I know that my last blog entry was a bit intense. It was driven by how struck I was that I could have been victimized as badly as other people I know.
Today, I have the same intensity but about something quite different. My question is this: If you were told you had advanced cancer and had only six months to live, what would you choose to do?
I've been thinking about this question today. Would I travel, and go see all the lovely things of the world? Would it make sense to climb mountains or paddle rivers--especially if it would take me out of contact with those who would miss me the most? Would I continue teaching, applying myself as never before? Would I take a medical leave and spend my time writing all that I could to as many as would listen? Would I spend my last days giving my husband and family all the attention that I could muster, so they would have good memories after my death? Would I start speaking at every event I could--about how cancer can be prevented? Or would I speak about the beauty of God's love and grace? Or, would I merely continue on in life hoping against hope that nothing would change and that I could beat the odds?
Some life events--near misses, or those interminable waits for test results--bring these questions to the fore. They also prompt us to think about what really matters in life. The events of the last week have reminded me that as Corrie ten Boom said, life is like a piece of embroidery. We can only see the underside with knots and incomprehensible stitches, in all directions. But God sees the top of the embroidery and can see the pattern and beauty that is being worked out. We can only look up and try to guess, from our vantage point, what is being created by God.
What happens on this earth is important, but it is very small in comparison to the greatness of God's overall picture. Heaven and God's view of life is the true reality, not what we see and do here. And thus, even having a shortened life takes on a different face and meaning. Choices and life becomes a bit less complicated. Oh, to see as God sees.
December 19, 2005
December 17, 2005
Why Me?
I usually ask the why me? question when something unfortunate has happened or somehow affects me. But I asked this question for quite a different reason last night. Here's what happened.
My neighbor, who is an immigrant from Eastern Europe, told me more pieces of her life story. I dropped by around 5:30 to take her something for her dinner, she being alone for the holidays. My knock on the door interrupted her time with God, but she was delighted to have me visit and offered me the padded kitchen chair. She sat at the edge of the wooden chair, thrilled to have someone to talk with. We sat in her stark little kitchen with two space heaters aimed at us. One small light fixture hung over the kitchen table where she had been listening to a recorded sermon in her language. Her Bible was spread out in front of her and she had several devotional books opened on the table.
Every time we talk she tells me more of her life story. I think I have a pretty clear sketch of most of it now, and this is why today I ask, why me?
Why was I born into an intact family where I was wanted and in which there was enough to eat? Why was I born in a part of the world where there was no war, where I was not a refugee, never went hungry and always had a warm bed? I have never had to move to another country to avoid religious persecution, losing all my meaningful personal effects. I have never been demoted from a well-paying, respected job to beg for work given to people who cannot speak English and who are considered unintelligent because they can't express themselves. I have not been made fun of because I had no money and my clothes were ragged. My life has not been a ceaseless grind just to survive.
I have not been abandoned by a spouse who took all my belongings and left me with nothing and a young child to find a way to feed. How did I ever get so fortunate to marry a wonderful Christian man who is faithful to me? I have never had children, but there may even be blessing in that. As my neighbor told me the excruciating story of the death of her young son, her hands shook and she fought back tears. I marveled that I have been spared this pain.
My health has not suffered like another friend who was reduced to gnawing on the frozen legs of dead horses that stuck up through the Siberian snow. I have not been forced to watch my daughters raped by drunken soldiers who were marauding my village. My eardrums have not been punctured by bombs that exploded only feet away from me. I do not have scars from flying shrapnel, or internal scars from having to keep my eyes open day and night just to survive. Yet as my neighbor finished telling her story, she clasped her hands together and raised them upward. "Prrrrase da Lort!" she said loudly. "I have everah-ting now."
Maybe the question is really, why not me? I am not growing old alone. I have a home that is warm, clean, well supplied, with full cupboards, and clothes to spare. There is love and life here, when in so many parts of the world people are dying from lack of clean water or lack of shelter.
"From everyone who has been given much, much will be demanded; and from the one who has been entrusted with much, much more will be asked." Luke 12:47-49.
I am so fortunate, so blessed. Why me?
My neighbor, who is an immigrant from Eastern Europe, told me more pieces of her life story. I dropped by around 5:30 to take her something for her dinner, she being alone for the holidays. My knock on the door interrupted her time with God, but she was delighted to have me visit and offered me the padded kitchen chair. She sat at the edge of the wooden chair, thrilled to have someone to talk with. We sat in her stark little kitchen with two space heaters aimed at us. One small light fixture hung over the kitchen table where she had been listening to a recorded sermon in her language. Her Bible was spread out in front of her and she had several devotional books opened on the table.
Every time we talk she tells me more of her life story. I think I have a pretty clear sketch of most of it now, and this is why today I ask, why me?
Why was I born into an intact family where I was wanted and in which there was enough to eat? Why was I born in a part of the world where there was no war, where I was not a refugee, never went hungry and always had a warm bed? I have never had to move to another country to avoid religious persecution, losing all my meaningful personal effects. I have never been demoted from a well-paying, respected job to beg for work given to people who cannot speak English and who are considered unintelligent because they can't express themselves. I have not been made fun of because I had no money and my clothes were ragged. My life has not been a ceaseless grind just to survive.
I have not been abandoned by a spouse who took all my belongings and left me with nothing and a young child to find a way to feed. How did I ever get so fortunate to marry a wonderful Christian man who is faithful to me? I have never had children, but there may even be blessing in that. As my neighbor told me the excruciating story of the death of her young son, her hands shook and she fought back tears. I marveled that I have been spared this pain.
My health has not suffered like another friend who was reduced to gnawing on the frozen legs of dead horses that stuck up through the Siberian snow. I have not been forced to watch my daughters raped by drunken soldiers who were marauding my village. My eardrums have not been punctured by bombs that exploded only feet away from me. I do not have scars from flying shrapnel, or internal scars from having to keep my eyes open day and night just to survive. Yet as my neighbor finished telling her story, she clasped her hands together and raised them upward. "Prrrrase da Lort!" she said loudly. "I have everah-ting now."
Maybe the question is really, why not me? I am not growing old alone. I have a home that is warm, clean, well supplied, with full cupboards, and clothes to spare. There is love and life here, when in so many parts of the world people are dying from lack of clean water or lack of shelter.
"From everyone who has been given much, much will be demanded; and from the one who has been entrusted with much, much more will be asked." Luke 12:47-49.
I am so fortunate, so blessed. Why me?
December 15, 2005
Anglo Incognito
I am in a panic. I was asked to sing for a large Hispanic convocation in January at our church and I agreed to do it. I wanted to make my husband proud that I can fit into his world. And now I'm wishing I never said I'd do this.
There are few songs in Spanish that I can find, that are in the classics category required by the minister of music. I can't figure out how to search for Spanish titles that I don't even know, or where to do that.
My father in-law has sung for years at his Spanish church. Just this year he gave all of his music to someone else--all that richness and history--in several boxes. So all he could send me was "O Sole Mio" in Spanish. He said I'd need to change the words a little bit to give them sacred meaning, but he didn't give me any idea of how to do that.
I turned to my minister of music friend, Bobby. He reassured me that yes, he had music in Spanish, and in fact, had just received a number of pieces that he thought would be good for Cinco de Mayo weekend. Bobby graduated from Princeton, and has excellent musical taste. Knowing that he was working on this for me was very comforting.
Yesterday the music came in the mail. I proudly carried it to the piano and started playing and singing through it. Sam sat nearby at his computer browsing for something or another. The introduction to the first song sounded like the accompaniament for "La Cucaracha." Sam turned toward me in his chair as I began to sing loudly en Espanol. As the last note of the first verse ended, Sam cleared his throat. "What is that?"
"Beats me. But it's in Spanish. Did you understand what I was saying?"
Sam looked dubious. "Kind of. But the words are really wierd. I hope you aren't planning to sing that."
Deflated, I sang through a couple more of Bobby's choice songs. Another one had a mariachi-type sound and I sang with gusto. It made me feel like Carmen Miranda. Sam turned back to the computer shaking his head. "You're going to have to find something else. These songs are awful." I am now the owner of six awful songs in Spanish.
I think I have finally found something. I took my Spanish hymnal and found words with the right meter to superimpose on the English tune, "O Waly Waly." It's a beautiful tune, and the lyrics are majestic and wonderful ("O For a Thousand Tongues to Sing My Great Redeemer's Praise").
Sam informed me that there will be lots of evangelistic "big guns" in the Hispanic community who will attend the January convocation. I'm singing through my song every day now, so I don't sound like an Italian wetback up there. Just call me the Anglo Incognito.
There are few songs in Spanish that I can find, that are in the classics category required by the minister of music. I can't figure out how to search for Spanish titles that I don't even know, or where to do that.
My father in-law has sung for years at his Spanish church. Just this year he gave all of his music to someone else--all that richness and history--in several boxes. So all he could send me was "O Sole Mio" in Spanish. He said I'd need to change the words a little bit to give them sacred meaning, but he didn't give me any idea of how to do that.
I turned to my minister of music friend, Bobby. He reassured me that yes, he had music in Spanish, and in fact, had just received a number of pieces that he thought would be good for Cinco de Mayo weekend. Bobby graduated from Princeton, and has excellent musical taste. Knowing that he was working on this for me was very comforting.
Yesterday the music came in the mail. I proudly carried it to the piano and started playing and singing through it. Sam sat nearby at his computer browsing for something or another. The introduction to the first song sounded like the accompaniament for "La Cucaracha." Sam turned toward me in his chair as I began to sing loudly en Espanol. As the last note of the first verse ended, Sam cleared his throat. "What is that?"
"Beats me. But it's in Spanish. Did you understand what I was saying?"
Sam looked dubious. "Kind of. But the words are really wierd. I hope you aren't planning to sing that."
Deflated, I sang through a couple more of Bobby's choice songs. Another one had a mariachi-type sound and I sang with gusto. It made me feel like Carmen Miranda. Sam turned back to the computer shaking his head. "You're going to have to find something else. These songs are awful." I am now the owner of six awful songs in Spanish.
I think I have finally found something. I took my Spanish hymnal and found words with the right meter to superimpose on the English tune, "O Waly Waly." It's a beautiful tune, and the lyrics are majestic and wonderful ("O For a Thousand Tongues to Sing My Great Redeemer's Praise").
Sam informed me that there will be lots of evangelistic "big guns" in the Hispanic community who will attend the January convocation. I'm singing through my song every day now, so I don't sound like an Italian wetback up there. Just call me the Anglo Incognito.
December 13, 2005
Never Lost
Life can be a complicated maze of adult anxieties, missed opportunities, and the drudge of everyday imperatives. For years I have kept my nose to the grindstone, putting myself through private high school and college, and later, grad school and university. Work-study-sleep. Work-study-sleep. It was a pattern I lived for many years.Somewhere in that seemingly endless, but predictable round of activities, I felt that I lost a sense of who I was. Sleep-deprived, lonely, and anxious that I wouldn't be able to get the grades or meet my life goals, I lost sight of that primal, inner me. When I realized that I felt disconnected and ungrounded, it was too late.
One day, as I idly leafed through a photo album, I came across this picture. I remember posing for my mother as she took it, out in the road in front of our Mississippi home. A neighbor lady had dropped off some old clothes for me to play dress up in, and I wasted no time donning her hat and gloves, scarf, and those wonderful blue high heels. I recall throwing my head back and looking over my shoulder at my mother, who was laughing at my antics from behind the camera.
Studying the picture, I had to laugh aloud--both because it is a funny picture, but also from the instant recognition that this was what I had been missing. I keep a copy of it over my desk. It is who I am through and through.
December 12, 2005
In another life
I saw Roy on Saturday, after 25 long years. I suppose you could say that Roy was my first real love: a gangly, Jamaican boy with a teasing shout of a laugh, warm black eyes, and an absorbing intensity when he was deep in thought. Roy was my friend and constant companion during the second year and a half of college. The White boys wrote me off when they saw us together, and the Black boys didn't know what to think of me.
Roy was the one who snuck into the girl's dorm while our friend Beverley, wearing only her underwear, was washing her hair in the janitor's sink in the hall. He raced in the back door, down the forbidden hall to her, blurted something into her hair and tore back outside onto the steps. There he doubled up with laughter as Beverley angrily rushed to her room, dignity askew.
Roy and I studied together as often as we could, however very little studying got done. We always found some sort of mischief to get into together. One night as I wrote a paper, we came to a disagreement about how to spell the word hence. He said it should be spelled hense. I was sure it should be hence. So sure in fact, that I vowed to run around the men's dorm naked if it was hense. Roy matched my vow with one of his own. As we sat looking at one another, taken aback with our rash statements, we suddenly had pangs of uncertainty. We loped across campus to the library where we found in the thick unabridged dictionary that we were both correct! Being Jamaican, he had learned the British spelling while I had learned the American spelling. Neither of us will admit to running around a dorm naked, even though one of us did do it naked under a trenchcoat!
Roy is a pianist without equal and I was fortunate to have him as my accompanist when I sang. We concertized in numerous New England churches. In fact, we could be called up out of the audience to sing and spontaneously could make flawless music together. The depth of the bond between us enabled us to blend together as only two well-matched musicians can.
Roy was like my warm, fun-loving brothers. I adored him. My family loved him. I would even go so far as to say that I loved him. But I was not in love with him and our friendship immediately ended when he realized that my playfulness was not marriage in the making. Being unsure of how to spare either of us the awkwardness of trying to negotiate a friendship in the face of his disappointment and my defensiveness, I played the race card. I told him that I just didn't think it was wise for us to have a mixed race relationship, even though I cared for him very deeply. He was terribly hurt and could not forgive me, reacting with hostility whenever I saw him over the next six months before I graduated. I have never forgiven myself for my unthinking, anxiety-driven blunder. I can still see the pained expression on his face.
And I never saw him again. Until Saturday.
I tuned in to a church service that was broadcast live on my computer. As the main speaker sat down, Roy stood up and sang a solo. He hasn't changed a bit except perhaps, his hair isn't as thick as it used to be. But I could see him, finally, after all these years. It filled my heart to hear him sing again, and later, play the piano. He was wonderful, playing with his whole soul, just as I remembered.
In another life, I wonder if I could have dated and married him. Watching him interact with an all-Black, inner city church group made me realize how his life has become different than mine and how I might feel welcomed or rejected in his group and he in mine. I watched him participate in the service, feeling admiration and nostalgia.
I talked with Sam about it later and he was interested and not defensive. After all, he noted, I live with him, not Roy. It was that straightforward as far as he was concerned.
I wonder what Roy would think if he realized that I'm now in a biracial marriage--Hispanic-White, not Black-White as he and I would have been. I wonder if he would have hurt less if he had known that I truly loved and adored him and was just lost for words. Perhaps we could still have been close friends for always. Sam would have enjoyed his friendship, I have no doubt.
A great deal happens when one is trying to grow up. Relationships and life choices can fill one's mind with unanswered questions for decades. Some stories can never be rewritten.
I love Sam with all my heart and cannot imagine being without him. And yet, an empty spot remains where Roy once was. I doubt I'll ever stop missing my beloved friend.
Roy was the one who snuck into the girl's dorm while our friend Beverley, wearing only her underwear, was washing her hair in the janitor's sink in the hall. He raced in the back door, down the forbidden hall to her, blurted something into her hair and tore back outside onto the steps. There he doubled up with laughter as Beverley angrily rushed to her room, dignity askew.
Roy and I studied together as often as we could, however very little studying got done. We always found some sort of mischief to get into together. One night as I wrote a paper, we came to a disagreement about how to spell the word hence. He said it should be spelled hense. I was sure it should be hence. So sure in fact, that I vowed to run around the men's dorm naked if it was hense. Roy matched my vow with one of his own. As we sat looking at one another, taken aback with our rash statements, we suddenly had pangs of uncertainty. We loped across campus to the library where we found in the thick unabridged dictionary that we were both correct! Being Jamaican, he had learned the British spelling while I had learned the American spelling. Neither of us will admit to running around a dorm naked, even though one of us did do it naked under a trenchcoat!
Roy is a pianist without equal and I was fortunate to have him as my accompanist when I sang. We concertized in numerous New England churches. In fact, we could be called up out of the audience to sing and spontaneously could make flawless music together. The depth of the bond between us enabled us to blend together as only two well-matched musicians can.
Roy was like my warm, fun-loving brothers. I adored him. My family loved him. I would even go so far as to say that I loved him. But I was not in love with him and our friendship immediately ended when he realized that my playfulness was not marriage in the making. Being unsure of how to spare either of us the awkwardness of trying to negotiate a friendship in the face of his disappointment and my defensiveness, I played the race card. I told him that I just didn't think it was wise for us to have a mixed race relationship, even though I cared for him very deeply. He was terribly hurt and could not forgive me, reacting with hostility whenever I saw him over the next six months before I graduated. I have never forgiven myself for my unthinking, anxiety-driven blunder. I can still see the pained expression on his face.
And I never saw him again. Until Saturday.
I tuned in to a church service that was broadcast live on my computer. As the main speaker sat down, Roy stood up and sang a solo. He hasn't changed a bit except perhaps, his hair isn't as thick as it used to be. But I could see him, finally, after all these years. It filled my heart to hear him sing again, and later, play the piano. He was wonderful, playing with his whole soul, just as I remembered.
In another life, I wonder if I could have dated and married him. Watching him interact with an all-Black, inner city church group made me realize how his life has become different than mine and how I might feel welcomed or rejected in his group and he in mine. I watched him participate in the service, feeling admiration and nostalgia.
I talked with Sam about it later and he was interested and not defensive. After all, he noted, I live with him, not Roy. It was that straightforward as far as he was concerned.
I wonder what Roy would think if he realized that I'm now in a biracial marriage--Hispanic-White, not Black-White as he and I would have been. I wonder if he would have hurt less if he had known that I truly loved and adored him and was just lost for words. Perhaps we could still have been close friends for always. Sam would have enjoyed his friendship, I have no doubt.
A great deal happens when one is trying to grow up. Relationships and life choices can fill one's mind with unanswered questions for decades. Some stories can never be rewritten.
I love Sam with all my heart and cannot imagine being without him. And yet, an empty spot remains where Roy once was. I doubt I'll ever stop missing my beloved friend.
December 10, 2005
Photo Journalist
I came near to maiming someone last night.
I went to our school's annual Christmas concert. The church was beautifully decorated and people seemed energized and excited as they filled the pews. I was pleasantly surprised at the quality of music and the wide variety of styles presented: chamber music all the way to steel drums. Just wonderful. The hair on my arms must have been tired from standing up at exhilarating musical moments. It was grand.
And it all happened in spite of the photographer who continually walked among the performers and stood in my visual path, down near the front of the church. I have to say that I've never seen anyone so blatant or intrusive taking photos during any event.
During the first number, I noticed this young man dressed in black shirt and pants, standing up in front of the front row of people, taking pictures of the orchestra. Assuming that he was taking photos for the yearbook or the school calendar, I didn't think much of it. That is, until I watched him walk up onto the stage in front of the performers, to take what he probably thought was a surreptitious place behind the percussion section. He moved about between the choir and the orchestra, taking shots of people singing, playing instruments, and the conductor waving his arms. Then, in full view of the audience, he rested his camera on the grand piano, pointed it at the audience, and started snapping pictures of us! I brushed it off, thinking that this was his final effort, and that he would now fade and be gone. He did go out the side door on the platform then.
A few minutes later, up he popped in the baptismal tank behind the choir and orchestra. He snapped several pictures as he stood straight up, then thought better of it and crouched down behind a pointsetta plant. I watched the black lenses of his camera move about through the pointsetta leaves and blossoms. He spent several minutes there before he stood up again, where he was was silhouetted against the red backdrop for the giant wreath with hundreds of tiny lights on it, hanging over the baptismal tank. He must have found this vantage point particularly good, because he took a number of photos of the conductor who appeared to be giving his all during an exciting piece. Finally, responding to my silent pleas, Mr. Photographer left the baptismal area and I began to finally focus on the music itself.
As another group started to sing, here he came again, standing upright, right in front of us, obscuring our view. He walked back and forth for the next several selections, taking pictures of all sorts of things. Then back up onto the stage he went, where he moved amongst the instruments again. At one point when he stood against the chimes, I wished with all my heart that he'd lean on them and knock them over: a carillon experience that would finally underscore how out of place he was. But that was not to be.
Down to the main floor, in the aisle next to the front row. Now he was talking and laughing with a woman who wanted to see what he was doing. I thought seriously about creeping up to him and demanding that he sit down and stop distracting everyone, citing faculty status and perhaps sheer physical force, if necessary. People around me were whispering and looking at him. There might have been applause garnered for such a brave action on my part. But I just couldn't make myself get out of my chair and walk the 10 rows down to where he knelt, playing with the many lenses and holding the camera up to the light to determine something about it.
For some reason, every time the music became intense, loud, or particularly moving, Mr. Photographer took pictures at a faster rate. Perhaps there is something that can be captured in the face of a musician that can't be seen unless he or she is playing loudly, but I wondered how many of these shots he really needed to have, because his actions were continuous and uninterrupted throughout the entire concert. Was this photo journalism? Or just a rookie who hadn't been instructed in how to take pictures at an event?
My seat mate was squirming about and starting to roll her eyes when the photographer walked up onto the stage again. "I just can't believe that guy!" she whispered. Her facial expression was nothing in comparison to what happened when he stood directly in front of the performers in a steel drum ensemble. He in front of one of them, unabashedly snapping picture after picture. I think by that time, whatever jitters he may have ever had about taking photos in front of a huge audience, were well nigh obliterated.
So the evening ended. I truly loved the music. I tried to blot out this guy's annoying presence so I could let my soul soar with the music. And I did soar, mostly with my eyes shut so I wouldn't be distracted.
This seems to be a rule about life on this planet. There is often a fly in the ointment when we have good things. I suppose that the question to be asked is whether we focus on the good parts: the beautiful, soul-expanding, heartwarming good in things. Or, on the irritating, niggling frustrations that almost always accompany such loveliness?
Oh for grace to know when to shut the eyes of my soul so nothing will obscure the beautiful.
I went to our school's annual Christmas concert. The church was beautifully decorated and people seemed energized and excited as they filled the pews. I was pleasantly surprised at the quality of music and the wide variety of styles presented: chamber music all the way to steel drums. Just wonderful. The hair on my arms must have been tired from standing up at exhilarating musical moments. It was grand.
And it all happened in spite of the photographer who continually walked among the performers and stood in my visual path, down near the front of the church. I have to say that I've never seen anyone so blatant or intrusive taking photos during any event.
During the first number, I noticed this young man dressed in black shirt and pants, standing up in front of the front row of people, taking pictures of the orchestra. Assuming that he was taking photos for the yearbook or the school calendar, I didn't think much of it. That is, until I watched him walk up onto the stage in front of the performers, to take what he probably thought was a surreptitious place behind the percussion section. He moved about between the choir and the orchestra, taking shots of people singing, playing instruments, and the conductor waving his arms. Then, in full view of the audience, he rested his camera on the grand piano, pointed it at the audience, and started snapping pictures of us! I brushed it off, thinking that this was his final effort, and that he would now fade and be gone. He did go out the side door on the platform then.
A few minutes later, up he popped in the baptismal tank behind the choir and orchestra. He snapped several pictures as he stood straight up, then thought better of it and crouched down behind a pointsetta plant. I watched the black lenses of his camera move about through the pointsetta leaves and blossoms. He spent several minutes there before he stood up again, where he was was silhouetted against the red backdrop for the giant wreath with hundreds of tiny lights on it, hanging over the baptismal tank. He must have found this vantage point particularly good, because he took a number of photos of the conductor who appeared to be giving his all during an exciting piece. Finally, responding to my silent pleas, Mr. Photographer left the baptismal area and I began to finally focus on the music itself.
As another group started to sing, here he came again, standing upright, right in front of us, obscuring our view. He walked back and forth for the next several selections, taking pictures of all sorts of things. Then back up onto the stage he went, where he moved amongst the instruments again. At one point when he stood against the chimes, I wished with all my heart that he'd lean on them and knock them over: a carillon experience that would finally underscore how out of place he was. But that was not to be.
Down to the main floor, in the aisle next to the front row. Now he was talking and laughing with a woman who wanted to see what he was doing. I thought seriously about creeping up to him and demanding that he sit down and stop distracting everyone, citing faculty status and perhaps sheer physical force, if necessary. People around me were whispering and looking at him. There might have been applause garnered for such a brave action on my part. But I just couldn't make myself get out of my chair and walk the 10 rows down to where he knelt, playing with the many lenses and holding the camera up to the light to determine something about it.
For some reason, every time the music became intense, loud, or particularly moving, Mr. Photographer took pictures at a faster rate. Perhaps there is something that can be captured in the face of a musician that can't be seen unless he or she is playing loudly, but I wondered how many of these shots he really needed to have, because his actions were continuous and uninterrupted throughout the entire concert. Was this photo journalism? Or just a rookie who hadn't been instructed in how to take pictures at an event?
My seat mate was squirming about and starting to roll her eyes when the photographer walked up onto the stage again. "I just can't believe that guy!" she whispered. Her facial expression was nothing in comparison to what happened when he stood directly in front of the performers in a steel drum ensemble. He in front of one of them, unabashedly snapping picture after picture. I think by that time, whatever jitters he may have ever had about taking photos in front of a huge audience, were well nigh obliterated.
So the evening ended. I truly loved the music. I tried to blot out this guy's annoying presence so I could let my soul soar with the music. And I did soar, mostly with my eyes shut so I wouldn't be distracted.
This seems to be a rule about life on this planet. There is often a fly in the ointment when we have good things. I suppose that the question to be asked is whether we focus on the good parts: the beautiful, soul-expanding, heartwarming good in things. Or, on the irritating, niggling frustrations that almost always accompany such loveliness?
Oh for grace to know when to shut the eyes of my soul so nothing will obscure the beautiful.
December 9, 2005
No matter what I say or do
Yesterday my mood took a major nosedive. I heard yet again a well rehearsed story from a colleague that I am harsh, inflexible, and without compassion for my students. It stung, and try as I might to rationalize it by thinking about the source and motivation behind this type of propaganda, it still hurt very deeply.
As I pondered the situation last night, it was easy to see how the storyteller's values and mode of being in the world influenced her comments and choice to mobilize people to side with her. After all, she and those who believe this are those with very poor boundaries and sense of personal entitlement. It makes sense to me that someone who threatens those qualities will be suspect. Meanwhile, I have been reduced to that one line: harsh, inflexible and not compassionate--"behavior not consistent with the values of this department."
Some time ago I explained the values, standards, and ethics to which I adhere, and gave numerous examples of students who feel that I have bent over backward to accommodate their needs and give them second chances. After doing these things, I anticipated that there would be renewed understanding and respect for the way in which I interact with my students and colleagues. "I'm so glad you shared this with me!" she had enthused. So I was taken off guard to hear the same old story told without incorporating any of the information I had shared, and in an even more vitriolic manner than when I first heard it.
This is not intended to be the moan of a martyr. It is my reflection of what it is like to be misrepresented without the possibility of changing that perception.
It was comforting in a sad kind of way to realize that I'm in good company in this. People have all sorts of bizarre ideas about who God is and what He is like. I wonder what it is like for God to see how misrepresented He is--that no matter what He says or does for people, no matter how He tries to show His character and love for people--He is still viewed as harsh and vindictive. He is blamed for all sorts of human idiocy. Or He is sometimes portrayed as impotent or insipid in some way.
I suppose that being misrepresented isn't really so bad. I can ignore it and there will be a minor incident. But if God is misrepresented, there are eternal consequences.
Somewhere in the midst of my internal wound-licking and fussing last night, I realized a bit more of what God's dilemma is in this world. I could say with Job, "I put my hand over my mouth." I had nothing more to say about how horrible my experience is.
Although these things loom large on the horizon of our worldview, one day these petty grievances will not be worth remembering. They will be swallowed up in the business of living in God's presence--something worth thinking about today.
As I pondered the situation last night, it was easy to see how the storyteller's values and mode of being in the world influenced her comments and choice to mobilize people to side with her. After all, she and those who believe this are those with very poor boundaries and sense of personal entitlement. It makes sense to me that someone who threatens those qualities will be suspect. Meanwhile, I have been reduced to that one line: harsh, inflexible and not compassionate--"behavior not consistent with the values of this department."
Some time ago I explained the values, standards, and ethics to which I adhere, and gave numerous examples of students who feel that I have bent over backward to accommodate their needs and give them second chances. After doing these things, I anticipated that there would be renewed understanding and respect for the way in which I interact with my students and colleagues. "I'm so glad you shared this with me!" she had enthused. So I was taken off guard to hear the same old story told without incorporating any of the information I had shared, and in an even more vitriolic manner than when I first heard it.
This is not intended to be the moan of a martyr. It is my reflection of what it is like to be misrepresented without the possibility of changing that perception.
It was comforting in a sad kind of way to realize that I'm in good company in this. People have all sorts of bizarre ideas about who God is and what He is like. I wonder what it is like for God to see how misrepresented He is--that no matter what He says or does for people, no matter how He tries to show His character and love for people--He is still viewed as harsh and vindictive. He is blamed for all sorts of human idiocy. Or He is sometimes portrayed as impotent or insipid in some way.
I suppose that being misrepresented isn't really so bad. I can ignore it and there will be a minor incident. But if God is misrepresented, there are eternal consequences.
Somewhere in the midst of my internal wound-licking and fussing last night, I realized a bit more of what God's dilemma is in this world. I could say with Job, "I put my hand over my mouth." I had nothing more to say about how horrible my experience is.
Although these things loom large on the horizon of our worldview, one day these petty grievances will not be worth remembering. They will be swallowed up in the business of living in God's presence--something worth thinking about today.
December 8, 2005
Hoarfrost
We have been waking up every morning to find thick frost covering everything. It is hoarfrost that makes all the roofs in the neighborhood look magical. When I secretly left a package on my neighbor's doorstep, my cover was blown because the my footprints left a flattened path in the stiff frosty grass in her yard.
When I see frost on the ground, I don't notice things like the bunches of dead leaves and dandelions underneath, the rosebushes that have frozen to death, and all the lumps in the lawn. It delights me so to see the white everywhere that I feel happy just to look at it, regardless of all the dead things and imperfections underneath it.
Hoarfrost seems to be such a medieval word. Reading the Bible in the King's English, I read, "The hoary head is a crown of glory..." (Proverbs 16:31). This verse would have us believe that the white hair of our elders is a reward for all that they have lived through, all they know, and all they have done in their lives. Their hoary heads are to be reverenced and deserve our respect as though they are kings and queens.
My father has had beautiful white hair for almost as long as I can remember. When he went back to school in his 50s, he dyed his hair to try to fit in with his youthful classmates. I just hated it, even though he looked younger for a couple years.
There is something so gracious about fluffy, white hair. It lives on top of brains that are full of the memories, stories, and feelings that have come with years of life. Even as hoarfrost comes at wintertime, so white hair comes in the later seasons of life and brings richness to all who make the time to take it in.
When I see frost on the ground, I don't notice things like the bunches of dead leaves and dandelions underneath, the rosebushes that have frozen to death, and all the lumps in the lawn. It delights me so to see the white everywhere that I feel happy just to look at it, regardless of all the dead things and imperfections underneath it.
Hoarfrost seems to be such a medieval word. Reading the Bible in the King's English, I read, "The hoary head is a crown of glory..." (Proverbs 16:31). This verse would have us believe that the white hair of our elders is a reward for all that they have lived through, all they know, and all they have done in their lives. Their hoary heads are to be reverenced and deserve our respect as though they are kings and queens.
My father has had beautiful white hair for almost as long as I can remember. When he went back to school in his 50s, he dyed his hair to try to fit in with his youthful classmates. I just hated it, even though he looked younger for a couple years.
There is something so gracious about fluffy, white hair. It lives on top of brains that are full of the memories, stories, and feelings that have come with years of life. Even as hoarfrost comes at wintertime, so white hair comes in the later seasons of life and brings richness to all who make the time to take it in.
December 7, 2005
Seven Sevens
I just realized that I've been tagged by another "seven sevens" responder: http://www.joyfulwoman.blogspot.com/ so I'd like to try to make my own list.
Seven things that attracted me to my husband:
1. I first noticed Sam's beautiful, warm brown eyes. One is a bit squintier than the other, giving him the appearance of wanting to wink at me.
2. Sam's sense of humor. If for some reason I feel angry with him and I begin confronting him by saying, "I'm so mad at you right now," he'll jump up, hold his arms in front of him like a boxer, and start dancing slowly around me like a prizefighter. I always laugh hysterically when he does this.
3. I love how devoted and protective Sam is with his daughters.
4. Sam's eyes tear up easily and he is very tenderhearted. I love a man who wears his heart on his face.
5. Sam is one of the easiest, most laid back people to be around. He is undemanding, self-contained, and a delight to simply be in the same room with. It was this surprising level of comfort, after being with him for two long periods of time, that made me realize he'd be a great person to be with for even more time.
6. My husband is Latin. I love how demonstrative and passionate he is.
7. Sam loves God and has a very straightforward and uncomplicated faith. This keeps me grounded as I tend to sail off into the stratosphere of skepticism and critique.
Seven things to do before I die:
1. Write a textbook
2. Climb Mt. Whitney again
3. Hike a famous trail such as the Appalacian, Pacific Crest Trail, or kayak the Lewis & Clark route.
4. Write my memoirs.
5. Live in a cabin in the North woods for at least six months.
6. Live in Europe for a year as a guest lecturer at a university.
7. Perform Mahler's Leider eines fahrenden gesellen (Songs of a Wayfarer) with an orchestra
Seven things I cannot do:
1. Eat raisins
2. Have a baby
3. Jog
4. Stand on my head
5. Remember simple multiplication tables
6. Watch someone else brush their teeth
7. Visit a prison
Seven things I say most often:
1. Oh, for Pete's sake! (exasperation)
2. What would be helpful for us to talk about today? (therapy).
3. Let's go ahead and get started (beginning of class).
4. Tell me that again... (a Laurel & Hardism).
5. You know what?
6. I love you, baby. (Sam)
7. Hey big guy. (to Sam, of course)
Seven books I love:
1. The Bible
2. The Poetry of Robert Frost (Edited by E.C. Lathem)
3. Anguished English, by Richard Lederer
4. The Complete Humorous Sketches and Tales of Mark Twain
5. Midnight Musings of a Family Therapist, by Carl Whitaker
6. What's so Amazing about Grace, by Philip Yancey
7. Soul Searching, by William J. Doherty
Seven movies I could watch over and over:
1. Crossing Delancey
2. Scarlet Pimpernel
3. You've Got Mail
4. French Kiss
5. The Music Box
6. Sleepless in Seattle
7. It's a Wonderful Life
Seven people I tag to do seven sevens:
1. Donna
2. Linda
3. Kerry
4. Sam
5. Trina
6. E.J.
7. Shelly
Seven things that attracted me to my husband:
1. I first noticed Sam's beautiful, warm brown eyes. One is a bit squintier than the other, giving him the appearance of wanting to wink at me.
2. Sam's sense of humor. If for some reason I feel angry with him and I begin confronting him by saying, "I'm so mad at you right now," he'll jump up, hold his arms in front of him like a boxer, and start dancing slowly around me like a prizefighter. I always laugh hysterically when he does this.
3. I love how devoted and protective Sam is with his daughters.
4. Sam's eyes tear up easily and he is very tenderhearted. I love a man who wears his heart on his face.
5. Sam is one of the easiest, most laid back people to be around. He is undemanding, self-contained, and a delight to simply be in the same room with. It was this surprising level of comfort, after being with him for two long periods of time, that made me realize he'd be a great person to be with for even more time.
6. My husband is Latin. I love how demonstrative and passionate he is.
7. Sam loves God and has a very straightforward and uncomplicated faith. This keeps me grounded as I tend to sail off into the stratosphere of skepticism and critique.
Seven things to do before I die:
1. Write a textbook
2. Climb Mt. Whitney again
3. Hike a famous trail such as the Appalacian, Pacific Crest Trail, or kayak the Lewis & Clark route.
4. Write my memoirs.
5. Live in a cabin in the North woods for at least six months.
6. Live in Europe for a year as a guest lecturer at a university.
7. Perform Mahler's Leider eines fahrenden gesellen (Songs of a Wayfarer) with an orchestra
Seven things I cannot do:
1. Eat raisins
2. Have a baby
3. Jog
4. Stand on my head
5. Remember simple multiplication tables
6. Watch someone else brush their teeth
7. Visit a prison
Seven things I say most often:
1. Oh, for Pete's sake! (exasperation)
2. What would be helpful for us to talk about today? (therapy).
3. Let's go ahead and get started (beginning of class).
4. Tell me that again... (a Laurel & Hardism).
5. You know what?
6. I love you, baby. (Sam)
7. Hey big guy. (to Sam, of course)
Seven books I love:
1. The Bible
2. The Poetry of Robert Frost (Edited by E.C. Lathem)
3. Anguished English, by Richard Lederer
4. The Complete Humorous Sketches and Tales of Mark Twain
5. Midnight Musings of a Family Therapist, by Carl Whitaker
6. What's so Amazing about Grace, by Philip Yancey
7. Soul Searching, by William J. Doherty
Seven movies I could watch over and over:
1. Crossing Delancey
2. Scarlet Pimpernel
3. You've Got Mail
4. French Kiss
5. The Music Box
6. Sleepless in Seattle
7. It's a Wonderful Life
Seven people I tag to do seven sevens:
1. Donna
2. Linda
3. Kerry
4. Sam
5. Trina
6. E.J.
7. Shelly
December 6, 2005
How do I look?
Putting on makeup this morning, my thoughts were interrupted by Sam, standing in the doorway holding a black checked shirt and taupe pants. "Do these go together?" Yuck! "No honey. You'll need to wear that shirt with black pants--there's too much yellow in the taupe to look good together."
Sam strode down the hall to his closet and hung up the rejected outfit. He returned a minute later with a dove gray shirt and khaki pants. "How about these?" Eeech! "Honey, I just don't think so." Sam looked crestfallen. "Why not?"
A thousand thoughts went through my mind. Because it's hideous! Because people aren't as color blind as you are. Because people around you will vomit.
"I think this gray shirt will look wonderful with your black wool pants. How about that?"
Sam sighed, smiled at me and went back down the hall to pull his amazing ensemble together. I turned my attention to the challenges that come with trying to style newly cut hair. I glanced down at the red wool North Woods sweater with tiny moose and evergreen trees on it. I was wearing it over a black turtleneck with black pants. I hope this looks okay, I thought, as put my hairbrush away. I went back to the closet to find my shoes. There stood Sam buttoning his shirt.
"Honey, how does this look?" I asked Sam. He smiled, nodded approvingly and said, "Wonderful honey. You look great!"
I suddenly felt like I was six years old, dancing around the livingroom in front of my father in our old house at 5 Burchman Drive. "You look very nice, honey," Daddy had said, as I showed him my new dress on the first day of school.
Awash with happy feelings, I turned to get ready to leave for work. Then it hit me. Why on earth would I trust the critique of someone who thought those two awful color combinations were acceptable to wear? This is a man who, unless I am wearing something blatantly horrible--like bold horizontal stripes on a too-tight sweater over chartreuse seamed stretch pants that are highwaters--wouldn't recognize a fashion gaffe. Yet I seek out his opinion about how I look almost every day.
I'm still laughing about this, five hours later.
Sam strode down the hall to his closet and hung up the rejected outfit. He returned a minute later with a dove gray shirt and khaki pants. "How about these?" Eeech! "Honey, I just don't think so." Sam looked crestfallen. "Why not?"
A thousand thoughts went through my mind. Because it's hideous! Because people aren't as color blind as you are. Because people around you will vomit.
"I think this gray shirt will look wonderful with your black wool pants. How about that?"
Sam sighed, smiled at me and went back down the hall to pull his amazing ensemble together. I turned my attention to the challenges that come with trying to style newly cut hair. I glanced down at the red wool North Woods sweater with tiny moose and evergreen trees on it. I was wearing it over a black turtleneck with black pants. I hope this looks okay, I thought, as put my hairbrush away. I went back to the closet to find my shoes. There stood Sam buttoning his shirt.
"Honey, how does this look?" I asked Sam. He smiled, nodded approvingly and said, "Wonderful honey. You look great!"
I suddenly felt like I was six years old, dancing around the livingroom in front of my father in our old house at 5 Burchman Drive. "You look very nice, honey," Daddy had said, as I showed him my new dress on the first day of school.
Awash with happy feelings, I turned to get ready to leave for work. Then it hit me. Why on earth would I trust the critique of someone who thought those two awful color combinations were acceptable to wear? This is a man who, unless I am wearing something blatantly horrible--like bold horizontal stripes on a too-tight sweater over chartreuse seamed stretch pants that are highwaters--wouldn't recognize a fashion gaffe. Yet I seek out his opinion about how I look almost every day.
I'm still laughing about this, five hours later.
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