I love redecorating, and sick as it sounds, I love the challenge of doing it on a very tight budget!
Over the weekend Caleb complained that his room wasn't what he liked. And, he was right, it was decorated according to the sports border that was up when we moved in. He asked for race cars-- specifically anything Disney/Pixar Cars 2. Ok-- Mommy can work with that! And -- I'm leaving the really nice sports border up while doing it!
#1. Colors! Luckily the colorscheme in the room could stay the same and shift to a cars theme - no new paint job required!
#2. A new bedspread goes a long way toward changing the room. I popped online to check my options and then planned to check Goodwill and clearance sections. I got VERY lucky and found an awesome new Cars2 quilted bedspread at Walmart on the clearance rack for $15-- that's half the price of a new one! COST: $15
#3. When Caleb was a baby I decorated his room with children's books. I found a variety of books and -- don't die -- cut off the front covers and framed them in cheap wooden frames that I repainted to match his room. This made shifting to a different theme super easy! I pulled down the frames -- chastised myself for not dusting them more often -- cleaned them up and took out the book covers. I went online and found some awesome Cars 2 photos, asked Caleb which characters he wanted in his room and 30 minutes later he had five brand new, framed Cars2 photos on his wall. COST: a little bit of ink jet ink that dries up if you don't use it anyway!
#4. While I thought the room looked great, Caleb noticed that he couldn't see any of this cool new stuff once he was tucked in at night. Ok -- I can fix that. I found a terrific Cars2 poster (portrait angle) and positioned it on the wall to the side of his bed. The poster was $5. I considered buying a frame but it was $10 and I thought I could do better. I found 3M Command Strips for $2.50 Poster COST: $7.50
#5. Caleb wanted to new curtains. He didn't want a valance, like he had, but curtains that come down on both sides. Since his new bedspread includes a variety of shades of blue, I decided to shop for a solid color set of curtains, rather than spend more on the character curtains. I also figure, down the road when he changes his mind again, we might still be able to keep the curtains. I got very lucky on this one! I found solid blue tab curtains in like-new condition for $4. For curtain pulls I recovered the red ribbon that the quilt was wrapped in and added some additional Cars2 ribbon I bought at Walmart for $2.50. I sewed button holes and used industrial sized screws as pull holds, going along with the car-mechanic sort of element and available for free in my tool box. I feel certain I can find a suitable curtain rod for about $10. Total curtain, sash & rod COST: $16.50
#6. The light switch plate. Some time ago we had put a Thomas the Tank Engine light switch plate in Caleb's room. It never really matched anything and it has been ages since Thomas was his favorite toy. I bought a plain white switch plate for $0.37 and a package of Cars2 stickers for $1. I placed the stickers in an overlapping arrangement completely covering the light switch plate and decopaged the top. After installing it on the wall, I added two more stickers to cover the screws. Custom made Cars2 light switch plate COST: $1.50 (inc. tax)
#7. A pillow sham to match the bedspread. While at Goodwill I found a dark navy blue pillow sham that matches the darkest blue in the bedspread. I also found a Cars Disney t-shirt with a large image of Lighting McQueen (main character in the Cars movies). The image was bright and clear and in perfect condition. Each item was $1.99. I cut out the character and hand stitched it onto the pillow sham. Cars2 Pillow Sham COST: $4.00
Total cost to make over Caleb's room in two days : $44.50
Cost of Caleb saying Thank You and enjoying the look of his room - Priceless!
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Sunday, January 29, 2012
placing the child in the midst of them
Caleb followed along in the prayer book and in the hymnal during the service today. I’m not sure how he knew to grab the prayer book, turn to page 355 and begin. Perhaps L told him. But as he sang along with “O love, how deep, how broad, how high”, she and I looked at each other and at him with amazed and happy looks.
After the service was over, he filed out with everyone else to shake Father Jody’s hand. Today was Jody’s first day as rector, and perhaps Caleb wanted to put him through his paces. I am told that Caleb asked him whether it is the case that the Eucharistic wine was, in fact, the blood of Jesus, and also whether by drinking it we were given eternal life.
Caleb’s inquisitiveness—and that of all children who ask spiritual question—ought to encourage parents to have faith despite frustration. Make no mistake: bringing your kids to church is a slow and tedious martyrdom. And it is a trial, too, for those who sit near them. Children are a crimp on the “worship experience.” Caleb, for example, has been known to talk and chatter through the entire service—including the sermon, completely oblivious to the world around him. Another little girl in our church managed to roll a dime four pews forward during the service last Sunday. And I spent one service a few months ago being eyed by pew-climbing spy in the form of Clone Wars’ General Grievous in the hands of a little boy. Oh, the disciples weren’t acting uncharacteristically when they turned the children aside. They were acting like adults engaged in the serious business of turning the tables on tyrant Rome. Children were a distraction.
Nevertheless, Caleb and the rest are listening. I don’t know how they are listening. When I was a child I remember attending a revival meeting in the evening with my parents. We attended a Christian church, where “Christian” is a frontier denomination whose particulars no doubt cluster about the usual ones: mode of worship, belief in free will, or a question about the height of the wall that separates who is out and who in. At any rate, it was quite hot and dark in the room, and the pastor was leading his audience on for long minutes after he’d adopted a concluding key a half-hour before. I was lying down on the red cloth of a pew and the man yells out, “Raise your hand if you are ready! Raise your hand!” And so I did. “Look at that kid back there raising his hand,” he said, to general guffaws. Kids are, like I was, trying to figure this whole thing out. They’re ready to be adults, but are naïve enough to ask or act at times when the adults all know no action is required.
Friday, January 21, 2011
My Home Office
About a week ago, when my children were home for the third or fourth snow day in a row, I came to realize that my work-from-home writing career felt a little bit like I was sitting in the middle of the Meerkat Exhibit at the Nashville Zoo. I imagined myself hunkered down over my laptop on a tiny table in the middle of the picture below, sort of in that open space between the two trees.
What you may not be able to see from the photo is all of the little holes that the family of meerkats can pop out of at any moment. Since you can't see that, here's a photo to give you an idea.
What you don't know is that the above Meerkat is asking me for a drink of juice, a bit of lunch, a moment to look at something he created, an invitation to follow him into his hole and fix something on his video game or, worst of all -- he's just bored.
This morning my little "Meerkats" looked more like the photo below. Up until I rented a movie on On Demand that is.
Now, aren't they adorable...
Monday, December 27, 2010
My Grandmother
Like most everyone else, I was born with two grandmothers, my mother's mother and my father's mother. I was fortunate in my early childhood to get to live very nearby to my mother's mom and therefore developed a very close relationship with her. My father's mother lived farther away, but I grew to know her better as I grew older. Both women were wonderful moms and grandmas, and I am blessed that one of them, my mom's mom is still alive and we still talk often. But this post is about neither of these wonderful women. This post is about the grandmother I gained in 1994 when I married my husband, Thom.
Thom's grandmother grew up in the deep South -- Louisiana and Mississippi. She was one of 14 children. She was born in 1921. She quit school to work during the depression and she married young. She had one daughter --- Thom's mom. She loves to laugh. She's easy going. She loves the Lord. She loves her family.
When Thom and I lived in Massachusetts neither of my grandmothers ever came to visit, neither of them willing to fly. Thom's mom and grandmother came up when Thom graduated seminary, when Kara was born, when Thom was ordained as a deacon at our church, and when Caleb was born. She was the grandmother who stayed in my home. She was the one who stayed up late and watched movies with Thom and I and his Mom. She was the one who sat in my kitchen and talked with me about things like cooking and marriage, taking care of babies and what it's like to have a spirited daughter. We laughed, a lot. And, when I didn't always understand my mother-in-law, mostly because she thinks like my husband and my daughter--or the other way around really -- I understood Grandmother. Pretty soon the distinction between her being Thom's grandmother and her being mine began to fade.
Thom and I will be celebrating our 17th anniversary in April. That's 17 years of knowing Thom's grandmother as part of my extended family. That's 17 years of her becoming a grandmother to me.
Somewhere along the way stories started to lean in the direction that things were changing with Grandmother. A fall here or there. Items going missing in their house and turning up somewhere odd. Strange stories of seeing ghosts or worrying that people were breaking into their house. Things were shifting.
Now things are different. Grandmother is often confused. Grandmother and Thom's mom come to visit every Christmas, but Grandmother no longer knows who we are really. She sees my parents, and it's like she's never met them before. She's nice to the kids, but she doesn't really know that they are her great grand children like she once did. Yesterday was Christmas, but Grandmother didn't really know it. She didn't understand who the gifts were to or from and wondered all day why she was wearing new slippers, not realizing they were one of her gifts. She wandered around a little bit lost all day long. And there was no way to reach her.
But today. Today she is here. And that is what inspired me to write a post after so long. Today she laughed. She talked about flowers. She tried to understand Kara when she gently and sweetly explained how to click Legos together. Even at this moment she is following along with the movie Angels and Demons, a pretty complicated suspense movie. And here's the catch .... It's 1:30 in the morning!!!! Thom and his mom played music together and sang hymns all e evening. Grandmother stayed awake and followed along in a hymnal. After the kids went to bed I was going to sit and get an article done for a deadline. It was late, but I could do it. Grandmother came and sat with me. She was laughing. She was chatting. She is herself tonight and she asked me to come and watch the movie with them. Sure it was already midnight and its crazy to turn on a movie at midnight, but it's crazier to sit in the kitchen and do work, when this might be one of the last times ever that Grandmother is happy and lucid and asks me to be a part of what the family is doing.
I'm awake in my living room with my family at 2am because my grandmother of nearly seventeen years is having a good day and I didn't want to miss any of it.
Thom's grandmother grew up in the deep South -- Louisiana and Mississippi. She was one of 14 children. She was born in 1921. She quit school to work during the depression and she married young. She had one daughter --- Thom's mom. She loves to laugh. She's easy going. She loves the Lord. She loves her family.
When Thom and I lived in Massachusetts neither of my grandmothers ever came to visit, neither of them willing to fly. Thom's mom and grandmother came up when Thom graduated seminary, when Kara was born, when Thom was ordained as a deacon at our church, and when Caleb was born. She was the grandmother who stayed in my home. She was the one who stayed up late and watched movies with Thom and I and his Mom. She was the one who sat in my kitchen and talked with me about things like cooking and marriage, taking care of babies and what it's like to have a spirited daughter. We laughed, a lot. And, when I didn't always understand my mother-in-law, mostly because she thinks like my husband and my daughter--or the other way around really -- I understood Grandmother. Pretty soon the distinction between her being Thom's grandmother and her being mine began to fade.
Thom and I will be celebrating our 17th anniversary in April. That's 17 years of knowing Thom's grandmother as part of my extended family. That's 17 years of her becoming a grandmother to me.
Somewhere along the way stories started to lean in the direction that things were changing with Grandmother. A fall here or there. Items going missing in their house and turning up somewhere odd. Strange stories of seeing ghosts or worrying that people were breaking into their house. Things were shifting.
Now things are different. Grandmother is often confused. Grandmother and Thom's mom come to visit every Christmas, but Grandmother no longer knows who we are really. She sees my parents, and it's like she's never met them before. She's nice to the kids, but she doesn't really know that they are her great grand children like she once did. Yesterday was Christmas, but Grandmother didn't really know it. She didn't understand who the gifts were to or from and wondered all day why she was wearing new slippers, not realizing they were one of her gifts. She wandered around a little bit lost all day long. And there was no way to reach her.
But today. Today she is here. And that is what inspired me to write a post after so long. Today she laughed. She talked about flowers. She tried to understand Kara when she gently and sweetly explained how to click Legos together. Even at this moment she is following along with the movie Angels and Demons, a pretty complicated suspense movie. And here's the catch .... It's 1:30 in the morning!!!! Thom and his mom played music together and sang hymns all e evening. Grandmother stayed awake and followed along in a hymnal. After the kids went to bed I was going to sit and get an article done for a deadline. It was late, but I could do it. Grandmother came and sat with me. She was laughing. She was chatting. She is herself tonight and she asked me to come and watch the movie with them. Sure it was already midnight and its crazy to turn on a movie at midnight, but it's crazier to sit in the kitchen and do work, when this might be one of the last times ever that Grandmother is happy and lucid and asks me to be a part of what the family is doing.
I'm awake in my living room with my family at 2am because my grandmother of nearly seventeen years is having a good day and I didn't want to miss any of it.
Wednesday, June 02, 2010
I want a new job
Mother's aren't allowed to quit. Well, technically some do, you can tell by the condition of their home, but it's seriously frowned upon. My mother is a superb housecleaner and homemaker. Anyone who's ever been to her home now or in the past will tell you. The house never looked like two kids lived there. It also never looked like she took a day off, a moment's rest, or, God-forbid -- a nap!
I am, sadly, not my mother. I frequently want to run screaming from the duties of housework. I want nothing more than to abandon my post as cook, clothes washer and cleaner of all things bodily function related.
At this very instant, I have abandoned my job of cleaning the carpet in my son's room. I sorted and picked up the toys. I cleared off the carpet. I got out the carpet cleaner (thanks Mom for the Bissell 2X Heat machine, thingy that works wonders on my carpet!). I cleaned his carpet. Why you ask? Why his room and no others -- well, as far as I know, no one else woke up in the middle of the night and peed all over their room because they lost their way to the bathroom down the hall. So, why did I stop? Oh, that'd be because as I was inverting the dirty water into the downstairs toilet -- I, um, missed. Not entirely, but enough. Enough to remind me of how often I deal with things that other people in this house refuse to touch.
Dog pee.
Sheets with puke on them.
Kid pee.
Kid poop.
Kid puke.
Kid hair with kid puke in it.
Dog food.
Strange items that have been in the refridgerator for so long they're nearly unrecognizable.
Therefore, I want a new job. One that does not involve gross things. One where things stay clean. One where someone else cleans everything.
I want a mom. I want MY mom. I want her to live her and pick up after ME. I want someone else to be in charge of gross things.
Children have no idea how good they have it. Even my children!
I am, sadly, not my mother. I frequently want to run screaming from the duties of housework. I want nothing more than to abandon my post as cook, clothes washer and cleaner of all things bodily function related.
At this very instant, I have abandoned my job of cleaning the carpet in my son's room. I sorted and picked up the toys. I cleared off the carpet. I got out the carpet cleaner (thanks Mom for the Bissell 2X Heat machine, thingy that works wonders on my carpet!). I cleaned his carpet. Why you ask? Why his room and no others -- well, as far as I know, no one else woke up in the middle of the night and peed all over their room because they lost their way to the bathroom down the hall. So, why did I stop? Oh, that'd be because as I was inverting the dirty water into the downstairs toilet -- I, um, missed. Not entirely, but enough. Enough to remind me of how often I deal with things that other people in this house refuse to touch.
Dog pee.
Sheets with puke on them.
Kid pee.
Kid poop.
Kid puke.
Kid hair with kid puke in it.
Dog food.
Strange items that have been in the refridgerator for so long they're nearly unrecognizable.
Therefore, I want a new job. One that does not involve gross things. One where things stay clean. One where someone else cleans everything.
I want a mom. I want MY mom. I want her to live her and pick up after ME. I want someone else to be in charge of gross things.
Children have no idea how good they have it. Even my children!
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Quiet dog
We have a dog. I walk the dog. There. There's the setup. Across the street is a soggy slab of mossy grass—weeds mostly—slanting up or down into old-growth thatch. The dog, Happy, gets the news and weather from nosing across its length and breadth, and a bit of exercise hauling me, his human behind. I suspect he picks his deposits randomly so as not to give out any doggy secrets. Today's favorite stump is tomorrow's cast-behind. Lately it has been a miserable and muddy mess. I wear mowing shoes. Who cares what you step in. I catch myself whistling or humming whatever tunes the inner radio desires. At night, off in the distant, there are lights. Beneath them, men and women work shifts at a paper mill. I count off the hours sometimes, “Happy, they have three hours to go.” It has been over twenty years since I worked shifts, but you don't forget the weight of those hours. Happy stops. I stop and count my blessings. At night it is very quiet. Most of the houses around are dark, though a few lights here and there tell of hours still winding down and putting the day to bed. I try and turn off the radio and just be the quiet. To feel the wind and hear the slight night sounds and the whuffle of the dog and just be.
Wednesday, February 03, 2010
happy happy joy joy
We just got back from a road trip to Indiana. L's grandmother celebrated her eightieth birthday. (I hope I'm that spry at eighty.)
The road trip itself was a kind of trial run for a much longer trip to Disney World later in the year. Can kids and parents cope with each other while being strapped into a moving box for hours on end? I'm happy to report, yes. We did all the hokey stuff. We sang. We ignored each other in favor of computer games. We searched in panic for shelter when Caleb announced that he had to pee NOW! And we talked.
Some time between mid-state Indiana and home, L started asking me about joy. "When did you begin to experience real joy?" she asked. Real joy. She meant not a happy moment, such as a birthday, but a deep immersion in satisfied well-being, a deep sense of . . . well, I guess you'd call it gratitude or thankfulness. Those are different words than joy, but to me they express the same thing. Gratitude and thankfulness are, in my mind, the beginning of any real and wholesome ethic.
"Not until the last few years," I said. She didn't seem to like the answer. I thought perhaps I was being too serious about it. (I can definitely treat a question much too seriously.) "Not really until I was out of work," I continued. "During that time I felt so full of gratitude for the realities of living, for the common but important things that we pass over now." That answer didn't seem to satisfy her either.
So let me, then, ask and see what might come of it. Joy. When have you or did you begin to experience joy, to know what it means and where to find it?
Oh, we're also getting a dog. More on that later.
The road trip itself was a kind of trial run for a much longer trip to Disney World later in the year. Can kids and parents cope with each other while being strapped into a moving box for hours on end? I'm happy to report, yes. We did all the hokey stuff. We sang. We ignored each other in favor of computer games. We searched in panic for shelter when Caleb announced that he had to pee NOW! And we talked.
Some time between mid-state Indiana and home, L started asking me about joy. "When did you begin to experience real joy?" she asked. Real joy. She meant not a happy moment, such as a birthday, but a deep immersion in satisfied well-being, a deep sense of . . . well, I guess you'd call it gratitude or thankfulness. Those are different words than joy, but to me they express the same thing. Gratitude and thankfulness are, in my mind, the beginning of any real and wholesome ethic.
"Not until the last few years," I said. She didn't seem to like the answer. I thought perhaps I was being too serious about it. (I can definitely treat a question much too seriously.) "Not really until I was out of work," I continued. "During that time I felt so full of gratitude for the realities of living, for the common but important things that we pass over now." That answer didn't seem to satisfy her either.
So let me, then, ask and see what might come of it. Joy. When have you or did you begin to experience joy, to know what it means and where to find it?
Oh, we're also getting a dog. More on that later.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Matthew 21.16
Just when you think you've failed as a parent (for the things we have done and for the things we have left undone), something like this happens. Tonight, just as I had finished reading the story of Solomon to Caleb and was trying to lovingly cajole him into his bed, Kara comes in. I started to wave her off saying, “He's just getting in bed.” But she plopped down next to him, opened our hymnal for kids, and started singing, “The B-I-B-L-E”. Caleb joined in, following it with a rousing four-year-old's rendition of “Zaccheus was a wee wittle man.” And the two of them sang song after song for five minutes or more. What can a parent do? I joined in!
Wednesday, August 05, 2009
Six bits of wisdom for the unemployed
So that's the emotion: now here comes the advice—some from me, some from experience. Here, as best I can remember it, is the wisdom obtained, or gained, during my four-plus months jobless and pretty much freaked out. And thank you to my uber-smart pragmatist brother-in-law, my parents, and my wife for being the ones who for the most part passed this on to me.
Wisdom Number One: Make the Call
The first few days after I lost my job, I was starved for human contact. Getting laid off is like being shoved off the boat into the black ocean; all you want to do is hail passing ships. I followed L everywhere—even sitting outside the shower just to keep a conversation going. Around her was an atmosphere of togetherness, but step too far away—just a few feet too far—and things grew cold again: deep water.
Others could extend that same cone of well-being. My parents called me every day for the first month, and a phone call would be enough to stave off panic for a few hours. Friends also sent e-mails, and that meant a lot. The support of friends I called coworkers just a few weeks before was an incalculable boon: I still feel a place of goodness in my heart from the words of prayer and encouragement that they sent me over Facebook or in person. Some even gave me some freelance work: good for the soul and for groceries.
People always say that it is a good thing to call or visit someone who is grieving or going through a hard time. Go, they say, or call or write—even if you have nothing to say, and I never understood that. But it is so true.
Take the night sky. We look up at the glittering stars in the sky and never feel the abyss. Our feet stand hard on the earth. The sky covers our heads like a blanket, and the darkness between each glittering splinter is just a happy fold. Then things tilt hard and you lose your footing. The blanket is jerked away and what is left is infinite space, nothing to hold on to: absolute impersonality.
This is, of course, an illusion. And the briefest contact with a fellow human being is all it takes to make that lonely abyss shimmer, blink, and wink out for awhile.
Wisdom Number Two: The plank is longer than you think
Burn rate, that's what my brother-in-law calls it. That's how long you have until the money runs out. That's how long until you move out of your house and move in with mom and dad. You sit down and figure out how long you've got. And, as odd as it sounds, it is kind of a relief.
See, while you're busy falling into the abyss or being reminded that the abyss doesn't exist, having something solid like real numbers is an amazing boon. Even the narrowest margin is still a margin, because it is a solid margin: some of the holiest places have been scraped together from the rockiest shelves and hollowed by hand from the sheerest cliffs. Truth, even the sober truth of the plank, is at least a place to stand.
Wisdom Number Three: Family comes first
It may seem odd not to talk about the mechanics of the job search at this point. But most people will begin going through the motions even if they're still in shock. I was in shock for the first month, and that gave me enough presence of mind to gather materials, get references, and even have a business lunch or two. It may be helpful if you know someone going through this process to put together a list of what they're good at, just to remind them. For awhile, you forget you are good at anything. But, again, that's just the next thing.
Real wisdom at this point is to take advantage of the new schedule to be with your family. No, it isn't exactly the vacation you may have wanted, but realizing that life, like light, contains many colors is a first step in regaining yourself. In my case, I saw a great deal of my wife and my son. Caleb and I spent many hours together at the library or at the park—or sometimes just watching TV together: something I would never have done with the constant presence of work. We had lunch together and I read him stories before naps. We ran errands and wrestled. Now that I work everyday, I miss those times and am so glad that he and I shared so much time together.
Wisdom Number Four: Prayer with and for others
I had the opportunity and privilege to begin attending morning prayer with several guys from my church, a few of them also out of work. Episcopal by tradition, we followed the calendar, praying in unison and responsively the morning II service from the Book of Common Prayer. I'll save the spiritual journey of this period for a future post. For now, let me just say that the comfort of lifting others up verbally in prayer and of hearing your own needs prayed for is palpable.
Work wants to be life in this culture. But, the thing is, it is not. And when you've been let go from work, the face-slap reminder cannot help but be a good thing. We forget so easily that we aren't what we do. We forget that our hopes and our loves are far more important. Regular prayer with others is a way of reminding the principalities and powers of work that their time is numbered. It is a check against the idolatry of effort and reward.
Wisdom Number Five: Practice habitual gratitude
It took a few months, but the love of family and friends mixed together with prayer made gratitude. The illusion of permanent work and position makes us feel entitled. But once you've calculated your burn rate and you aren't getting calls from your resume, little things like clean clothes and good food are little miracles. It doesn't take long for the newspaper, the television, or just snatches of stories in your mind to remind you that most of the world is a hungry and hopeless place. An out of work American is like a king living in exile for a time. Gratitude is not an emotion: it is a force. Gratitude is a wall. It is a fortress. You are walled up into gratitude. It doesn't need to be summoned, it is so tangible and evident in everything that it may as well be flesh and yourself a ghost. Wisdom practices gratitude as often as it can and with as much energy as possible.
Wisdom Number Six: Trust the future
I won't go into this one in too much depth yet. Suffice to say that all the employment manuals make it sound as if the only thing a newly unemployed person should do is find another job. Finding another job is your new job. Anything less is just letting yourself and your family down.
To this I say: not true. Finding a job is like growing a garden. Bursts of energy to turn earth or plant seeds punctuate the wisdom of waiting. You adjust the elements and have faith in the way things must be. That is exactly what I am talking about. The future has not forgotten about you. Do what is necessary and then pull up a seat on the porch.
Wisdom Number One: Make the Call
The first few days after I lost my job, I was starved for human contact. Getting laid off is like being shoved off the boat into the black ocean; all you want to do is hail passing ships. I followed L everywhere—even sitting outside the shower just to keep a conversation going. Around her was an atmosphere of togetherness, but step too far away—just a few feet too far—and things grew cold again: deep water.
Others could extend that same cone of well-being. My parents called me every day for the first month, and a phone call would be enough to stave off panic for a few hours. Friends also sent e-mails, and that meant a lot. The support of friends I called coworkers just a few weeks before was an incalculable boon: I still feel a place of goodness in my heart from the words of prayer and encouragement that they sent me over Facebook or in person. Some even gave me some freelance work: good for the soul and for groceries.
People always say that it is a good thing to call or visit someone who is grieving or going through a hard time. Go, they say, or call or write—even if you have nothing to say, and I never understood that. But it is so true.
Take the night sky. We look up at the glittering stars in the sky and never feel the abyss. Our feet stand hard on the earth. The sky covers our heads like a blanket, and the darkness between each glittering splinter is just a happy fold. Then things tilt hard and you lose your footing. The blanket is jerked away and what is left is infinite space, nothing to hold on to: absolute impersonality.
This is, of course, an illusion. And the briefest contact with a fellow human being is all it takes to make that lonely abyss shimmer, blink, and wink out for awhile.
Wisdom Number Two: The plank is longer than you think
Burn rate, that's what my brother-in-law calls it. That's how long you have until the money runs out. That's how long until you move out of your house and move in with mom and dad. You sit down and figure out how long you've got. And, as odd as it sounds, it is kind of a relief.
See, while you're busy falling into the abyss or being reminded that the abyss doesn't exist, having something solid like real numbers is an amazing boon. Even the narrowest margin is still a margin, because it is a solid margin: some of the holiest places have been scraped together from the rockiest shelves and hollowed by hand from the sheerest cliffs. Truth, even the sober truth of the plank, is at least a place to stand.
Wisdom Number Three: Family comes first
It may seem odd not to talk about the mechanics of the job search at this point. But most people will begin going through the motions even if they're still in shock. I was in shock for the first month, and that gave me enough presence of mind to gather materials, get references, and even have a business lunch or two. It may be helpful if you know someone going through this process to put together a list of what they're good at, just to remind them. For awhile, you forget you are good at anything. But, again, that's just the next thing.
Real wisdom at this point is to take advantage of the new schedule to be with your family. No, it isn't exactly the vacation you may have wanted, but realizing that life, like light, contains many colors is a first step in regaining yourself. In my case, I saw a great deal of my wife and my son. Caleb and I spent many hours together at the library or at the park—or sometimes just watching TV together: something I would never have done with the constant presence of work. We had lunch together and I read him stories before naps. We ran errands and wrestled. Now that I work everyday, I miss those times and am so glad that he and I shared so much time together.
Wisdom Number Four: Prayer with and for others
I had the opportunity and privilege to begin attending morning prayer with several guys from my church, a few of them also out of work. Episcopal by tradition, we followed the calendar, praying in unison and responsively the morning II service from the Book of Common Prayer. I'll save the spiritual journey of this period for a future post. For now, let me just say that the comfort of lifting others up verbally in prayer and of hearing your own needs prayed for is palpable.
Work wants to be life in this culture. But, the thing is, it is not. And when you've been let go from work, the face-slap reminder cannot help but be a good thing. We forget so easily that we aren't what we do. We forget that our hopes and our loves are far more important. Regular prayer with others is a way of reminding the principalities and powers of work that their time is numbered. It is a check against the idolatry of effort and reward.
Wisdom Number Five: Practice habitual gratitude
It took a few months, but the love of family and friends mixed together with prayer made gratitude. The illusion of permanent work and position makes us feel entitled. But once you've calculated your burn rate and you aren't getting calls from your resume, little things like clean clothes and good food are little miracles. It doesn't take long for the newspaper, the television, or just snatches of stories in your mind to remind you that most of the world is a hungry and hopeless place. An out of work American is like a king living in exile for a time. Gratitude is not an emotion: it is a force. Gratitude is a wall. It is a fortress. You are walled up into gratitude. It doesn't need to be summoned, it is so tangible and evident in everything that it may as well be flesh and yourself a ghost. Wisdom practices gratitude as often as it can and with as much energy as possible.
Wisdom Number Six: Trust the future
I won't go into this one in too much depth yet. Suffice to say that all the employment manuals make it sound as if the only thing a newly unemployed person should do is find another job. Finding another job is your new job. Anything less is just letting yourself and your family down.
To this I say: not true. Finding a job is like growing a garden. Bursts of energy to turn earth or plant seeds punctuate the wisdom of waiting. You adjust the elements and have faith in the way things must be. That is exactly what I am talking about. The future has not forgotten about you. Do what is necessary and then pull up a seat on the porch.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
looking back: the emotion
Six months. That's how long I was out of work. From Advent to Easter. And now that I am on the other side of it (thanks be to God), it is tempting to make light of the experience. It is almost bad form to admit that it was anything more than something analogous to taking a good, cold dip in the pool on a morning.
At the same time, memory being what it is, I also forget. What remains is all the time Caleb and I spent running errands or going to the library or hanging out at the park. Just his crazy smile and running legs, my exasperation with him for taking off as if he can't hear me, my missing him terribly when he's finally taking a nap after a hard and resistant insurgency. A quiet living room on a rainy Spring midday. Getting the paper off the drive and reading it for a change.
Why not leave well enough alone?
About two months in, just after Christmas, bottled up with ghosts, I sent a letter to a pastor friend. Pulling it up now turns memory over to see what is underneath. As much as I'd like to put it down with commentary--maybe I'm trying to make myself look better than I am; maybe it is still the need to put a smile on things or pretend I'm a superhero; and the thoughts that follow may make little sense--I'm going to reproduce blocks below. . . . Maybe I will come along later and insert commentary. There is more to the story. This is just the emotional landscape two months in. And as for why it is here: it is here because it should be here, or needs to be, or I can't admit that it doesn't matter anyway. So here goes:
It is an odd thing being unemployed. At first I was stunned, then determined, then forthright. Now I alternate between becoming alarmingly used to the lifestyle of "every day's a Saturday" and being truly and deeply angry or pitiful and remorseful about no longer going to work
In a moment, someone pulls a lever and there's that well-meaning shove out into space, legs
dangling and arms flailing and mouth saying, "Thank you" to be nice. . . the shock and sting of Nietzsche's Abyss--[the discovery that it has been] right there all the time!
At the same time, memory being what it is, I also forget. What remains is all the time Caleb and I spent running errands or going to the library or hanging out at the park. Just his crazy smile and running legs, my exasperation with him for taking off as if he can't hear me, my missing him terribly when he's finally taking a nap after a hard and resistant insurgency. A quiet living room on a rainy Spring midday. Getting the paper off the drive and reading it for a change.
Why not leave well enough alone?
About two months in, just after Christmas, bottled up with ghosts, I sent a letter to a pastor friend. Pulling it up now turns memory over to see what is underneath. As much as I'd like to put it down with commentary--maybe I'm trying to make myself look better than I am; maybe it is still the need to put a smile on things or pretend I'm a superhero; and the thoughts that follow may make little sense--I'm going to reproduce blocks below. . . . Maybe I will come along later and insert commentary. There is more to the story. This is just the emotional landscape two months in. And as for why it is here: it is here because it should be here, or needs to be, or I can't admit that it doesn't matter anyway. So here goes:
__________
It is an odd thing being unemployed. At first I was stunned, then determined, then forthright. Now I alternate between becoming alarmingly used to the lifestyle of "every day's a Saturday" and being truly and deeply angry or pitiful and remorseful about no longer going to work
In a moment, someone pulls a lever and there's that well-meaning shove out into space, legs
dangling and arms flailing and mouth saying, "Thank you" to be nice. . . the shock and sting of Nietzsche's Abyss--[the discovery that it has been] right there all the time!
It is dangerous to admit to emotions . . . [and there is] the fear of secret police. [Passed over because you felt too much.]
You aren't supposed to take it personally. "Nothing personal," they say, "but you'll read about my vacations on Facebook and see my photos while your family makes do with what was already purchased for the kids beforehand."
You aren't supposed to take it personally. "Nothing personal," they say, "but you'll read about my vacations on Facebook and see my photos while your family makes do with what was already purchased for the kids beforehand."
Is it truly nothing personal? This is the difficulty of ethics in a world defined by the corporation: who is exactly at fault? What is exactly being said? There is no context for any statement, and the usual context of HR and policy and the tradition of the company and the politics of this or that department, all of that is gone. There is no face, just the abyss. My Presbyterian friends might even go so far as to say that this is a little bit of judgment peeking through: hell, after all, if one takes it as it has been traditionally understood in line with Dante and the rest, means a place from which there is no point of appeal. There is no appeal in hell. One must simply come to grips with the situation.
It is an odd thing being unemployed. For this state, this "unemployed" is actually the real state of things, whereas having a job is a convenient fiction entered into for the sake of good ole American getting-things-done. I've thought quite a lot about that. Actors, contractors, and--dare I say--pastors and other entrepreneurs come to grips with this reality and find a way to live in it. We are our own labor and, (invoking Marx), we indenture ourselves to profit-making pacts called corporations for a length of time. My mistake was forgetting--I didn't mean to forget, but when you mix [a] religious enthusiasm with Adam Smith it is difficult not to forget, to let a bit of eschatology slip into one's paycheck and things-to-do, and the solving of the little devils of commerce.
[what one should hope for] . . . the Christian community [is] moved in the direction of the realization of the kingdom of God, but what person can of him or herself truly know the end purpose, the telos, the realization in concrete terms for that parousia. We hope, sure, and we see it darkly, but its how and when, even its coming-to-be now in all of us whose faces are turned to catch its light against the coming horizon: well, that is a mystery. A company, however, has definite ends. And when it "downsizes" or goes through a "reduction in forces" (a military term, please don't miss that), it confesses that end, namely, the production of wealth.
So much of the emotion that I try and sort out now comes from getting it so mixed up to begin with. It is, as they say, the prerogative of theologians to keep first things first. On the other hand, one cannot deny that good things are done: and so there is a kind of theological anthropology of corporations, even though corporations cannot ever assume the imago Dei. Okay, but then where do economic policy and the recognition of the imago Dei cross each other? [One's work is charitable. It may make lives better. It may save souls even while it is undeniably so that the same work has] a pro forma behind it, a P&L. It used to be a meaningful problem: how to sneak as much of the former past the unblinking and dead eyes of the latter. Now that problem is meaningless. The inertia of the energies that keep one thinking in the shower, in the commute, in the lunch break has nowhere to go but to slowly bleed out into empty space.
So, then, there is nothing to do but let the cacophony of unanswered questions: some felt and personal, some academic and theological, slowly recede into forgetting, and try and brush up on the cover-letter writing skills: homo economicus at play in a world full of horizontal act without vertical meaning.
So today I made a mistake: I listened to the news again. I'm atlas these days, wandering around with the world balanced just so across the shoulders and watching every step. Yesterday a friend asked me, "So, are you worried yet?" and the thing started tipping badly. I put my game face on and said, "No. After all, it only takes that one person with a job." I nearly had my balance back until the news today: the usual economic panic, thousands of people laid off, hundreds more whose lives and hopes, the work of years, is now in the dock of whatever accounting strategy their company prefers. Bang! My balance: there it goes again.
I've been trying to figure out exactly how to write you back. Which person should write you? The thankful one? The determined one? The eschatological one? The one still in a fetal position somewhere? The planner? (Did Kierkegaard have this problem?) Perhaps putting off responding will bring some tidbit of news so that anything of importance to talk about is obscured by "and then this is this latest thing."
It is an odd thing being unemployed. For this state, this "unemployed" is actually the real state of things, whereas having a job is a convenient fiction entered into for the sake of good ole American getting-things-done. I've thought quite a lot about that. Actors, contractors, and--dare I say--pastors and other entrepreneurs come to grips with this reality and find a way to live in it. We are our own labor and, (invoking Marx), we indenture ourselves to profit-making pacts called corporations for a length of time. My mistake was forgetting--I didn't mean to forget, but when you mix [a] religious enthusiasm with Adam Smith it is difficult not to forget, to let a bit of eschatology slip into one's paycheck and things-to-do, and the solving of the little devils of commerce.
[what one should hope for] . . . the Christian community [is] moved in the direction of the realization of the kingdom of God, but what person can of him or herself truly know the end purpose, the telos, the realization in concrete terms for that parousia. We hope, sure, and we see it darkly, but its how and when, even its coming-to-be now in all of us whose faces are turned to catch its light against the coming horizon: well, that is a mystery. A company, however, has definite ends. And when it "downsizes" or goes through a "reduction in forces" (a military term, please don't miss that), it confesses that end, namely, the production of wealth.
So much of the emotion that I try and sort out now comes from getting it so mixed up to begin with. It is, as they say, the prerogative of theologians to keep first things first. On the other hand, one cannot deny that good things are done: and so there is a kind of theological anthropology of corporations, even though corporations cannot ever assume the imago Dei. Okay, but then where do economic policy and the recognition of the imago Dei cross each other? [One's work is charitable. It may make lives better. It may save souls even while it is undeniably so that the same work has] a pro forma behind it, a P&L. It used to be a meaningful problem: how to sneak as much of the former past the unblinking and dead eyes of the latter. Now that problem is meaningless. The inertia of the energies that keep one thinking in the shower, in the commute, in the lunch break has nowhere to go but to slowly bleed out into empty space.
So, then, there is nothing to do but let the cacophony of unanswered questions: some felt and personal, some academic and theological, slowly recede into forgetting, and try and brush up on the cover-letter writing skills: homo economicus at play in a world full of horizontal act without vertical meaning.
[some hiatus of time]
So today I made a mistake: I listened to the news again. I'm atlas these days, wandering around with the world balanced just so across the shoulders and watching every step. Yesterday a friend asked me, "So, are you worried yet?" and the thing started tipping badly. I put my game face on and said, "No. After all, it only takes that one person with a job." I nearly had my balance back until the news today: the usual economic panic, thousands of people laid off, hundreds more whose lives and hopes, the work of years, is now in the dock of whatever accounting strategy their company prefers. Bang! My balance: there it goes again.
I've been trying to figure out exactly how to write you back. Which person should write you? The thankful one? The determined one? The eschatological one? The one still in a fetal position somewhere? The planner? (Did Kierkegaard have this problem?) Perhaps putting off responding will bring some tidbit of news so that anything of importance to talk about is obscured by "and then this is this latest thing."
[I'd started attending morning prayer at my church] . . . this morning my vicar and I assembled in the sanctuary--everything cold, but warming. Quiet but animated by the anima of we two shuffling into our places. And we began. I'd managed to drag the world there pretty much on schedule. Dutiful me showed up--and he's often about as good as any other, and much better than some. "Would you mind reading the Old Testament reading this morning?" "No, not at all." The text was Isaiah 41:17-29.
"When the poor and needy seek water, and there is none, and their tongue is parched with thirst, I the LORD will answer them, I the God of Israel will not forsake them. I will open rivers on the bare heights, and fountains in the midst of the valleys; I will make the wilderness a pool of water, and the dry land springs of water. I will put in the wilderness the cedar, the acacia, the myrtle, and the olive; I will set in the desert the cypress, the plane and the pine together, so that all may see and know, all may consider and understand, that the hand of the LORD has done this, the Holy One of Israel has created it." (NRSV)
I nearly broke. And though the prophet is not talking about my life, about my vicar and I, prayerbooks in hand, standing for the reading on this cold morning, though the prophet is talking about the only metanarrative that matters, the Kingdom of God, I thought I caught something. I shifted the immense weight over to the other shoulder to see if I could get a look. Someone there? Nothing. All continued until the sufferage.
Show us your mercy, O Lord; And grant us your salvation.
Clothe your ministers with righteousness; Let your people sing with joy.
Give peace, O Lord, in all the world; For only in you can we live in safety.
Lord, keep this nation under your care; And guide us in the way of justice and truth.
Let your way be known upon earth; Your saving health among all nations.
Let not the needy, O Lord, be forgotten; Nor the hope of the poor be taken away.
Create in us clean hearts, O God; And sustain us with your Holy Spirit.
There it was again. A footstep. "Look! I see four men walking around in the fire, unbound and unharmed, and the fourth looks like a son of the gods."
Are you finally here, then? . . . What can we hope for? And by we, I mean me? The vicar--looking very reverent at the moment and pastoral. The guy talking on his cellphone in the sedan on I65S. The middle-aged teller at the gas station on the way here. "Yes, I believe he will rise again at the resurrection." said Martha. She was used to being faithful to the metanarrative--the real one--willing to wait patiently, expectantly even, for whenever Adonai chose to get on with it. She was a woman of faith--her patient gaze an "evidence [now] of things yet unseen."
"When the poor and needy seek water, and there is none, and their tongue is parched with thirst, I the LORD will answer them, I the God of Israel will not forsake them. I will open rivers on the bare heights, and fountains in the midst of the valleys; I will make the wilderness a pool of water, and the dry land springs of water. I will put in the wilderness the cedar, the acacia, the myrtle, and the olive; I will set in the desert the cypress, the plane and the pine together, so that all may see and know, all may consider and understand, that the hand of the LORD has done this, the Holy One of Israel has created it." (NRSV)
I nearly broke. And though the prophet is not talking about my life, about my vicar and I, prayerbooks in hand, standing for the reading on this cold morning, though the prophet is talking about the only metanarrative that matters, the Kingdom of God, I thought I caught something. I shifted the immense weight over to the other shoulder to see if I could get a look. Someone there? Nothing. All continued until the sufferage.
Show us your mercy, O Lord; And grant us your salvation.
Clothe your ministers with righteousness; Let your people sing with joy.
Give peace, O Lord, in all the world; For only in you can we live in safety.
Lord, keep this nation under your care; And guide us in the way of justice and truth.
Let your way be known upon earth; Your saving health among all nations.
Let not the needy, O Lord, be forgotten; Nor the hope of the poor be taken away.
Create in us clean hearts, O God; And sustain us with your Holy Spirit.
There it was again. A footstep. "Look! I see four men walking around in the fire, unbound and unharmed, and the fourth looks like a son of the gods."
Are you finally here, then? . . . What can we hope for? And by we, I mean me? The vicar--looking very reverent at the moment and pastoral. The guy talking on his cellphone in the sedan on I65S. The middle-aged teller at the gas station on the way here. "Yes, I believe he will rise again at the resurrection." said Martha. She was used to being faithful to the metanarrative--the real one--willing to wait patiently, expectantly even, for whenever Adonai chose to get on with it. She was a woman of faith--her patient gaze an "evidence [now] of things yet unseen."
But what about the dead body?
Moving on.
[In response to the reminder that "all of these things you're experiencing right now are perfectly normal."]
For all the nested questions and other issues, thank you so much for saying that. Bold. Italics. Thank you. I'm not a lunatic. But, honestly, perfectly normal? This shadow shade of an existence? This empty nothing of any importance? The temptation to sit down and let the cold slowly overtake you, limbs going to sleep, until it doesn't matter any longer. There's another dead body, just like on Everest where they just leave them as markers for or against the way up.
Perfectly normal?
I have a new sight now. Not that it is anything worth having, I'd rather not be the Neo in this story--all day I've been wanting to make a Matrix reference to something. It sees new things and old. People seem as fragile as blown glass, still warm and whisper thin. Their bodies fade into living souls where tissue paper hearts tremble, and all the while there is the "all is well." Just yesterday, again, my friend who asked the "Are you worried?" question. He was telling me all about his work history. He did this and that. One piece of driftwood confessing that it is the current that does all the work. But aren't we are all tenuously adrift on unseen currents? Most people pretend they are like piers, sunk deep into the sand. They are unmoving. They are secure. But I've been pulled up. It is so obvious that I'm a driftwood, despite the self-assured me or the pragmatic me or the optimistic-to-the-death me. I'm so obviously untethered that there is no denying it. And put up against me, everyone else is revealed for what they are. And it makes them uncomfortable. "Are you worried yet?" The grass withers. The flowers fade. We are but a mist that vanishes. They were marrying and being given in marriage. "No, really, I'm an experienced editor--think of me as a project manager. I've worked with . . . Years of experience in . . ." That is pier language--a language game. Just more houses built upon sand.
I also look and see so many people who are dead, like those Everest corpses.
Once, in a men's group I attended, the question was asked how many men were doing that day something other than what they had wanted to do with their lives. Nearly all raised their hands. Dead men, all. And there was a day in their past when they stopped swimming and started surviving. What does purpose matter when there's mouths to feed? Practical me finds that a wholesome and good statement. I feel my American frontier roots. I feel the yes stretched out like voweled taffy in the Southern accents of the poor Mississippi planters and their wives whose genes are still with me, though they're but unremembered ghosts. (The present is the most forgetful of times. The past remembers, and the future is its child. It is only the present which is so empty that some say it doesn't even exist.)
Of course, there are beautiful colors in this new sight as well. [Sometimes my need to put a face on things is beyond irritating, but what can be done? That's just good business.]
Gratitude is a beautiful thing in this new sight. When we finally coax Caleb into holding his sister's hand and mine, all of us in a circle, and we give thanks. I am aware these days of the existence out there of not eating, of its at-your-side reality and possibility. Thus, there is real thanks behind table grace.
I see the innate value of each person: the image of God. Each person joined to all the others: we are all holding on to each other like driftwood determined that none escape and be lost. There is a prayer in the daily office, in the compline service (where compline is a beautiful word of itself, don't you think?) that says this so well, and it is one of the reasons that I like the office, for it calls to mind those bits of the world that we'd forget or that we ignore. It says
Keep watch, dear Lord, with those who work, or watch, or
weep this night, and give your angels charge over those who
sleep. Tend the sick, Lord Christ; give rest to the weary, bless
the dying, soothe the suffering, pity the afflicted, shield the
joyous; and all for your love's sake. Amen.
I want to say to businesses everywhere, calling to mind C. S. Lewis, "These are immortals you're tossing about like so much chaff." And I want to say to the dead, "Wake, O sleeper. Rise from the dead, and Christ will shine on you." (Eph. 5.14 NIV) Lines of people on the news, the faces of those driftwood-and-dying like me trying to keep paddling, and I want to say you are a human being. You are valuable. You are men and women of possibility and promise, of beauty and dignity. I no longer see you for what you do--that is paper thin. We are back to thin-spun glass, glass made of sand. No. The real solidity of us is in our made-ness, for he made us and we are known and not just known--loved.
Then, finally, pissed-off me shows up. The fifteen-year-old in there. Thank God for him: he just gives the finger to the whole thing, and wow! that just feels pretty good. I exist. I'm not dead.
Moving on.
[In response to the reminder that "all of these things you're experiencing right now are perfectly normal."]
For all the nested questions and other issues, thank you so much for saying that. Bold. Italics. Thank you. I'm not a lunatic. But, honestly, perfectly normal? This shadow shade of an existence? This empty nothing of any importance? The temptation to sit down and let the cold slowly overtake you, limbs going to sleep, until it doesn't matter any longer. There's another dead body, just like on Everest where they just leave them as markers for or against the way up.
Perfectly normal?
I have a new sight now. Not that it is anything worth having, I'd rather not be the Neo in this story--all day I've been wanting to make a Matrix reference to something. It sees new things and old. People seem as fragile as blown glass, still warm and whisper thin. Their bodies fade into living souls where tissue paper hearts tremble, and all the while there is the "all is well." Just yesterday, again, my friend who asked the "Are you worried?" question. He was telling me all about his work history. He did this and that. One piece of driftwood confessing that it is the current that does all the work. But aren't we are all tenuously adrift on unseen currents? Most people pretend they are like piers, sunk deep into the sand. They are unmoving. They are secure. But I've been pulled up. It is so obvious that I'm a driftwood, despite the self-assured me or the pragmatic me or the optimistic-to-the-death me. I'm so obviously untethered that there is no denying it. And put up against me, everyone else is revealed for what they are. And it makes them uncomfortable. "Are you worried yet?" The grass withers. The flowers fade. We are but a mist that vanishes. They were marrying and being given in marriage. "No, really, I'm an experienced editor--think of me as a project manager. I've worked with . . . Years of experience in . . ." That is pier language--a language game. Just more houses built upon sand.
I also look and see so many people who are dead, like those Everest corpses.
Once, in a men's group I attended, the question was asked how many men were doing that day something other than what they had wanted to do with their lives. Nearly all raised their hands. Dead men, all. And there was a day in their past when they stopped swimming and started surviving. What does purpose matter when there's mouths to feed? Practical me finds that a wholesome and good statement. I feel my American frontier roots. I feel the yes stretched out like voweled taffy in the Southern accents of the poor Mississippi planters and their wives whose genes are still with me, though they're but unremembered ghosts. (The present is the most forgetful of times. The past remembers, and the future is its child. It is only the present which is so empty that some say it doesn't even exist.)
Of course, there are beautiful colors in this new sight as well. [Sometimes my need to put a face on things is beyond irritating, but what can be done? That's just good business.]
Gratitude is a beautiful thing in this new sight. When we finally coax Caleb into holding his sister's hand and mine, all of us in a circle, and we give thanks. I am aware these days of the existence out there of not eating, of its at-your-side reality and possibility. Thus, there is real thanks behind table grace.
I see the innate value of each person: the image of God. Each person joined to all the others: we are all holding on to each other like driftwood determined that none escape and be lost. There is a prayer in the daily office, in the compline service (where compline is a beautiful word of itself, don't you think?) that says this so well, and it is one of the reasons that I like the office, for it calls to mind those bits of the world that we'd forget or that we ignore. It says
Keep watch, dear Lord, with those who work, or watch, or
weep this night, and give your angels charge over those who
sleep. Tend the sick, Lord Christ; give rest to the weary, bless
the dying, soothe the suffering, pity the afflicted, shield the
joyous; and all for your love's sake. Amen.
I want to say to businesses everywhere, calling to mind C. S. Lewis, "These are immortals you're tossing about like so much chaff." And I want to say to the dead, "Wake, O sleeper. Rise from the dead, and Christ will shine on you." (Eph. 5.14 NIV) Lines of people on the news, the faces of those driftwood-and-dying like me trying to keep paddling, and I want to say you are a human being. You are valuable. You are men and women of possibility and promise, of beauty and dignity. I no longer see you for what you do--that is paper thin. We are back to thin-spun glass, glass made of sand. No. The real solidity of us is in our made-ness, for he made us and we are known and not just known--loved.
Then, finally, pissed-off me shows up. The fifteen-year-old in there. Thank God for him: he just gives the finger to the whole thing, and wow! that just feels pretty good. I exist. I'm not dead.
Thursday, February 05, 2009
American denial?
So here is the premise. You and your family are cast upon the shores of a bare and deserted island. You are alone. No one can help you. There are no doctors to patch up your wounds, no inns or restaurants to see comfortably to your needs. And if you want shelter, you have to create and reinforce it yourself. There are only the supplies available on the reef-pierced wreck, and it may be a year or more before you are rescued. What counts is survival—and nothing else.
As I look around my house doing simple things like opening blinds, sweeping the floor, making the beds, L and I are beginning to think like this. This house is our lean-to. Our savings and what food we have on hand and the gas in our cars (or perhaps the cars themselves), the wreck. We are beginning to ask if it is time to begin thinking like survivalists.
What if, for example, we had to live without electricity? What if we rationed our food and water? What if we sealed off rooms and taped doors shut, turning the living room into temporary bedrooms for the kids and shutting heat and power use almost completely to the downstairs? What if we stockpiled canned and powdered goods like cold war fanatics? What if we bought produce in season and canned it? What if we changed what we ate: rationing expensive foods like meat and increasing the amount of rice or potatoes? What if we went to bed and rose with the sun so that we didn't use electricity to see by--our house has plenty of windows? What if we turned half of the garage into gardens for mushrooms or herbs, started raising plants in other places indoors, and turned up not a small portion but half or more of the backyard? Survival trumps a place to play this year. What if we learned to sew and began to make our own clothes? What if we started hanging our clothes to dry? What if we sold everything that wasn't absolutely necessary? What if we started brushing and flossing our teeth more religiously than ever? What if we made an effort to tap into the bartering economy that no doubt exists already in the seams of our community? What if we started making crafts or other items that could be sold on eBay? What if we had to use our fireplace as a cook stove? What if we reduced down to one car?
There is always the temptation to deny reality. I am always the last to give up the way I want things to be and accept things for what they are. None of us wants to believe that the peak oil people or the climate change people are right. None of us wants to believe this is a time when the word is not change or retool or plan B, but it is survival. As in having something to eat. As in having a bed to sleep in. As in the way things used to be, the America that existed even eight months ago, is over and whether it comes back or not is a question left only to the comfortable, such as those who represent us or who laid us off. Is this the most reasonable response or is this a fanatical one? Only hindsight can say. I haven't made up my mind yet, and it is hard to say whether the delay is a sober one or just an act of would-be-middle-class American denial.
And now our case was very dismal indeed; for we all saw plainly, that the sea went so high that the boat could not live, and that we should be inevitably drowned. As to making sail, we had none, nor, if we had, could we ha' done any thing with it: so we work'd at the oar towards the land, tho' with heavy hearts, like men going to execution; for we all knew that when the boat came nearer the shore, she would be dash'd in a thousand pieces by the breach of the sea. However, we commmitted our souls to God in the most earnest manner . . .
After we had row'd, or rather driven, about a league and a half, as we reckon'd it, a raging wave, mountain-like, came rowling a-stern of us, and plainly bad us expect the coup de grace. In a word, it took us with such a fury, that it overset the boat at once; and separating us as well from the boat as from one another, gave us not time hardly to say, O God! for we were all swallowed up in a moment.
Daniel Defoe. Robinson Crusoe
As I look around my house doing simple things like opening blinds, sweeping the floor, making the beds, L and I are beginning to think like this. This house is our lean-to. Our savings and what food we have on hand and the gas in our cars (or perhaps the cars themselves), the wreck. We are beginning to ask if it is time to begin thinking like survivalists.
What if, for example, we had to live without electricity? What if we rationed our food and water? What if we sealed off rooms and taped doors shut, turning the living room into temporary bedrooms for the kids and shutting heat and power use almost completely to the downstairs? What if we stockpiled canned and powdered goods like cold war fanatics? What if we bought produce in season and canned it? What if we changed what we ate: rationing expensive foods like meat and increasing the amount of rice or potatoes? What if we went to bed and rose with the sun so that we didn't use electricity to see by--our house has plenty of windows? What if we turned half of the garage into gardens for mushrooms or herbs, started raising plants in other places indoors, and turned up not a small portion but half or more of the backyard? Survival trumps a place to play this year. What if we learned to sew and began to make our own clothes? What if we started hanging our clothes to dry? What if we sold everything that wasn't absolutely necessary? What if we started brushing and flossing our teeth more religiously than ever? What if we made an effort to tap into the bartering economy that no doubt exists already in the seams of our community? What if we started making crafts or other items that could be sold on eBay? What if we had to use our fireplace as a cook stove? What if we reduced down to one car?
There is always the temptation to deny reality. I am always the last to give up the way I want things to be and accept things for what they are. None of us wants to believe that the peak oil people or the climate change people are right. None of us wants to believe this is a time when the word is not change or retool or plan B, but it is survival. As in having something to eat. As in having a bed to sleep in. As in the way things used to be, the America that existed even eight months ago, is over and whether it comes back or not is a question left only to the comfortable, such as those who represent us or who laid us off. Is this the most reasonable response or is this a fanatical one? Only hindsight can say. I haven't made up my mind yet, and it is hard to say whether the delay is a sober one or just an act of would-be-middle-class American denial.
And now our case was very dismal indeed; for we all saw plainly, that the sea went so high that the boat could not live, and that we should be inevitably drowned. As to making sail, we had none, nor, if we had, could we ha' done any thing with it: so we work'd at the oar towards the land, tho' with heavy hearts, like men going to execution; for we all knew that when the boat came nearer the shore, she would be dash'd in a thousand pieces by the breach of the sea. However, we commmitted our souls to God in the most earnest manner . . .
After we had row'd, or rather driven, about a league and a half, as we reckon'd it, a raging wave, mountain-like, came rowling a-stern of us, and plainly bad us expect the coup de grace. In a word, it took us with such a fury, that it overset the boat at once; and separating us as well from the boat as from one another, gave us not time hardly to say, O God! for we were all swallowed up in a moment.
Tuesday, January 06, 2009
returning a virtue?
~Virginia Woolf
One. Two. My sneakers, getting worse for wear these days, slid tight into their appointed places in the closet shoe hanger. I'd thrown them behind the door, but with a little effort it was one less thing on the floor. "Don't be lazy," I said to myself. "Put them where they go." One. Two.
Maybe I've become a little OCD with age. My mother used to pile the clutter on my room into a huge burial mound in an attempt to visually and physically force me to clean up. That would be me now, throwing Star Wars figures, G.I. Joe soldiers, random cars, trucks, and space vehicles along with bits of hardened Play Dough and model pieces into a pyre taken straight out of the Island of Misfit Toys meets cultural revolution. Yes, somewhere along the way, a virtue popped up in some unnoticeable corner (doubtless nurtured with good diligence by my wife) called: The Virtue of Putting Things Back Where They Go.
One. Two. Two steps up the ladder of divine ascent, or in this case, the clean, crisp stairway of the same. It feels so good to put things back in their places. So orderly. So satisfying and even sacred. Virtue or not, there is a holiness to it.
There seems a direct correlation between this kind of action and a practical, no-nonsense eschatology of a sort that Martha would have gladly written into the cookbook between stout soup and a satisfying casserole. Doesn't the triune God have an economy: an ordering of the home, albeit this great universe bound in time and space? Isn't redemption itself a kind of putting things back into place. "Damn creation has gone all out of sorts, time to pull it all out onto the floor and go about the business of putting it back together." The angels go to work seperating it out into heaps: soldiers, kings, theives, harlots, Wall Street sophists, lovers, vicars, and out-of-work editors.
It is such a small act, putting things back. A little extra work--and isn't that what virtues are, just a little effort more than the minimum? Hang up that jacket you just threw into the closet. Put your glasses where they go. Wash a dish. And isn't the result a kind of cleanliness of space and of mind?
I love the clean lines and open surfaces of a space where things are meant to be. And how characteristic is the love to so much of what we human beings do on a daily basis. She designes relational databases. He runs a forklift. She replants her garden in the Spring. He checks the weather forecast and chooses to wear a thicker coat. She checks the notes for a presentation to persuade others.
Ask yourself what changes this simple virtue could make applied to just the space of a room or two of your home? To your car? To your wallet or purse? Our surroundings shape us, shape our expectations, and shape what possibilities are available to our hopes in subtle ways. Is it easier to pursue virtue when everything has a place? Is orderliness--or, to make it a noun--"returning" a fundamental virtue?
Thursday, December 25, 2008
A Few Precious Christmas Moments
As I'm typing this I'm sitting in the kitchen. From here I can smell the pumpkin bread baking in the oven, I can feel the clutter of Christmas wrappings, and I can see Thom and Kara sitting at the dining room table showing Thom's grandmother all of the latest sites on the Internet. She's now had Lessons in Facebook, LinkedIn, Hulu.com, Twitter and Webkinz world. Thom is as gentle with her as if he were teaching a small child and she's soaking it all in and asking good question. It's very sweet, but not the first sweet moment of today.
Just a few minutes ago Kara and I were sitting together in our new "big chair" in the living room. It's the kind of chair that a grown-up can sit in and a kid can sit across you resting their legs on the big, round arms of the chair. Kara and I were having a very serious conversation. Over the years Kara has often inquired the answer to the question "are we poor?" For a while this was based on our residence in an apartment rather than a house. Sometimes this related to some random comment about whether or not we could afford something, sometimes it just seemed the question itself was random. Either way it has been a recurrent theme for her. So, today we were again revisiting this question. She had a wonderful Christmas, but overheard a bit of conversation that concerned her, so we were having a serious Mommy-Daughter talk. I remembered that although I had talked with quite a few adults about my recent feelings on staying steadfast in trusting in the Lord, I had not really talked with Kara about this. Here was my chance. We talked about the challenges this year had presented. We talked about James Chapter 1 and we talked about what it means to be steadfast in our trust of the Lord for all things. The conversation concluded with me saying I was not planning on losing hope in God and as long as we had hope in God, we would not ever be truly poor. So, I asked her, are you planning on losing hope in God? And she answered me with the look of a true believer and said "would I ever do that?" and hopped off my lap secure in her hope in the Lord.
Ok, one more sweet Christmas story. For weeks now the only Christmas wish from Caleb has been for a vacuum cleaner. And not just any vacuum cleaner. He wanted the toy Hoover Windtunnel Upright with attachments. To the best of my knowledge it hasn't been in a store since 2006 and only one has been on eBay in the last two months. Look it up -- it's over $100 on Amazon and that's if they have one. So, first we tried to convince him any vacuum would do just fine. He didn't buy that. One night, about three weeks ago, we were sitting at the dinner table talking with Caleb about Jesus and Santa -- who was real, who do we worship, etc. So, I asked Caleb -- "What has Jesus done for you?" -- of course I was hoping for the words "He died on the cross for my sins." -- nope, I get "Jesus has a vacuum cleaner?" It was all Thom and I could do to keep from laughing ! After this we began seriously thinking --- we need to find this boy the vacuum of his dreams! So, we sent a note out on Twitter -- to the whole free world and some of the not-so-free world. We got back one response -- from very close friends at our church!!! Sure enough Jesus had a vacuum cleaner for Caleb -- it just happened to visit our friend's house for a few years first.
Fast forward to last night. It's 10pm and the little guy COULD not fall asleep. Armed with a green crayon and a piece of paper he snatched from his sister, he wanted to write a letter to Santa. Evidently the voices of his friends and teachers are just as loud as Mommy & Daddy and Santa-lore lives on. Ok, we'll write him a letter. After some scribbly attempts on his own, I offered to take dicatation. He told me line by line : "Dear Santa, I want a vacuum cleaner for Christmas. Mommy and Daddy love you. Grandma and Papa love you. I love my friends Ben and Greyson." He paused and looked at me.
"Mommy, what about Jesus?" he asked.
"What about Jesus, Caleb?"
"We forgot Jesus." he said.
"What did we forget about Jesus, Caleb?"
"We forgot to write Jesus."
"Do you want me to write something about Jesus."
"We need to write Jesus."
"Caleb, do you want this letter to GO to Jesus."
"Yes, Mommy!!"
"Ok, can we cross out Santa and write Jesus instead."
"Oh, yes, Mommy!"
So, I drew a big green X through Santa and wrote Jesus up above. And re-read the letter.
"Dear Jesus, I want a vacuum cleaner for Christmas. Mommy and Daddy love you. Grandma and Papa love you. I love my friends Ben and Greyson. I love you, too. Caleb."
Then we had to draw a picture of the vacuum cleaner on the back and Caleb slept holding this piece of paper.
6:45 AM -- Caleb is up the stairs and heading to the presents. When he saw the vacuum cleaner, his mouth fell open and he announced "What in the world?! It's a vacuum cleaner!!"
About two hours later we were sitting eating breakfast in the kitchen. Caleb leaned over to me and said:
"Mommy, I'm yucky."
"No, you're not Caleb. You're yummy."
"No, Mommy, I'm yucky."
"Caleb, what part of you is yucky?"
"No, Mommy, I'm yuck-y" He said slowly and I got it!
"Oh, Caleb, do you mean you're Lucky?!"
"Yes, Mommy. I'm yucky."
"Why are you lucky Caleb?"
He hopped up from the table and ran from the room. A minute or two later he came back in holding his letter to Jesus. "See Mommy. I'm yucky."
I was astounded. How many three year olds do you know who feel fortunate or blessed or lucky? It seems in this day and age, most kids feel entitled, sometimes even disappointed. I feel lucky that my little guy feels lucky today. I pray that all of our prayers could be answered as simply as Caleb's little vacuum cleaner. And if not, I pray that all of us could have Kara's confidence that she will never have a time in her life where she would give up on trusting in God.
Remember to enjoy the Gift of Christmas every day of your life. Christmas is supposed to be a Holy-Day, not just a holiday and it is here to remind us that the truth of Jesus is true every day. May 2009 be a blessing in your life!
Just a few minutes ago Kara and I were sitting together in our new "big chair" in the living room. It's the kind of chair that a grown-up can sit in and a kid can sit across you resting their legs on the big, round arms of the chair. Kara and I were having a very serious conversation. Over the years Kara has often inquired the answer to the question "are we poor?" For a while this was based on our residence in an apartment rather than a house. Sometimes this related to some random comment about whether or not we could afford something, sometimes it just seemed the question itself was random. Either way it has been a recurrent theme for her. So, today we were again revisiting this question. She had a wonderful Christmas, but overheard a bit of conversation that concerned her, so we were having a serious Mommy-Daughter talk. I remembered that although I had talked with quite a few adults about my recent feelings on staying steadfast in trusting in the Lord, I had not really talked with Kara about this. Here was my chance. We talked about the challenges this year had presented. We talked about James Chapter 1 and we talked about what it means to be steadfast in our trust of the Lord for all things. The conversation concluded with me saying I was not planning on losing hope in God and as long as we had hope in God, we would not ever be truly poor. So, I asked her, are you planning on losing hope in God? And she answered me with the look of a true believer and said "would I ever do that?" and hopped off my lap secure in her hope in the Lord.
Ok, one more sweet Christmas story. For weeks now the only Christmas wish from Caleb has been for a vacuum cleaner. And not just any vacuum cleaner. He wanted the toy Hoover Windtunnel Upright with attachments. To the best of my knowledge it hasn't been in a store since 2006 and only one has been on eBay in the last two months. Look it up -- it's over $100 on Amazon and that's if they have one. So, first we tried to convince him any vacuum would do just fine. He didn't buy that. One night, about three weeks ago, we were sitting at the dinner table talking with Caleb about Jesus and Santa -- who was real, who do we worship, etc. So, I asked Caleb -- "What has Jesus done for you?" -- of course I was hoping for the words "He died on the cross for my sins." -- nope, I get "Jesus has a vacuum cleaner?" It was all Thom and I could do to keep from laughing ! After this we began seriously thinking --- we need to find this boy the vacuum of his dreams! So, we sent a note out on Twitter -- to the whole free world and some of the not-so-free world. We got back one response -- from very close friends at our church!!! Sure enough Jesus had a vacuum cleaner for Caleb -- it just happened to visit our friend's house for a few years first.
Fast forward to last night. It's 10pm and the little guy COULD not fall asleep. Armed with a green crayon and a piece of paper he snatched from his sister, he wanted to write a letter to Santa. Evidently the voices of his friends and teachers are just as loud as Mommy & Daddy and Santa-lore lives on. Ok, we'll write him a letter. After some scribbly attempts on his own, I offered to take dicatation. He told me line by line : "Dear Santa, I want a vacuum cleaner for Christmas. Mommy and Daddy love you. Grandma and Papa love you. I love my friends Ben and Greyson." He paused and looked at me.
"Mommy, what about Jesus?" he asked.
"What about Jesus, Caleb?"
"We forgot Jesus." he said.
"What did we forget about Jesus, Caleb?"
"We forgot to write Jesus."
"Do you want me to write something about Jesus."
"We need to write Jesus."
"Caleb, do you want this letter to GO to Jesus."
"Yes, Mommy!!"
"Ok, can we cross out Santa and write Jesus instead."
"Oh, yes, Mommy!"
So, I drew a big green X through Santa and wrote Jesus up above. And re-read the letter.
"Dear Jesus, I want a vacuum cleaner for Christmas. Mommy and Daddy love you. Grandma and Papa love you. I love my friends Ben and Greyson. I love you, too. Caleb."
Then we had to draw a picture of the vacuum cleaner on the back and Caleb slept holding this piece of paper.
6:45 AM -- Caleb is up the stairs and heading to the presents. When he saw the vacuum cleaner, his mouth fell open and he announced "What in the world?! It's a vacuum cleaner!!"
About two hours later we were sitting eating breakfast in the kitchen. Caleb leaned over to me and said:
"Mommy, I'm yucky."
"No, you're not Caleb. You're yummy."
"No, Mommy, I'm yucky."
"Caleb, what part of you is yucky?"
"No, Mommy, I'm yuck-y" He said slowly and I got it!
"Oh, Caleb, do you mean you're Lucky?!"
"Yes, Mommy. I'm yucky."
"Why are you lucky Caleb?"
He hopped up from the table and ran from the room. A minute or two later he came back in holding his letter to Jesus. "See Mommy. I'm yucky."
I was astounded. How many three year olds do you know who feel fortunate or blessed or lucky? It seems in this day and age, most kids feel entitled, sometimes even disappointed. I feel lucky that my little guy feels lucky today. I pray that all of our prayers could be answered as simply as Caleb's little vacuum cleaner. And if not, I pray that all of us could have Kara's confidence that she will never have a time in her life where she would give up on trusting in God.
Remember to enjoy the Gift of Christmas every day of your life. Christmas is supposed to be a Holy-Day, not just a holiday and it is here to remind us that the truth of Jesus is true every day. May 2009 be a blessing in your life!
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
So, what's been going on...
It used to seem easy to just hop online and write up a new post for the family blog. It was like grabbing the journal or diary on my nightstand and jotting down the events of the day, but lately it's been more like climbing Mount Everest.
When we started this blog our life was a 1,000 -- a million -- miles away from what it is now. In 2005 we wrote more than 250 posts, more than in all the years since then. And it's not that our lives have gotten less interesting, if anything it's exactly the opposite -- our lives are so full, we forget to take time to jot anything down. When Kara was a new baby I had completed two full journals about her life by the time she was three -- with Caleb, I'm still on the same journal as the week he was born!
So, why am I writing this? Well, it IS NOT to say that we're giving up on the blog. If anything, it's more like a New Year's Resolution. On the other hand, for those of you on Facebook, you're more likely to get a Twitter-length note from me than a the well-thought-out post on here.
So... here's a little time-capsule sort of update for what is going on Dec. 2008-- before any more time passes....
Since I usually save myself for last or forget to write anything about me at all, I'll start with me--- I've been very consistant with my writing this year. I've written five biographical articles each month this year, except for July -- due to my Grandmother's illness and passing. I have learned and forgotten more biographical facts about individuals whose names I know cannot remember than I ever thought possible. I am WAY, WAY behind in my scrapbooking -- my scrapbooks don't even know that the world made it to 2008, but I'm hoping to get a little more caught up in the New Year -- again with the pseudo-resolutions. For those of you who haven't seen me in a while, my hair has gotten seriously long, down to the middle of my back. For those of you who see me all the time -- that's how long it is when I take it down out of the clips I usually wear! :-) Again with the resolutions -- I've put on a few unwelcome pounds this year and I'm planning on losing them regardless of the date on the calendar. I just need to do that for me. My parents have gifted us their stationary bike and I plan on making the most of that, as soon as the garage is cleaner and the site of it doesn't give me heart palpatations and shortness of breath. Enough about me.
Thom is plugging along through the job hunt. As I'm pretty sure everyone knows, he has been home since being let go from Thomas Nelson on November 12. The official word was - lay-offs. He got some severance, some COBRA coverage and help from an outplacement services firm that helps corporate types plan out their job hunt. So far so good. Thom has become a networking guru! He signed up on LinkedIn and appears to be pretty well linked. He's got some great references and has seen a bit of forward movement on three possible job leads. The most promising one may pan out in the first month or so of the new year. It would be an excellent opportunity for him to use his past contacts through Gordon-Conwell and his work in publishing to help a publishing house expand their evangelical author base. We are quite hopeful that this is the plan God has for us. Until then he is keeping busy with freelance proofing projects from Thomas Nelson. He is also getting a much better understanding of why I often have called him toward the end of the day wondering how soon he'll be home! -- the kids can drive you crazy sometimes just being kids.
As for the kids --- Caleb is FULL OF HIMSELF lately! Since trying to munch on the light bulb he has gotten in trouble for trying to clean the bathtub with Comet -- a project he took on while Daddy and I were downstairs cleaning up Kara's room for no more than ten minutes. He's also had the less than stellar experience of biting another child and drawing blood -- this happened at school. AND, he's developing a talent for altering the truth. This last one he's really not so good at. He tells the truth until he gets in trouble and then suddenly and, quite dramatically, he announces that no, in fact, the opposite is true. An example of this came up when the full story of the biting came out. Apparently the other child had brought a panda to school for Share Time (show & tell) when I called Caleb down particularly for not taking someone else's Share toy he listened long enough to figure out that was the problem and then stretched out both arms for emphasis and announced "It was not a share toy." Busted! Now he had biten a boy AND lied. We're working on that! On the more positive side, he loves to perform. He needs a stage -- a blanket, a chair, whatever works. Oh yeah, and he needs a microphone, but not a tiny little Lego-built microphone -- "That one's too small." Once it's all set he usually makes it about four words into the song before dejectedly wandering off-stage dissappointed in his own performance. Soon after, he'll return, only to leave again after the same four words.
Kara is an eight-year-old enigma. She is doing great in school, but acts like she hates homework, but then wants to stay up late practicing her spelling words. She hates hearing people scream about anything, but can't seem to get her personal volume control set lower than the SCREECH setting. She reacts to a stubbed toe like she's Jamie Lee Curtis from Halloween. She doesn't want to get her good school sneakers dirty so she never wears them anywhere except school, but I'm perpetually having to remind her to pull up the back of her pants. Some days she'll eat everything on her plate like she's never seen food before and other days I'm not sure how she grows. She loves Legos, and baby dolls, and Star Wars, and Barbie Dolls, and Star Wars Legos, and Pollypockets and Webkinz and computer games, but when you ask her what she wants for Christmas she doesn't know. She's a mostly happy girl, I think, she is compliant about her braces and enjoys picking out new colors for her bracket holders, but if you ask her if she likes going to the dentist she gives you a vague look like "seriously?" She has glasses, we know this because we find them on every flat surface in the house except for her face. But if she leaves them at home, she'll go to the school office and call to have me bring them to her. A friend once said that eight-year old girls go through some sort of early round of hormones -- I'm thinking she was right!
Well, this is our life. If you get our Christmas letter, it'll read a little prettier, but this isn't a Christmas letter, just blog -- web-log, diary entry, Star Date December 16, 2008. --- that's for any fellow closet Trekkies out there.
When we started this blog our life was a 1,000 -- a million -- miles away from what it is now. In 2005 we wrote more than 250 posts, more than in all the years since then. And it's not that our lives have gotten less interesting, if anything it's exactly the opposite -- our lives are so full, we forget to take time to jot anything down. When Kara was a new baby I had completed two full journals about her life by the time she was three -- with Caleb, I'm still on the same journal as the week he was born!
So, why am I writing this? Well, it IS NOT to say that we're giving up on the blog. If anything, it's more like a New Year's Resolution. On the other hand, for those of you on Facebook, you're more likely to get a Twitter-length note from me than a the well-thought-out post on here.
So... here's a little time-capsule sort of update for what is going on Dec. 2008-- before any more time passes....
Since I usually save myself for last or forget to write anything about me at all, I'll start with me--- I've been very consistant with my writing this year. I've written five biographical articles each month this year, except for July -- due to my Grandmother's illness and passing. I have learned and forgotten more biographical facts about individuals whose names I know cannot remember than I ever thought possible. I am WAY, WAY behind in my scrapbooking -- my scrapbooks don't even know that the world made it to 2008, but I'm hoping to get a little more caught up in the New Year -- again with the pseudo-resolutions. For those of you who haven't seen me in a while, my hair has gotten seriously long, down to the middle of my back. For those of you who see me all the time -- that's how long it is when I take it down out of the clips I usually wear! :-) Again with the resolutions -- I've put on a few unwelcome pounds this year and I'm planning on losing them regardless of the date on the calendar. I just need to do that for me. My parents have gifted us their stationary bike and I plan on making the most of that, as soon as the garage is cleaner and the site of it doesn't give me heart palpatations and shortness of breath. Enough about me.
Thom is plugging along through the job hunt. As I'm pretty sure everyone knows, he has been home since being let go from Thomas Nelson on November 12. The official word was - lay-offs. He got some severance, some COBRA coverage and help from an outplacement services firm that helps corporate types plan out their job hunt. So far so good. Thom has become a networking guru! He signed up on LinkedIn and appears to be pretty well linked. He's got some great references and has seen a bit of forward movement on three possible job leads. The most promising one may pan out in the first month or so of the new year. It would be an excellent opportunity for him to use his past contacts through Gordon-Conwell and his work in publishing to help a publishing house expand their evangelical author base. We are quite hopeful that this is the plan God has for us. Until then he is keeping busy with freelance proofing projects from Thomas Nelson. He is also getting a much better understanding of why I often have called him toward the end of the day wondering how soon he'll be home! -- the kids can drive you crazy sometimes just being kids.
As for the kids --- Caleb is FULL OF HIMSELF lately! Since trying to munch on the light bulb he has gotten in trouble for trying to clean the bathtub with Comet -- a project he took on while Daddy and I were downstairs cleaning up Kara's room for no more than ten minutes. He's also had the less than stellar experience of biting another child and drawing blood -- this happened at school. AND, he's developing a talent for altering the truth. This last one he's really not so good at. He tells the truth until he gets in trouble and then suddenly and, quite dramatically, he announces that no, in fact, the opposite is true. An example of this came up when the full story of the biting came out. Apparently the other child had brought a panda to school for Share Time (show & tell) when I called Caleb down particularly for not taking someone else's Share toy he listened long enough to figure out that was the problem and then stretched out both arms for emphasis and announced "It was not a share toy." Busted! Now he had biten a boy AND lied. We're working on that! On the more positive side, he loves to perform. He needs a stage -- a blanket, a chair, whatever works. Oh yeah, and he needs a microphone, but not a tiny little Lego-built microphone -- "That one's too small." Once it's all set he usually makes it about four words into the song before dejectedly wandering off-stage dissappointed in his own performance. Soon after, he'll return, only to leave again after the same four words.
Kara is an eight-year-old enigma. She is doing great in school, but acts like she hates homework, but then wants to stay up late practicing her spelling words. She hates hearing people scream about anything, but can't seem to get her personal volume control set lower than the SCREECH setting. She reacts to a stubbed toe like she's Jamie Lee Curtis from Halloween. She doesn't want to get her good school sneakers dirty so she never wears them anywhere except school, but I'm perpetually having to remind her to pull up the back of her pants. Some days she'll eat everything on her plate like she's never seen food before and other days I'm not sure how she grows. She loves Legos, and baby dolls, and Star Wars, and Barbie Dolls, and Star Wars Legos, and Pollypockets and Webkinz and computer games, but when you ask her what she wants for Christmas she doesn't know. She's a mostly happy girl, I think, she is compliant about her braces and enjoys picking out new colors for her bracket holders, but if you ask her if she likes going to the dentist she gives you a vague look like "seriously?" She has glasses, we know this because we find them on every flat surface in the house except for her face. But if she leaves them at home, she'll go to the school office and call to have me bring them to her. A friend once said that eight-year old girls go through some sort of early round of hormones -- I'm thinking she was right!
Well, this is our life. If you get our Christmas letter, it'll read a little prettier, but this isn't a Christmas letter, just blog -- web-log, diary entry, Star Date December 16, 2008. --- that's for any fellow closet Trekkies out there.
Thursday, November 06, 2008
PLEASE Make it stop....
no, not all the gushing about Obama. 2008 -- I'm serious, I am calling for an Early New Year! If you're not keeping up, go and read the post down below. Tonight after dinner we had today's "crisis."
Caleb tried to eat a flashlight lightbulb. Yes, you read that right! Crunch! Spit! Spew! Spit some more. The next thing you know I'm trying to reassemble pieces of a flashlight lightbulb to see if anything went South before the spitting started. Pretty soon it was obvious that it was time to call for backup and head over to the ER. I'm pretty sure we'd be on a first name basis with them if they joined up with Poison Control and cut their co-pays down a hair. So far this is only our second actual visit with Caleb, but I've called Poison Control too many times to count. He's just so FAST and quiet with the mischief!
In tonight's story he was playing in the corner of the living room with a flashlight and then the next thing you know Thom hears the crunch and the spitting. That fast it went from everthing's fine to we're all freaking out.
Status Update: no glass or metal showed up on the X-Ray and we'll be closely observing him and his poop tomorrow.
Interesting tidbits: Caleb was fascinated by the X-ray and wanted to know what everything was.
Good thing, too... cause we're going to need him to grow up and become a doctor just to help cover the cost of all of these ER trips during his childhood!!
Please God, can tomorrow be totally un-interesting!
Monday, November 03, 2008
Ready for '09 !!
Ok, so, I'm not actually a supersticious person, but if I were I would say I am ready for 2008 to be OVER. 2009 has got to be better than this!!
If I were to write a "let's be real, here" Christmas letter, it might sound something like this ... "The first three months of the year we worried about my grandmother's cancer while she went through chemo and got sicker and sicker. Ten the doctor gave her three months to live and we all sat by her bedside and watched her get weaker and weaker until she finally passed away in July. Shortly thereafter I learned I needed surgery and I got to worry about whether or not I had ovarian cancer for a couple of months. In early October, I had surgery and spent two weeks recovering. Then I learned that my daughter's principal's wife has been charged with statuatory rape and on the same day my mother had a cardiac catheterization and my mother-in-law learned she has a malignant melanoma. The following week I had, not one, but TWO fender benders. Yes, two, in one week! I haven't had a car accident since 1992 and then twice in the same week! The day of the second accident I began coming down with the kids' cold. Now we're all sick. Today I heard back from the doctor's office regarding my x-ray from the accident where I was rear-ended and I learned I have mild scoliosis. And tomorrow is the election... I'm ready for 2009!"
So, for all of you readers who are also on our Christmas card list, rest assured I'll spin it a little better than this by Christmas! I just have to!!
In the day to day... did I mention that today I actually LOST Caleb at Walmart? Not just for a moment, but for minutes! It was enough of a situation to actually warrant getting the whole place looking for him. We were in the toy department and when I thought he was going to the next aisle, he disappeared down through electronics and shoes and poof he was gone! He runs pretty fast, and up until now I've always caught up with him whenever he's done something like this. Today I had the panicked feeling of having no idea where my child was. Ultimately a clerk found him in the meat department. He had ran Forrest Gump style up and down the aisles of the food section. We we were reunited by the Walmart employees I fell to my knees and squeezed him hard before giving him the "you-scared-Mommy-half-to-death" speech.
I'm ready for an end of 2008 countdown! So, how's your year going?
If I were to write a "let's be real, here" Christmas letter, it might sound something like this ... "The first three months of the year we worried about my grandmother's cancer while she went through chemo and got sicker and sicker. Ten the doctor gave her three months to live and we all sat by her bedside and watched her get weaker and weaker until she finally passed away in July. Shortly thereafter I learned I needed surgery and I got to worry about whether or not I had ovarian cancer for a couple of months. In early October, I had surgery and spent two weeks recovering. Then I learned that my daughter's principal's wife has been charged with statuatory rape and on the same day my mother had a cardiac catheterization and my mother-in-law learned she has a malignant melanoma. The following week I had, not one, but TWO fender benders. Yes, two, in one week! I haven't had a car accident since 1992 and then twice in the same week! The day of the second accident I began coming down with the kids' cold. Now we're all sick. Today I heard back from the doctor's office regarding my x-ray from the accident where I was rear-ended and I learned I have mild scoliosis. And tomorrow is the election... I'm ready for 2009!"
So, for all of you readers who are also on our Christmas card list, rest assured I'll spin it a little better than this by Christmas! I just have to!!
In the day to day... did I mention that today I actually LOST Caleb at Walmart? Not just for a moment, but for minutes! It was enough of a situation to actually warrant getting the whole place looking for him. We were in the toy department and when I thought he was going to the next aisle, he disappeared down through electronics and shoes and poof he was gone! He runs pretty fast, and up until now I've always caught up with him whenever he's done something like this. Today I had the panicked feeling of having no idea where my child was. Ultimately a clerk found him in the meat department. He had ran Forrest Gump style up and down the aisles of the food section. We we were reunited by the Walmart employees I fell to my knees and squeezed him hard before giving him the "you-scared-Mommy-half-to-death" speech.
I'm ready for an end of 2008 countdown! So, how's your year going?
Friday, September 19, 2008
Worrying Vicariously through My Kids
Well, ok, this title is a little wrong. If it were actually literally true, it would be my kids worrying and me sitting around feeling relaxed about life and playing video games. What I really mean is a bit of turn on the old "living vicariously through our children." Rather than "living" through mine, I feel I am so often worrying on their behalf.
Today's examples
Case #1: Caleb has a fever, chills, congestion, and, well, let's just say I'm REALLY glad he can sit on the potty now! The little guy is not feeling well, AT ALL. Meanwhile, I can't actually know what he's feeling. Does he know the difference between his throat and his neck. He told me earlier that his tongue hurts and he's been sticking his finger down his throat. Could it be Strep? When he had chills this evening his hands and feet were cold and his body looked sort of splotchy, but in a weird sort of circulatory system checking-in kind of way. Hmm, viral or bacterial? He's on Benadryl and I went ahead and got the Amoxicillan prescription filled tonight. In the end, I just want to ask him -- "Does it hurt when you bend your head to your neck?" The ol' let's rule out meningitis test. I feel like I'm worrying and don't have the foggiest idea what's going on in his little body. I give him the meds, put him to bed and pray that his fever doesn't spike in the night.
Case #2: Here's the real motivator for this particular post: Kara and school. When I was growing up, as soon as I knew how to do averages, I would keep track of all of my grades and figure out my own averages all throughout the quarter so that I would know exactly what I was getting come report card time. This does not come as a suprise to most of you. I'm uptight. We know that. I've even been known to ask the teacher if I could copy down all of my grades that were in her grade book just to be sure I hadn't missed anything. I've also been known to configure things in different ways, ie. 10 homework grades averaged together as one grade plus 2 test grades averaged divided by two to weight the tests vs. 12 grades divided by 12. If you haven't given up yet on what I'm saying, maybe you're as nuts about this as I am, or maybe you're just wondering where I'm going with all of this.
So, here I am as a parent. Last year my first born had spent the better portion of the quarter failing spelling and muddling through math. Along comes report card time and she's genuinely suprised to see a B and a C on her report card. I honestly believe that she just figured the teacher pulled out the reports cards, scratched her head, sized up each kid and bam that'ss where the grades came from. As if her teacher were not assessing her abilities and skills, but rather summing up her person in a couple of letters. Here's the kicker, Kara did not actually care about the grades themselves. She was deeply bothered because she had heard that Krispy Kreme gives free donuts for A's and she didn't have any!
Fast forward to today. Today was the last day of the first six weeks. When I learned this I immediately pulled out all of Kara's graded papers and came up with a letter grade for each subject based on all known grades. I was thrilled. It looks like we might be looking at two A's, a B and two C's or possibly two A's, two B's and a C. Either way I'm thinking this is pretty good considering some of Kara's struggles last year. Meanwhile, here I am calculating her grades as if they were my own and in many ways more concerned about them than she is!
Today's examples
Case #1: Caleb has a fever, chills, congestion, and, well, let's just say I'm REALLY glad he can sit on the potty now! The little guy is not feeling well, AT ALL. Meanwhile, I can't actually know what he's feeling. Does he know the difference between his throat and his neck. He told me earlier that his tongue hurts and he's been sticking his finger down his throat. Could it be Strep? When he had chills this evening his hands and feet were cold and his body looked sort of splotchy, but in a weird sort of circulatory system checking-in kind of way. Hmm, viral or bacterial? He's on Benadryl and I went ahead and got the Amoxicillan prescription filled tonight. In the end, I just want to ask him -- "Does it hurt when you bend your head to your neck?" The ol' let's rule out meningitis test. I feel like I'm worrying and don't have the foggiest idea what's going on in his little body. I give him the meds, put him to bed and pray that his fever doesn't spike in the night.
Case #2: Here's the real motivator for this particular post: Kara and school. When I was growing up, as soon as I knew how to do averages, I would keep track of all of my grades and figure out my own averages all throughout the quarter so that I would know exactly what I was getting come report card time. This does not come as a suprise to most of you. I'm uptight. We know that. I've even been known to ask the teacher if I could copy down all of my grades that were in her grade book just to be sure I hadn't missed anything. I've also been known to configure things in different ways, ie. 10 homework grades averaged together as one grade plus 2 test grades averaged divided by two to weight the tests vs. 12 grades divided by 12. If you haven't given up yet on what I'm saying, maybe you're as nuts about this as I am, or maybe you're just wondering where I'm going with all of this.
So, here I am as a parent. Last year my first born had spent the better portion of the quarter failing spelling and muddling through math. Along comes report card time and she's genuinely suprised to see a B and a C on her report card. I honestly believe that she just figured the teacher pulled out the reports cards, scratched her head, sized up each kid and bam that'ss where the grades came from. As if her teacher were not assessing her abilities and skills, but rather summing up her person in a couple of letters. Here's the kicker, Kara did not actually care about the grades themselves. She was deeply bothered because she had heard that Krispy Kreme gives free donuts for A's and she didn't have any!
Fast forward to today. Today was the last day of the first six weeks. When I learned this I immediately pulled out all of Kara's graded papers and came up with a letter grade for each subject based on all known grades. I was thrilled. It looks like we might be looking at two A's, a B and two C's or possibly two A's, two B's and a C. Either way I'm thinking this is pretty good considering some of Kara's struggles last year. Meanwhile, here I am calculating her grades as if they were my own and in many ways more concerned about them than she is!
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Parents Say the Darndest Things
Over the last eight years I've heard myself say some pretty ridiculous things, but this past Sunday was the best, of late.
We were driving home from church. We had run through McDonald's on the way home. I turned around to check on the kids when I caught myself saying this gem:
"Caleb, Don't put the chicken nugget in your sock!!"
It never ceases to amaze me what the kids will come up with. In fact, as I'm writing this, Caleb came running in from the living room saying "I've made a big mess. Come Mommy. Come fix it. I've made a BIG mess." Imagining a blueberry breakfast bar speared into the carpet I proactively approached the situation with a wet paper towel only to discover all of my clean folded laundry inverted onto the floor. "See Mommy I've made a BIG mess." "Caleb, don't play in the laundry." This is what I said to him as I put it all back into the laundry basket, during which time he says "Can I play in it now?" Like somehow I'm going to say "Sure, jump on in. I don't know why I clean this stuff anyhow?" " No, Caleb, you cannot play in the laundry."
A friend of mine without children recently described to me how she handles bedtime when she babysits for her nieces and nephews. She has an abundance of comforters she has purchased over the years and she basically lays them all over her living room floor. Each kid gets a pillow and a blanket to sleep under and they refer to the whole thing as making a nest.
That's what I want. Forget furniture. Forget carpets. I'm going to throw down every blanket I can find and give up. We'll eat there. We'll sleep there and whenever anyone comes over we'll shove the whole thing into the shower behind the shower curtain. And I'll come up with something witty to say without even thinking.
Like "Don't use the shower, our beds are in there." And it'll all make sense!
We were driving home from church. We had run through McDonald's on the way home. I turned around to check on the kids when I caught myself saying this gem:
"Caleb, Don't put the chicken nugget in your sock!!"
It never ceases to amaze me what the kids will come up with. In fact, as I'm writing this, Caleb came running in from the living room saying "I've made a big mess. Come Mommy. Come fix it. I've made a BIG mess." Imagining a blueberry breakfast bar speared into the carpet I proactively approached the situation with a wet paper towel only to discover all of my clean folded laundry inverted onto the floor. "See Mommy I've made a BIG mess." "Caleb, don't play in the laundry." This is what I said to him as I put it all back into the laundry basket, during which time he says "Can I play in it now?" Like somehow I'm going to say "Sure, jump on in. I don't know why I clean this stuff anyhow?" " No, Caleb, you cannot play in the laundry."
A friend of mine without children recently described to me how she handles bedtime when she babysits for her nieces and nephews. She has an abundance of comforters she has purchased over the years and she basically lays them all over her living room floor. Each kid gets a pillow and a blanket to sleep under and they refer to the whole thing as making a nest.
That's what I want. Forget furniture. Forget carpets. I'm going to throw down every blanket I can find and give up. We'll eat there. We'll sleep there and whenever anyone comes over we'll shove the whole thing into the shower behind the shower curtain. And I'll come up with something witty to say without even thinking.
Like "Don't use the shower, our beds are in there." And it'll all make sense!
Monday, August 25, 2008
No New Catastrophes to Report
Believe it or not, things are going pretty well at the moment. Our delightful little boy appears to have been returned to us from the powers that be and he is mastering the art of toilet usage quite well. I can report that it has been days since I have had to change a messy diaper and he is quite proud of himself for knowing when he needs to use the bathroom. The beauty in this is that he will be able to attend the class for three-year-olds at his preschool program and that was the goal all along. As for his general attitude, we are getting mostly hugs and kisses and not so much meanness.
Kara is our shining star 3rd Grader. After a pretty rough 2nd Grade year where we were less than thrilled with her attitude and her teacher's attentiveness, this year seems to be getting off to a great start. Our biggest praise is in the area of self-motivation. On Friday evening after a week of practicing her spelling words she asked if the teacher had sent home this next week's words yet, because she wanted to study them before bed. Can I say "WOW!!" Although her teacher had not sent them home, I was able to find another teacher within the school district who had posted them on his class website. Hot off the presses -- next week's spelling words!! Self-motivation will get you everywhere with me! I wrote them out for her on index cards, as I've done each week and she took it upon herself to do one of her weekly spelling assignments. She wrote each of the first ten words five times before laying her notebook aside and falling asleep. Last night she worked on the other ten words, again completely of her own motivation. I'm loving this!!! Even if the grades aren't perfect yet, her attitude is far better than it has ever been before and the grades will eventually come with practice. And, yes, we are praising her considerably for all her efforts!
I had planned to write more, but it appears I am out of writing time for a bit. So, I will end here and leave you all wondering what other exciting happenings are going on in our little lives...
Kara is our shining star 3rd Grader. After a pretty rough 2nd Grade year where we were less than thrilled with her attitude and her teacher's attentiveness, this year seems to be getting off to a great start. Our biggest praise is in the area of self-motivation. On Friday evening after a week of practicing her spelling words she asked if the teacher had sent home this next week's words yet, because she wanted to study them before bed. Can I say "WOW!!" Although her teacher had not sent them home, I was able to find another teacher within the school district who had posted them on his class website. Hot off the presses -- next week's spelling words!! Self-motivation will get you everywhere with me! I wrote them out for her on index cards, as I've done each week and she took it upon herself to do one of her weekly spelling assignments. She wrote each of the first ten words five times before laying her notebook aside and falling asleep. Last night she worked on the other ten words, again completely of her own motivation. I'm loving this!!! Even if the grades aren't perfect yet, her attitude is far better than it has ever been before and the grades will eventually come with practice. And, yes, we are praising her considerably for all her efforts!
I had planned to write more, but it appears I am out of writing time for a bit. So, I will end here and leave you all wondering what other exciting happenings are going on in our little lives...
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