of the CD when the big one protests, "I like the music, Mom, and I can't hear it when it's down!"<br />
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"Well," I do my best to yell to the little one. "Mercy is when you decide to be a little kinder and less punishing than you could be. The other person may <i>deserve</i> the hard punishment, but you choose not to give it to him. Kind of like when you do something wrong and I <i>could </i>take away all of your TV, but perhaps I choose to only take away TV before dinner and let you have more TV later if you can show you're good."<br />
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"Not <i>that</i> mercy, Mom!" he hollered. "The game!"<br />
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And that's when it hit me: How many of us use mercy or the lack of it as a punishment instead of the grace that it was always intended to be? Does my mercy look like Christ's or the game?Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06231818670835653986noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-954369004914294272.post-28760434801414475722012-10-27T19:40:00.000-04:002012-10-31T10:07:59.535-04:00Lost for Words<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>As we think, so we become. ~ the Buddha</i></div>
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"And when you're done with that, you'll have to fight with the boys to do their homework."</div>
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<i> </i></div>
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I am about to leave for a rare evening out, and I am running through the evening routine for my husband. He's busy staring at me like I'm from Mars--the township or the planet, both are equally bewildering to him.</div>
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"How can you expect the boys to love learning if the attitude you go in with is that you'll have to fight with them?"</div>
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Now it's my turn to stare because, of course, he's right. I may be the lover of sociolinguistics, but my husband almost always hits the attitude nail right on the head. I try to rephrase.</div>
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"Well, I mean they don't like to do it. You may need to sit on them a little."</div>
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"Really? You think that's a better attitude?"</div>
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"Look. I don't know how to say it, but you need to make sure the homework gets done, okay?" </div>
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I'm really ticked now--not so much with my husband, but with myself. I have spent years working with affective barriers to learning. I pride myself on making kids feel at home. In our small area in Korea, I was known as the one for lost causes and the one whose students really understood the language when they were done. Even now, there are hardly any students I don't get along with. But here I was. No matter how I thought about it, I realized that the words I know to describe teaching and learning are adversarial at worst and hierarchical at best. "Fight with," "sit on," "force them," "make them," "lead them"--these are the words I know, and they don't inspire collaboration. Even the words that <i>do </i>imply connection also come with a negative connotation: "This is going to require some <i>hand-holding.</i>"</div>
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I felt roundly and rightly rebuked.</div>
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So, first, I'm trying to rethink my attitude, using words like "invite," "introduce," "come along side," "encourage," and "facilitate."</div>
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Secondly, I'm trying to think through what causes me to get so off track. I'm not <i>always </i>this bad. When does this other person take over? The more I think about it, the more I realize it happens when I am so goal-oriented that I forget to listen. I am so interested in pulling my students and children along toward a destination that I forget that reaching it won't be worthwhile if they die or become maimed along the way. I vow to listen a little better, to pause a little more.</div>
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But I also wonder something else. Why, if my attitude is so wrong, do I get along so well with so many students and children? They have always come to me. They literally flock at my door. Why?</div>
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And I was brought back to two theoretical constructs: Maslow's hierarchy of needs and Gardner's multiple intelligences. Gardner's theory allows us to imagine the ability of communicating not only through language but also through the other intelligences. Each intelligence must provide a medium through which to communicate and solve problems. So even if my words may be off as a result of the cultural settings and constructs in which I have learned them, my words do not make up the whole of my communicative arsenal (now <i>there's </i>a metaphor worthy of my aggressive culture. Gag!). I am sending other messages as well. And what are those messages that I am sending? Well, I think that they are the levels of Maslow's hierarchy. I am always concerned first with making certain that children and students feel safe, are fed, feel comfortable. I go to great lengths to make sure that they know that they are part of a group and that all of their opinions are welcome, valued, and necessary--I even routinely let them choose a goal that we evaluate or pick the game to play. And I make sure to pass their accomplishments along to their parents as well. </div>
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So what does that mean?</div>
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It means that, in the end, while what we think certainly shades how we act, it is not the final say. It does not mean everything. We certainly need to pay attention to our inner thoughts, our implicit judgments, and those metaphors in our language which can lead us profoundly off track (as if there <i>is </i>a track--once again a metaphor that shades my perception of reality). But we also reveal our inner thoughts and beliefs through all the other ways we communicate: our logic, our actions, the rhythms of our songs. Our words are not the final determinate in who we are. Who we are is the conglomeration of <i>all </i>of the deep secret thoughts of our hearts, the sum of our actions and beliefs. What we say can become minor if everything else we do points another direction--good or bad.</div>
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In the end, </div>
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<i>Who you are speaks so loudly I can't hear what you're saying. ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson</i> </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06231818670835653986noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-954369004914294272.post-60143602269792656632012-10-22T15:36:00.001-04:002012-10-22T15:36:49.031-04:00Not My MorningI was a terrible mother that Thursday morning. I got up late (for me), forced my children to listen to me hit the five-minute snooze button for over half an hour (so counting the initial alarm, that's seven separate still-dark-outside rings), pulled my children out of bed (early for them), forced them both to complete the homework that they hadn't finished the night before, and shoved rice (that their blessed father--Thank you, HEAVENLY Father, for getting earthly father up that morning since earthly mother seemed so un-earthly) into their waiting mouths at breakfast. I was not patient. I was not kind. I forgot to pack carrots in their lunch boxes but remembered the junk food. They didn't get their daily jokes either. <br />
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But, perhaps because I was late, I did it all <i>with </i>them. <br />
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That was different. I rubbed the big one's back, bounced the little one on my knee. I sat at the table with them and looked into their eyes as they talked to me.<br />
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"Mom," the little one said. "You smell <i>so</i> good."<br />
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"Awww. How sweet. Thank you."<br />
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"Yep. Just like the swimming pool." <i>Sigh.</i> That's from the last minute attempt to clean the gross sink before they got ready in the morning. <br />
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That's unusual because I'm usually running back and forth. That's how I remember my mother as well. On her feet, running back and forth, too busy to sit down. I talked to her back for years and years and years, until she told me her ears were tired.<br />
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Now that certainly isn't always the case. I don't spend all my time cut off from the children. My children have some interesting issues, which you can read and laugh about <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Dancing-in-the-Rain-ebook/dp/B009ITQR10/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1349143896&sr=8-3&keywords=Elizabeth-Anne+Kim">here</a>, that mean that I do, in fact, spend a great deal of time engaged with them. But, sadly, that time seems to be enforcer time when Mommy must wear her "That is <i>not</i> funny" face and dole out discipline. And while I know why I need to do it, this Mommy does not like that role very much.<br />
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And so, even though it was <i>not </i>my morning, even though my head was pounding, my eyes were running, and my nose was clogged, and even though I was a pretty terrible mother, I think I <i>enjoyed</i> being a mother much more that Thursday, so much more that I decided to make a wish list--no, not a wish list--an action plan.<br />
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Action Plan for Being Less Perfect and More Real:<br />
<ol>
<li>When the little one decides to squirm naked on his bed instead of putting his underwear on, I will resist the urge to count down seconds until the bus comes and give in to the impulse to laugh.</li>
<li>When the big one waxes eloquent over his morning meal instead of actually eating it, I will consider listening to what he's saying instead of shoving the spoon into his mouth when he takes a breath.</li>
<li>When they dirty their clothes on the way to the bus stop by tackling one another over and over again or when they become a little overactive trying to deal with the small cruelties of other kids (and occasionally dishing some of those wicked little habits out as well), I will remember that growing up is hard and Shout can take all those stains out. I will give extra squeezes to them all </li>
<li>When I return home to find my African violet dotted with toothpaste specks, I will not sigh because of the toothbrushes and toothpaste strewn around the sink I <i>just </i>cleaned while they were still sleeping. Instead, I will be thankful that they water the violet with their gargle cup and so it hasn't died yet. </li>
</ol>
When I got that plant, the oldest said, "Seriously, Mom? Someone's trusting <i>you</i> with a plant?" <br />
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I'm thankful he's decided to pick up my slack.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06231818670835653986noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-954369004914294272.post-51927625511208733882012-10-01T15:32:00.002-04:002012-10-01T15:32:29.762-04:00The Sacrifice of PraiseToday, my friend buried her daughter--the fourth parent of elementary-school aged children that I have known to be taken by cancer in the last three months. Smiling is not something that comes easily at the moment.<br />
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I never knew Ruth. I know her mother and her son, and my weeping is for them. In the same way, I never knew Chuck well, never spoke more than a few words to Cameron, and knew Kristen only through her multitude of relatives, some of whom I grew up with. But their children... Their children dance through my life. I see them all the time it seems. They dance and play around my own children; their story is the nightmare that I hope will never happen for my family. But, of course, they still have lives--<i>beautiful </i>lives--left to live.<br />
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And you see, sometimes I forget, especially when I'm teaching and all the preschoolers are acting up--sticking markers up their noses and swirling glue on the table--and I just automatically ask, "What would your mommy say if you did this at home?"<br />
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And the one slams his marker to the table. "I don't have a mommy anymore!"<br />
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Now I remember.<br />
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On days like these, giggles are impossible, smiling is torture, and standing upright takes force of will.<br />
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Sometimes, happiness is a sacrifice. It's a sacrifice of what we'd like to be doing, what we're really feeling, for the sake of those others who are also pressing on, who want us--<i>need </i>us--to support them as they keep walking forward.<br />
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Some days, moving forward seems unthinkable. I would rather wallow, thank you very much. And on these days, God gives me little snippets of His great love for us. At the beginning of Ruth's chemotherapy on this go around, God and the universe provided gum for Ruth Anne in the strange karma that love layers on our lives. That story is <a href="http://kimkusli.blogspot.com/2012/02/driveways-gum-and-great-abyss.html">here</a> if you want to read it. But yesterday, standing with my beautiful friend as she stood gazing on the lifeless body of her beloved baby, I discovered that Ruth had one pack of that gum left. It had lasted perfectly from beginning to end. She was not forgotten. Not at all. Never alone. Always remembered, cared for, held.<br />
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And so, as hard to see as it sometimes is, are we.<br />
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For this season, then, we bring a sacrifice of praise in the hope and the faith that there will come a day when it won't hurt anymore.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06231818670835653986noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-954369004914294272.post-60646813474802366162012-09-23T00:43:00.002-04:002012-09-23T00:43:31.697-04:00Listening to the MomentI am tired of getting bad news, of then being the bearer of bad news, of trying to temper that bad news in front of my children, and of trying not to let that bad news affect my kindness toward others--particularly my family. And I can't always do that. I try--really I do--but I just don't make it everyday, maybe not even most days.<br />
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And so after a long day of it all, I am sitting here mulling the huge things and the big things and the semi-big things and the routine things that make this life into this life. I should go to sleep, but I just can't right now. Just. Can't. <br />
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And I probably shouldn't write except that I think that I'm not alone here.<br />
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I think that many of us sit up after hard days and ponder. We may try to calm ourselves, get our frustrations out at the gym, even self-medicate. And at the end of it all, we are still up--watching TV, sitting on the couch, or staring into the darkness of the bedroom--not sleeping.<br />
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And in that moment, I wonder if we listen...to our own breathing coming again and again. It is the gift of life that makes our heart beat and our chest rise and fall, and even if life may be complex and tortured at the moment, it is still a gift, and we still have it in this moment. <br />
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I wonder if we hear the breath of those around us. They don't have to live with us. We can live alone, but still some of the sounds of the outside world creep in. We may feel alone, so very alone. But we are not. There is always someone, something. The first time I ever lived by myself I had a single dorm room in Boston. In moving in, I inadvertently trapped a fly in the room. During that first day, George, as I fondly dubbed him, seemed a real annoyance, but when my family left and I was actually alone for the very first time in my life, I was oddly grateful for the comfortable, if noisy, companionship of my small friend.<br />
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But back in this moment, I am listening to the gurgle of the water in the pipes, the obscenely loud hum of the refrigerator (oh, please, don't quit on me!), the whirring of the computer fan, and the chirping of the crickets. <br />
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And over it all, I hear that small voice, that voice that my daytime activity--the hunt for socks, the chasing of children, the rush to meet deadlines--drowns out. <br />
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Today the voice tells me what it has to tell me today. <br />
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And my soul says, "But...." <br />
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My soul always says, "But...." You would think that after all these years my soul would learn, but it hasn't. It still says, "But...."<br />
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And the voice says, "Shhh. Just listen."<br />
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And so I sit. And listen. And hopefully, I hear.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06231818670835653986noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-954369004914294272.post-16785575386350988042012-09-16T01:07:00.001-04:002012-09-16T01:08:41.350-04:00The YeastThe week gets busy. Dinner needs to be started before the boys get home from school or it all goes to pieces between their needs, checking their folders, overseeing their homework, supplementing to provide what hasn't been covered, and preparing to arrive at whatever activity we are due to attend, preferably at the time we are supposed to attend it.<br />
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Such was the case Friday when I breezed in my house at thirteen after three, exactly twenty-two minutes before I usually head to the bus stop.<br />
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Friday is always a busy day for me, and this Friday was even moreso. There had been somewhere to be (for which I was late) all day long. So when it came time to think of dinner, my brain was kind of stumped. There wasn't any warm rice, and I wasn't really in the mood for it (I'm never in the mood for warm rice). I scrounged through my refrigerator, found my left-over low fat/low acidity tomato sauce, and immediately had an idea: pizza!<br />
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The problem was the yeast. I usually buy a little bottle of the dry yeast because it seems to last longer, and I use much less of it per time. But I was beginning to think my yeast was dead because the last few times I made pizza, the dough didn't rise. At all. Not a bubble.<br />
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But a glance at the clock assured me that there was no time to run to the store to pick up anything, and, since I had no other ideas, I rolled my eyes and said a quick prayer, "God, the boys really need dinner, and I'd really appreciate it if the yeast worked today. I know it's probably my own fault for keeping it too long, but please either let this dough rise or help my children love the pizza with flat dough."<br />
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And I mixed up the dough not completely sold on that prayer because it's been a pretty hard summer, and sometimes I wonder if God is listening.<br />
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Thirty minutes and two sweaty, talkative, jumping, backpack-slinging boys later, I walked back into the kitchen, and lo and behold my dough had more than doubled.<br />
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Bear in mind that the last <i>three</i>--not one, not two, but <i>three</i>--pizzas I made with this same yeast did <i>nothing</i>. I had kind of been of the opinion that, after the whole Passover thing, God might not be a big yeast fan, but if He can bring even a little budding fungus back from the dead to swell the dough for my boys and then make both of them like the pizza <i>on the same day</i> (unheard of in my house), well, then, maybe He's listening to the rather bigger requests we're making too. Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06231818670835653986noreply@blogger.com2