I feel like I will be shoveling manure for the rest of my life. The pile does seem to grow smaller and I wonder whether it’s all a matter of perspective. One day I hear a sound of shovel scraping against the concrete and it’s the most exquisite Chopin to my ears. After spending eternity with my nose in the manure, I look up and the mountain is - gone! All that is left is a few scraps of dirt that we hose down, leaving the driveway sparkly clean. I can hardly believe my eyes. I look at the space gardener and he smiles back at me. I am sore all over and so relieved, but I have to clarify the issue, for I never ever want to deal with this mountain again.
Next time you want to provide some food for my garden, would you mind finding some less olfactory offensive alternative?
Maybe next time you plant the tomatoes, they might actually surprise you and smell and taste like the tomatoes are supposed to. Last time they were so insipid even the pinworms refused to eat them. I vividly remembered the deep sense of humiliation at the sight of my bloated roma tomatoes and even the bugs, not to mention my own family, turning their connoisseur noses on them.
Gardening can be a rather messy business at times. He continues softly. It’s not for mysophobiacs. By disinfecting, sanitizing, deodorizing life silly you scrub the life out of it. Your nose is given you for a reason, as well as your taste buds. You should use them to distinguish between what tastes good and what doesn’t. To enjoy, delight in and celebrate the amazing gastronomic and olfactory variety, as well as eliminate, spit out or refuse what can make you sick. Keep everything comfortable and - nice - He paused at the last word - all the time, at all cost, and your life turns into a bland concoction of tasteless veggies where you can’t differentiate a tomato from a squash, cilantro from St. Augustine grass. What comes out of your anesthetized garden – devoid of manure or anything else equally ‘offensive’ - becomes as insipid as your worship on Sunday morning... or the rest of the week, for that matter.
I don't want to sound stupid, but what I think I heard him say throws me off balance completely. I never thought that you could put growing tomatoes, a pile of manure and worshiping God in the same paragraph… much less the same sentence.
Thursday, March 15, 2012
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
Spiritual Formation 101 – When Life Delivers a Truckload of Manure on Your Driveway
It takes him only about thirty-two seconds to unload the truck onto my driveway. We spend the next seven and a half years (or so it feels) shoveling it up. I am too mad to speak, so we spend the rest of the day shoveling in silence. I take three consecutive showers that night, rubbing the epidermis off my body in futile attempt to remove the stench. I smother myself with Channel 5 perfumed body lotion trying to cover it up and collapse in bed, too tired to read. My husband grabs his pillow and blanket and torpedoes out of the bedroom, choosing to sleep on the couch in the library. I don’t blame him. I would do the same thing if I had a skunk sleeping in the same bed. He swears it’s the perfume that bothers him more than the manure.
Even though we peck at the mountain all next day, we hardly put a dent in it. The space gardener stops by Subway and brings pastrami and pepper-jack cheese on Italian Parmesan for lunch, but my appetite is gone. I shake my head, No, to a piece of key lime pie and a strawberry cheesecake the following day. I can tell by his look that he is very concerned. Still, I don’t understand how he can eat leaning against the side of a cow-dung mountain.
I try to pawn out some of the manure to the neighbors, but they tell me they have enough crap of their own to deal with and politely refuse. After the sunset, I throw several shovelfuls across the backyard fence, but a little later hear the neighbor yelling at his dog for rolling in it.
Every square inch of our entire front and back yard is covered out evenly with a foot and a half of cow manure. I eat, sleep, dream and wear the cow manure. Everywhere I turn, that’s all I see.
The sheer energy required for shoveling takes most of the feistiness out of me. Even though I can’t help but resent the one who designed this truck delivery, I also appreciate the fact that he is right there with me, day in, day out, shovel in hand. When it starts raining, we are both drenched, both knee-deep in the river of doo. I know he must be tired since he always works at least twice as hard as I do and finishes up all the cleanup at the end of the day. His hands, in addition to having ugly scars that seem to have flared up, are now developing some nasty blisters, despite the gloves we both wear. One day it crosses my mind that he doesn’t have to be here – it’s my driveway, after all, and yet, he never fails to show up. I wonder why?
Even though we peck at the mountain all next day, we hardly put a dent in it. The space gardener stops by Subway and brings pastrami and pepper-jack cheese on Italian Parmesan for lunch, but my appetite is gone. I shake my head, No, to a piece of key lime pie and a strawberry cheesecake the following day. I can tell by his look that he is very concerned. Still, I don’t understand how he can eat leaning against the side of a cow-dung mountain.
I try to pawn out some of the manure to the neighbors, but they tell me they have enough crap of their own to deal with and politely refuse. After the sunset, I throw several shovelfuls across the backyard fence, but a little later hear the neighbor yelling at his dog for rolling in it.
Every square inch of our entire front and back yard is covered out evenly with a foot and a half of cow manure. I eat, sleep, dream and wear the cow manure. Everywhere I turn, that’s all I see.
The sheer energy required for shoveling takes most of the feistiness out of me. Even though I can’t help but resent the one who designed this truck delivery, I also appreciate the fact that he is right there with me, day in, day out, shovel in hand. When it starts raining, we are both drenched, both knee-deep in the river of doo. I know he must be tired since he always works at least twice as hard as I do and finishes up all the cleanup at the end of the day. His hands, in addition to having ugly scars that seem to have flared up, are now developing some nasty blisters, despite the gloves we both wear. One day it crosses my mind that he doesn’t have to be here – it’s my driveway, after all, and yet, he never fails to show up. I wonder why?
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
Spiritual Formation 101 – Some People Learn From the Manual, Some People Don’t
With the egg still dripping down my face, I see the white truck roll around the corner, with a large trailer hauling a medium-size mountain behind. Seconds later the overpowering smell catches up and settles over the entire residential district.
You are late! I bark at the space cowboy, who gives me a quizzical look, scanning the dogs, my dripping face, and Bob holding the home-made pie all in one glance. I take the pie from Bob’s hands, mumble an apologetic ‘thank you’ and watch him walk back to his house.
What just happened?
I try to describe my morning and find the words pathetically deficient. Eventually, he is able to piece together the story and bursts into laughter.
So, you think that’s funny…I growl.
Some people just have to learn the hard way… you could have spared yourself some embarrassment and grief if you’d read the manual…
The manual? The manual talks about the microscopes and neighbor’s mutant weeds? He nods a silent ‘yep’. Now I am positively rabid.
Why didn’t you tell me?!!?
Would it make any difference if I had? I pause.
Probably not… I guess you are right, some people just have to learn their lessons the hard way…. I feel a bit tired of learning everything the hard way. If there is an easier way to learn, I am in the game. A huge sigh escapes me as I ask,
What else does your manual say?
Well, if you really want to know, you’ll just have to find out for yourself. Right now we have a work cut out for us… He points to the reeking mountain inside the trailer, grabs a couple of shovels and hands me one.
What on God’s good earth is that smell??
Cow manure. Premium grade. I got a great deal on it and since your yard hasn’t eaten anything in years, thought you could use a little extra… you might want to put some rubber boots on before we start shoveling…
I look at the mountain of cow dung towering over our house and know that in an instant I have become the one neighbor in our subdivision everyone loves to hate.
You are late! I bark at the space cowboy, who gives me a quizzical look, scanning the dogs, my dripping face, and Bob holding the home-made pie all in one glance. I take the pie from Bob’s hands, mumble an apologetic ‘thank you’ and watch him walk back to his house.
What just happened?
I try to describe my morning and find the words pathetically deficient. Eventually, he is able to piece together the story and bursts into laughter.
So, you think that’s funny…I growl.
Some people just have to learn the hard way… you could have spared yourself some embarrassment and grief if you’d read the manual…
The manual? The manual talks about the microscopes and neighbor’s mutant weeds? He nods a silent ‘yep’. Now I am positively rabid.
Why didn’t you tell me?!!?
Would it make any difference if I had? I pause.
Probably not… I guess you are right, some people just have to learn their lessons the hard way…. I feel a bit tired of learning everything the hard way. If there is an easier way to learn, I am in the game. A huge sigh escapes me as I ask,
What else does your manual say?
Well, if you really want to know, you’ll just have to find out for yourself. Right now we have a work cut out for us… He points to the reeking mountain inside the trailer, grabs a couple of shovels and hands me one.
What on God’s good earth is that smell??
Cow manure. Premium grade. I got a great deal on it and since your yard hasn’t eaten anything in years, thought you could use a little extra… you might want to put some rubber boots on before we start shoveling…
I look at the mountain of cow dung towering over our house and know that in an instant I have become the one neighbor in our subdivision everyone loves to hate.
Monday, March 12, 2012
Spiritual Formation 101 – MYO BeesWax
Since it’s really hard for me to love what I can’t see, as soon as my kids trot off to school the next morning, I sneak into my son’s bedroom and grab an old microscope off a dusty bookshelf, sagging under the weight of cracked, dismembered and beheaded kindergarten art projects.
He really needs to clean out his room, I grumble (which, of course, is different from whining and complaining when used by a mother talking about her own children), wondering where in the world did he pick up his housekeeping habits, and step outside into the blazing sun.
With all the weeds popping up left and right, focusing on anything desirable growing in my yard is next to impossible. I swing the microscope around and am blinded by the sprawling emerald-green of the thick lush lawn of the honorary lifetime member of Better Homes and Gardens Yard of the Month club – AKA my next-door neighbor Bob. The sight generates waves of nausea interspersed with a desire to leave this world and attend to the greener pastures thereafter. With the microscope still attached to my eyeball, amidst the aforementioned sprawling green suddenly, Ka-booom! I spot an enormous mutant weed – and flowering weed at that! I am horrified and strangely pleased at the same time.
Hah! I knew it! I knew there were weeds in his yard!
I drop down on all fours and start inspecting his turf. Sure enough, there are about eleven superhumongousy enormous mutant weeds – located mostly next to my property line - and the total of three about to bloom and spread their nasty seeds all throughout the neighborhood.
I must not allow this! My noble sense of neighborly duty interspersed with an irrepressible urge to point all this out sweeps over me. I consider making large signs with pointing arrows and posting them next to his driveway. While still preoccupied with both inspecting his yard and crafting the best course of action to eliminate the threat of weed contamination it represents to our neighborhood, I feel something wet and slippery all over my face.
Whatcha doing here, neighbor? Bob tilts his head curiously examining a strange sight of a middle-aged woman with her butt sticking up in the air, standing on all fours holding a microscope attached to her eyeball in the middle of his front yard, being licked to death by his equally curious dogs. I clear my throat with a nervous cough as I straighten out.
Well, Bob… it is my neighborly duty to inform you that I found some weeds… eleven weeds to be more precise… growing in your yard. And three of them…
Before I could continue, the look on Bob’s face tells me that he might have something to say.
I appreciate yer attention to details… but don’t ya’ have ‘nough stuff to do in yer own yard before you bother inspecting my grass, with amicroscope, and count my weeds?!!! Then he adds,
By the way, my puppies were sick and I was a nervous wreck all day yesterday, so I baked a dozen chocolate cream pies. Would you like one?
That day, my great neighbor Bob taught me that minding my own business is lesson number one in all yard-work.
He really needs to clean out his room, I grumble (which, of course, is different from whining and complaining when used by a mother talking about her own children), wondering where in the world did he pick up his housekeeping habits, and step outside into the blazing sun.
With all the weeds popping up left and right, focusing on anything desirable growing in my yard is next to impossible. I swing the microscope around and am blinded by the sprawling emerald-green of the thick lush lawn of the honorary lifetime member of Better Homes and Gardens Yard of the Month club – AKA my next-door neighbor Bob. The sight generates waves of nausea interspersed with a desire to leave this world and attend to the greener pastures thereafter. With the microscope still attached to my eyeball, amidst the aforementioned sprawling green suddenly, Ka-booom! I spot an enormous mutant weed – and flowering weed at that! I am horrified and strangely pleased at the same time.
Hah! I knew it! I knew there were weeds in his yard!
I drop down on all fours and start inspecting his turf. Sure enough, there are about eleven superhumongousy enormous mutant weeds – located mostly next to my property line - and the total of three about to bloom and spread their nasty seeds all throughout the neighborhood.
I must not allow this! My noble sense of neighborly duty interspersed with an irrepressible urge to point all this out sweeps over me. I consider making large signs with pointing arrows and posting them next to his driveway. While still preoccupied with both inspecting his yard and crafting the best course of action to eliminate the threat of weed contamination it represents to our neighborhood, I feel something wet and slippery all over my face.
Whatcha doing here, neighbor? Bob tilts his head curiously examining a strange sight of a middle-aged woman with her butt sticking up in the air, standing on all fours holding a microscope attached to her eyeball in the middle of his front yard, being licked to death by his equally curious dogs. I clear my throat with a nervous cough as I straighten out.
Well, Bob… it is my neighborly duty to inform you that I found some weeds… eleven weeds to be more precise… growing in your yard. And three of them…
Before I could continue, the look on Bob’s face tells me that he might have something to say.
I appreciate yer attention to details… but don’t ya’ have ‘nough stuff to do in yer own yard before you bother inspecting my grass, with amicroscope, and count my weeds?!!! Then he adds,
By the way, my puppies were sick and I was a nervous wreck all day yesterday, so I baked a dozen chocolate cream pies. Would you like one?
That day, my great neighbor Bob taught me that minding my own business is lesson number one in all yard-work.
Saturday, March 10, 2012
Spiritual Formation 101 – Love and Hate, Truth and Pain
I feel tectonic plates shifting under my toes so I do what I do best when I sense tectonic plates shifting under my toes. I change the subject.
How do you know the difference?
The difference? Between true love and ‘looooove’?
Nooo! I laugh at the way he says loooove. I mean how do you know which weeds to pull and which to leave in the ground? Yesterday you told me to leave the weeds alone. Today I caught you red-handed pulling weeds in my yard. What am I supposed to do – pull them or leave them? Is there a manual I can read?
I heard you don’t read manuals. And I know that following instructions is not your strong suit. That’ why I came. Your very own personal manual.
You are kind of hard to read… and follow.
Only if you already made up your mind what you want and don’t want to do.
Guilty as charged. Call me 'Opinionated'. Anyway… we were talking…
Your favorite subject – weeds.
Help me out here.
You need to love growing plants more than you hate weeds.
Hmmm… that sounds vaguely familiar… once I heard somebody say that we need to love the truth more than we fear pain.
Same difference.
Same difference.
How do you know the difference?
The difference? Between true love and ‘looooove’?
Nooo! I laugh at the way he says loooove. I mean how do you know which weeds to pull and which to leave in the ground? Yesterday you told me to leave the weeds alone. Today I caught you red-handed pulling weeds in my yard. What am I supposed to do – pull them or leave them? Is there a manual I can read?
I heard you don’t read manuals. And I know that following instructions is not your strong suit. That’ why I came. Your very own personal manual.
You are kind of hard to read… and follow.
Only if you already made up your mind what you want and don’t want to do.
Guilty as charged. Call me 'Opinionated'. Anyway… we were talking…
Your favorite subject – weeds.
Help me out here.
You need to love growing plants more than you hate weeds.
Hmmm… that sounds vaguely familiar… once I heard somebody say that we need to love the truth more than we fear pain.
Same difference.
Same difference.
Friday, March 09, 2012
Spiritiual Formation 101 Family Business
The next morning I wake up and something tells me it’s almost noon. I jump out of bed – I don’t even need my coffee - and open the blinds. The sheer volume of photonic activity causes fireworks to explode inside my brain sending shock-waves throughout my body. When all the noise subsides, a thought finally crosses the threshold of my consciousness,
There was no tap on my window this morning, immediately followed by a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.
I remember the tiff the space gardener and I had yesterday and I know he’d left. Never to return again. Despite the fact that he called me Opinionated and Obsessive Compulsive Weed Exterminator; despite his unorthodox approach to gardening; despite the ugly scars on his hands that make me feel so uncomfortable (why can’t he just have a plastic surgery or something?), I can’t bear a thought of never seeing him again. All the motivation to do anything evaporates before my eyes, except perhaps a desire to go back to bed and sleep through the rest of the week… or a month… or .
Then I hear a soft rustling in the bushes in the front. I look out of the window and there he is! I am so relieved to see him I want to hug him and punch him at the same time. I linger undecided as I watch him quietly behind the window. He walks slowly around the yard bending here and there, picking up a dead branch, pulling out a weed. He pauses frequently, looking, listening. He swings around the house and enters the back yard. He makes his way towards the far corner and crosses over into the garden.
You don’t need to go back there! I shout, mortified. Several years ago I saw a snake’s nest there and I haven’t gone back there since that happened…
Ah, you are up! He waves at me. I thought you might sleep through this entire glorious day.
Why didn’t you wake me up?!
I thought you needed the rest.
Well, I guess I did. The early afternoon sun seems to agree with him. I hesitate for a moment, then add … I thought you’d left… never to return again. … You scared me.
I thought we had an all-inclusive no-end contract deal, he winked. I guess you are stuck with me. … And I with you.
I close my eyes and sense a soft rumble from deep down bubbling up… It smells like rain and grass and jasmine… and …a ham sandwich!
Hey, I stopped by Subway on the way here… I am kind of hungry. It’s already after noon. Wan’na eat?
We sit down on the grass under the tree and unwrap the sandwiches.
Have you ever thought of starting your own business? I ask between the bites. He looks at me like I have just landed from a different planet.
Why would I ever want to do that?
Spread your wings. Branch out. You are good at what you do. I see there is a method to your madness. You could become successful. Independent.
I like working with my dad. Everything I know, I learned from him.
Now, see… that’s weird. It’s like being ‘daddy’s boy’.
Something wrong with that?
No woman is going to want to marry you.
I already have a fiance.
You do?!!! I try to hide my shock. Against my will, my eyes are drawn to his hands. I wonder what kind of woman is willing to put up with that sight. Maybe she is blind.
I guess there is a price to love,… I mutter under my breath.
Yes. There is. There is always a price to true love.
There was no tap on my window this morning, immediately followed by a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.
I remember the tiff the space gardener and I had yesterday and I know he’d left. Never to return again. Despite the fact that he called me Opinionated and Obsessive Compulsive Weed Exterminator; despite his unorthodox approach to gardening; despite the ugly scars on his hands that make me feel so uncomfortable (why can’t he just have a plastic surgery or something?), I can’t bear a thought of never seeing him again. All the motivation to do anything evaporates before my eyes, except perhaps a desire to go back to bed and sleep through the rest of the week… or a month… or .
Then I hear a soft rustling in the bushes in the front. I look out of the window and there he is! I am so relieved to see him I want to hug him and punch him at the same time. I linger undecided as I watch him quietly behind the window. He walks slowly around the yard bending here and there, picking up a dead branch, pulling out a weed. He pauses frequently, looking, listening. He swings around the house and enters the back yard. He makes his way towards the far corner and crosses over into the garden.
You don’t need to go back there! I shout, mortified. Several years ago I saw a snake’s nest there and I haven’t gone back there since that happened…
Ah, you are up! He waves at me. I thought you might sleep through this entire glorious day.
Why didn’t you wake me up?!
I thought you needed the rest.
Well, I guess I did. The early afternoon sun seems to agree with him. I hesitate for a moment, then add … I thought you’d left… never to return again. … You scared me.
I thought we had an all-inclusive no-end contract deal, he winked. I guess you are stuck with me. … And I with you.
I close my eyes and sense a soft rumble from deep down bubbling up… It smells like rain and grass and jasmine… and …a ham sandwich!
Hey, I stopped by Subway on the way here… I am kind of hungry. It’s already after noon. Wan’na eat?
We sit down on the grass under the tree and unwrap the sandwiches.
Have you ever thought of starting your own business? I ask between the bites. He looks at me like I have just landed from a different planet.
Why would I ever want to do that?
Spread your wings. Branch out. You are good at what you do. I see there is a method to your madness. You could become successful. Independent.
I like working with my dad. Everything I know, I learned from him.
Now, see… that’s weird. It’s like being ‘daddy’s boy’.
Something wrong with that?
No woman is going to want to marry you.
I already have a fiance.
You do?!!! I try to hide my shock. Against my will, my eyes are drawn to his hands. I wonder what kind of woman is willing to put up with that sight. Maybe she is blind.
I guess there is a price to love,… I mutter under my breath.
Yes. There is. There is always a price to true love.
Thursday, March 08, 2012
Spiritiual Formation 101 Sir, We Got a Problem
I am amazed that the tiny trickle from the old garden hose can affect so much change in our landscape in such a short time. Having suffered through years of severe drought, I thought that even the Niagara falls wouldn’t be sufficient to quench the thirst of my parched lawn. But, today I begin to notice a discernible difference, for there are little soft tufts of genuine green popping up throughout our yard. The sight makes me more ecstatic than winning a Better Homes and Gardens Yard of the Month award.
I am a real gardener now! I am so absolutely beside myself that I can’t wait to get on line and share my most recent success with all my Facebook friends. I take carefully framed pictures of my yard and upload them as evidence. While standing precariously on my head, looking for the best angle to capture my astonishing feat without disclosing too much of the rest of the story I see something that threatens to pop my bubble.
Sir, we GOT a PROBLEM! I announce in an expert voice. Having just grown my very first green thing I officially crossed over into the murky waters of the certified know-it-alls.
We do? He tilts his head sideways, trying to look me in the eye as I am still in my awkwardly contorted position holding the camera for that just-perfect shot.
Yes! Can’t you see this?? THIS? I point at the green stalk growing right out of my nostril. This, Sir, is a WEED! Genus -Digitaria Haller. Family Poaceae. Order Cyperales. That water of yours presumably can't tell the difference between a weed and a plant!
I see… He doesn’t seem impressed.
So, what are you going to do about it? I demand, finally straightening out, cracking the stiffness out of my neck.
What do you suggest that we do? He answers the question with the question. I hate when he does that.
It’s a no-brainer. We deal with it as we should with all the weeds. We kill, destroy, uproot, annihilate… There is a whole big-buck industry devoted to...
Leave it alone.
Excuse me?
I said, Leave it alone.
I heard what you said. Remember, you just cleaned my ears.
I just started cleaning your ears. You have a long way to go…
What kind of gardener are you?!! How can you put up with all these weeds?!!
I thought you’d never ask. Well, let me explain to you if you care to hear it…He says the word the way you would hit a nail on the head. If you pulled the weeds right now, you would uproot the good grass along with it. You must leave it alone. Your problem is not this poor weed. Your problem is that you have reduced the art and the mystery of gardening into an obsessive-compulsive weed elimination. There is more to gardening than having a weed-free lawn. Gardening is about entering this amazing world you didn’t create with your mouth shut and your shoes off your feet. It’s about listening and surrender and yielding of control rather than imposing your puny tyrant will.... it’s about rhythms and seasons and climate and dirt…And most of all, it’s about friendship…
My jaw, having been almost restored to full health is at a danger of hitting the pavement again. I never heard him say so much in such a short time. I've never ever heard anybody fight with such intensity and passion and grace for the life of a... weed! Part of me wants to take notes of every word coming out of his mouth. The other part wants to sit down and soak it all in by osmosis. I want to hear more about this outer space gardening even though I understand only about every tenth word he utters.
I rub my jaw gently, thinking I might need braces.
There isn’t a tiniest doubt in my mind that on the planet where he came from, they do gardening a little different than over here. A lot different.
And I am not quite sure anymore whether I have a stomach for it.
I am a real gardener now! I am so absolutely beside myself that I can’t wait to get on line and share my most recent success with all my Facebook friends. I take carefully framed pictures of my yard and upload them as evidence. While standing precariously on my head, looking for the best angle to capture my astonishing feat without disclosing too much of the rest of the story I see something that threatens to pop my bubble.
Sir, we GOT a PROBLEM! I announce in an expert voice. Having just grown my very first green thing I officially crossed over into the murky waters of the certified know-it-alls.
We do? He tilts his head sideways, trying to look me in the eye as I am still in my awkwardly contorted position holding the camera for that just-perfect shot.
Yes! Can’t you see this?? THIS? I point at the green stalk growing right out of my nostril. This, Sir, is a WEED! Genus -Digitaria Haller. Family Poaceae. Order Cyperales. That water of yours presumably can't tell the difference between a weed and a plant!
I see… He doesn’t seem impressed.
So, what are you going to do about it? I demand, finally straightening out, cracking the stiffness out of my neck.
What do you suggest that we do? He answers the question with the question. I hate when he does that.
It’s a no-brainer. We deal with it as we should with all the weeds. We kill, destroy, uproot, annihilate… There is a whole big-buck industry devoted to...
Leave it alone.
Excuse me?
I said, Leave it alone.
I heard what you said. Remember, you just cleaned my ears.
I just started cleaning your ears. You have a long way to go…
What kind of gardener are you?!! How can you put up with all these weeds?!!
I thought you’d never ask. Well, let me explain to you if you care to hear it…He says the word the way you would hit a nail on the head. If you pulled the weeds right now, you would uproot the good grass along with it. You must leave it alone. Your problem is not this poor weed. Your problem is that you have reduced the art and the mystery of gardening into an obsessive-compulsive weed elimination. There is more to gardening than having a weed-free lawn. Gardening is about entering this amazing world you didn’t create with your mouth shut and your shoes off your feet. It’s about listening and surrender and yielding of control rather than imposing your puny tyrant will.... it’s about rhythms and seasons and climate and dirt…And most of all, it’s about friendship…
My jaw, having been almost restored to full health is at a danger of hitting the pavement again. I never heard him say so much in such a short time. I've never ever heard anybody fight with such intensity and passion and grace for the life of a... weed! Part of me wants to take notes of every word coming out of his mouth. The other part wants to sit down and soak it all in by osmosis. I want to hear more about this outer space gardening even though I understand only about every tenth word he utters.
I rub my jaw gently, thinking I might need braces.
There isn’t a tiniest doubt in my mind that on the planet where he came from, they do gardening a little different than over here. A lot different.
And I am not quite sure anymore whether I have a stomach for it.
Tuesday, March 06, 2012
Whining Fast 101 – Auditory Detox
For the next couple of weeks I am awakened at the crack of dawn by a gentle tap on my window. Some mornings I find myself awake before the tap comes and actually wait for it. Even look forward to it. Others I bumble into the morning unprepared, my head looking like a heron’s nest, my eyes squinting unaccustomed to so much light so soon in the day.
The space gardener and I have a little routine going. He always waits for me to get my second cup of coffee. Then, I grab the hose, and he opens the valve. After that we listen.
As my ears go through an auditory detox, I slowly begin to hear things I never heard before. Even I know the difference between an airplane above and four-wheel drive below. I can tell apart a riding mower from a weed-whacker. But rustling of a lizard’s feet in the dead leaves?!! The scampering of squirrels little claws as they race each other up a trunk of our huge oak? A woodpecker in our neighbor’s backyard tree?! There IS a woodpecker living in my neighbor’s back yard!
Some mornings I feel like I walk in on a congress debate going on in the branches of our maple. Others it’s so quiet I can hear my own thoughts. I swiftly avoid those and eavesdrop on a good-natured marital banter between Mr. and Mrs. Cardinal. Then the neighbor’s lawnmower drowns all other sounds and we shut off the water, put away the hose and are done for the day.
I feel like somebody took a plunger unplugged and deep-cleaned my ears and I can hear, really hear for the first time in my life.
The space gardener and I have a little routine going. He always waits for me to get my second cup of coffee. Then, I grab the hose, and he opens the valve. After that we listen.
As my ears go through an auditory detox, I slowly begin to hear things I never heard before. Even I know the difference between an airplane above and four-wheel drive below. I can tell apart a riding mower from a weed-whacker. But rustling of a lizard’s feet in the dead leaves?!! The scampering of squirrels little claws as they race each other up a trunk of our huge oak? A woodpecker in our neighbor’s backyard tree?! There IS a woodpecker living in my neighbor’s back yard!
Some mornings I feel like I walk in on a congress debate going on in the branches of our maple. Others it’s so quiet I can hear my own thoughts. I swiftly avoid those and eavesdrop on a good-natured marital banter between Mr. and Mrs. Cardinal. Then the neighbor’s lawnmower drowns all other sounds and we shut off the water, put away the hose and are done for the day.
I feel like somebody took a plunger unplugged and deep-cleaned my ears and I can hear, really hear for the first time in my life.
Monday, March 05, 2012
Whining Fast 101 – D day
The next morning I wake up with a massive headache. I remember I have a crack-of-dawn date with a crazy gardener from outer space who expects me to baby-sit the garden hose for five hours. I wish somebody would turn off the lights and I can go back to sleep and wake up in a perfect world where there are no weeds and no need for crazy gardeners from outer space. There is something else I wish I could eliminate from this world but I can’t remember right now. So, I roll out of bed like a dead log, except for groaning. I fix myself an extra strong cup of coffee and take it intravenously.
How did I get myself into this pickle? How did it all start?
Suddenly, with intense clarity I remember that somebody suggested a whining fast. The whining fast that I didn’t think I needed but sure would have appreciated if my kids adhered to. I remember the weeds, the prayer, the white truck, and the guy who wrestled with the combine… What started as a whining fast has turned into a whining fest, for now I see clearly that in the past 24 hours I’ve done nothing but whine and complain! Is that just a coincidence?
Have you had your second cup yet? A familiar voice jerks me out of my ruminations.
How do you know about the second cup?!!
It’s public record, silly… C’mon. just grab it and bring it with you. You can finish it while we are watering…
You know… I start, I think there was a big mistake. I appreciate your offer, you showing up here at crack of dawn… but I think you got yourself a wrong person. I don’t have just a brown thumb. Every finger and every toe and every bone in my body is brown. I have killed, mutilated, and murdered every green thing that ever dares putting its root down within our property lines. Get it? It’s hopeless. Leave while there is still time…
He hands me the hose, apparently quite deaf, in addition to being crazy.
I’ll turn on the water… He walks behind the fence and opens the valve. The hose coughs and sputters for a few seconds and then the water begins gushing out.
I stand with the garden hose in one hand and coffee cup in the other.
How in the world can this do any good…?
If you would be a little less opinionated, we might actually get somewhere…
He called me, Opinionated! I find that very offensive.
True or false?
Well… I admit… I can be… sometimes… Alright, … most of the time. But, still…
Now we are getting somewhere. He chuckles and takes a deep breath. Without realizing, I do the same.
I love mornings.
What’s there to love?
He closes his eyes. I want to close my eyes, but I am afraid I am not coordinated enough to juggle a hose in one hand and a coffee mug in the other with my eyes shut.
You hear it?
I hear nothing, other than the shhhhh of the water…
Just listen…
It’s very quiet. I finally say. It’s actually… nice.
We stand there a while. No words between us. Just the stillness of the early morning.
This feels… good. I could stand here forever. I mutter, feeling mildly intoxicated by all the fresh air. I hear the shuffling of his feet in the grass.
We are done for today, He says and shuts off the water.
Done?!! Already?!!! I gasp. I thought…
I’ll be back tomorrow, Miss Opinionated. I open my mouth in protest but he has already disappeared.
How did I get myself into this pickle? How did it all start?
Suddenly, with intense clarity I remember that somebody suggested a whining fast. The whining fast that I didn’t think I needed but sure would have appreciated if my kids adhered to. I remember the weeds, the prayer, the white truck, and the guy who wrestled with the combine… What started as a whining fast has turned into a whining fest, for now I see clearly that in the past 24 hours I’ve done nothing but whine and complain! Is that just a coincidence?
Have you had your second cup yet? A familiar voice jerks me out of my ruminations.
How do you know about the second cup?!!
It’s public record, silly… C’mon. just grab it and bring it with you. You can finish it while we are watering…
You know… I start, I think there was a big mistake. I appreciate your offer, you showing up here at crack of dawn… but I think you got yourself a wrong person. I don’t have just a brown thumb. Every finger and every toe and every bone in my body is brown. I have killed, mutilated, and murdered every green thing that ever dares putting its root down within our property lines. Get it? It’s hopeless. Leave while there is still time…
He hands me the hose, apparently quite deaf, in addition to being crazy.
I’ll turn on the water… He walks behind the fence and opens the valve. The hose coughs and sputters for a few seconds and then the water begins gushing out.
I stand with the garden hose in one hand and coffee cup in the other.
How in the world can this do any good…?
If you would be a little less opinionated, we might actually get somewhere…
He called me, Opinionated! I find that very offensive.
True or false?
Well… I admit… I can be… sometimes… Alright, … most of the time. But, still…
Now we are getting somewhere. He chuckles and takes a deep breath. Without realizing, I do the same.
I love mornings.
What’s there to love?
He closes his eyes. I want to close my eyes, but I am afraid I am not coordinated enough to juggle a hose in one hand and a coffee mug in the other with my eyes shut.
You hear it?
I hear nothing, other than the shhhhh of the water…
Just listen…
It’s very quiet. I finally say. It’s actually… nice.
We stand there a while. No words between us. Just the stillness of the early morning.
This feels… good. I could stand here forever. I mutter, feeling mildly intoxicated by all the fresh air. I hear the shuffling of his feet in the grass.
We are done for today, He says and shuts off the water.
Done?!! Already?!!! I gasp. I thought…
I’ll be back tomorrow, Miss Opinionated. I open my mouth in protest but he has already disappeared.
Friday, March 02, 2012
Whining Fast 101 – No Better Time than … Next Week
When do we start? I ask, doing a quick mental scan of my schedule. Perhaps tomorrow? Or maybe next week – that’s definitely better, My schedule is pretty full….
Today… we start today… in fact, right now. He answers matter-of-factly and walks toward the trailer.
Right now?!!! But… but… I stammer suddenly at a loss of all the brilliant reasons why this is not a good time. I can’t…
I thought we had a deal.
We DO. But, right now? This is not the most convenient time…
Who said anything about convenience? He reaches into the trailer, grabs a small toolbox and looks at me. I look at the box. Then I look at the trailer with all the cool apps and widgets and power tools. Then I look at him.
I thought you were going to use some of your power tools…? Isn’t that what the pros do?
Nah... I use those only when absolutely necessary. They raise a lot of dust and make way too much noise. I prefer working in the quiet.
He sets the toolbox on the driveway and flips the lid open. A couple of small trowels, more pruning shears than I think necessary, a stainless steel double-edged kitchen knife which opens up a whole new can of big, fat wormy questions, and a pair of gloves.
Gloves? With the hands like yours I didn’t think you use gloves.
Sometimes they come in handy.
Speaking of hands… if I dare to ask… What happened to your hands? Did you have a wrestling match with a combine and lost…?
Sort of…though, that’s just a part of the story. One day you’ll be able hear the rest. But now, we have another business to attend… Shall we…?
If you insist…I sigh for I would much rather listen to a good story.
I think we should start with repairing the sprinkling system. I keep running over the heads with the lawnmower…my husband can’t keep up with the repairs. For every one he fixes I manage to break two. And, as you know, it’s impossible to have a lawn without a sprinkling system…
It is?!! I didn’t realize that. Don’t you have a garden hose?
Of course we do. At least four.. maybe six.
One is usually enough.
For what?!!
For watering the garden.
And who is supposed to stand there with the garden hose and water the garden every day?!!!
Who do YOU think?
Certainly not me!
It’s YOUR yard.
You are crazy! I don’t have that kind of time on my hands!
We always have time for what we love… In fact, this is my prescription for you for the next several weeks. Do not use sprinkling system. Just the garden hose. Every morning… or evening. He added, If you prefer. I’ll be here with you.
Now I know for sure that you have landed here from a different planet! For no person on this planet has this kind of time to waste on such frivolous activities. I fume under my breath.
It’s not going to be wasted. He says. I promise.
There will never be a better time than now.
Today… we start today… in fact, right now. He answers matter-of-factly and walks toward the trailer.
Right now?!!! But… but… I stammer suddenly at a loss of all the brilliant reasons why this is not a good time. I can’t…
I thought we had a deal.
We DO. But, right now? This is not the most convenient time…
Who said anything about convenience? He reaches into the trailer, grabs a small toolbox and looks at me. I look at the box. Then I look at the trailer with all the cool apps and widgets and power tools. Then I look at him.
I thought you were going to use some of your power tools…? Isn’t that what the pros do?
Nah... I use those only when absolutely necessary. They raise a lot of dust and make way too much noise. I prefer working in the quiet.
He sets the toolbox on the driveway and flips the lid open. A couple of small trowels, more pruning shears than I think necessary, a stainless steel double-edged kitchen knife which opens up a whole new can of big, fat wormy questions, and a pair of gloves.
Gloves? With the hands like yours I didn’t think you use gloves.
Sometimes they come in handy.
Speaking of hands… if I dare to ask… What happened to your hands? Did you have a wrestling match with a combine and lost…?
Sort of…though, that’s just a part of the story. One day you’ll be able hear the rest. But now, we have another business to attend… Shall we…?
If you insist…I sigh for I would much rather listen to a good story.
I think we should start with repairing the sprinkling system. I keep running over the heads with the lawnmower…my husband can’t keep up with the repairs. For every one he fixes I manage to break two. And, as you know, it’s impossible to have a lawn without a sprinkling system…
It is?!! I didn’t realize that. Don’t you have a garden hose?
Of course we do. At least four.. maybe six.
One is usually enough.
For what?!!
For watering the garden.
And who is supposed to stand there with the garden hose and water the garden every day?!!!
Who do YOU think?
Certainly not me!
It’s YOUR yard.
You are crazy! I don’t have that kind of time on my hands!
We always have time for what we love… In fact, this is my prescription for you for the next several weeks. Do not use sprinkling system. Just the garden hose. Every morning… or evening. He added, If you prefer. I’ll be here with you.
Now I know for sure that you have landed here from a different planet! For no person on this planet has this kind of time to waste on such frivolous activities. I fume under my breath.
It’s not going to be wasted. He says. I promise.
There will never be a better time than now.
Thursday, March 01, 2012
Whining Fast 101 – Small Talk
Sooo, how long have you been in this business? I ask, feeling a bit strange, fearing if I don’t keep him occupied, he might change his mind and go away.
Awhile…it’s a family business.
So, you are the owner? I raise my eyebrow, quite impressed.
The owner’s son.
Same difference.
Yep… same difference. I would love to introduce you to my dad some time. He is pretty awesome.
Hearing him talk about his dad in such a way makes me realize I miss my dad. I swallow hard.
I miss my dad. I say, tearing up. You know, I am not from here. When I left home, I left everything and everyone behind.
I know… I am not from here either. We stand silent for a while. I feel the breeze cooling my face. Sensing the ground shifting under my feet, I change the subject again,
You guys must be doing pretty well to be able to afford this kind of special. Do you run it often?
All the time. We enjoy giving gifts.
Wow! People must be all over you…
Actually, you would be surprised. Most people seem to prefer earning their own way… paying their dues...
It IS weird being on the receiving end of such an extravagant gift… Part of me feels that now I am indebted to you… and nobody likes to be a debtor.
A simple thank-you would suffice.
Thank you.
You are welcome. Our pleasure.
Awhile…it’s a family business.
So, you are the owner? I raise my eyebrow, quite impressed.
The owner’s son.
Same difference.
Yep… same difference. I would love to introduce you to my dad some time. He is pretty awesome.
Hearing him talk about his dad in such a way makes me realize I miss my dad. I swallow hard.
I miss my dad. I say, tearing up. You know, I am not from here. When I left home, I left everything and everyone behind.
I know… I am not from here either. We stand silent for a while. I feel the breeze cooling my face. Sensing the ground shifting under my feet, I change the subject again,
You guys must be doing pretty well to be able to afford this kind of special. Do you run it often?
All the time. We enjoy giving gifts.
Wow! People must be all over you…
Actually, you would be surprised. Most people seem to prefer earning their own way… paying their dues...
It IS weird being on the receiving end of such an extravagant gift… Part of me feels that now I am indebted to you… and nobody likes to be a debtor.
A simple thank-you would suffice.
Thank you.
You are welcome. Our pleasure.
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Whining Fast 101 – Enter At Your Own Risk
This is the only warning I am going to give to you. Prayer is a subversive activity. If you never prayed this or similar kind of prayer, please DON’T! There is no telling what might happen next.
As if on a cue, a white truck with a trailer hitched to it swings around the corner of our street and pulls in front of our house. A single word emblazoned on its side in large bold letters says EVERGRINGOT.
Now, that’s a strange name… wonder what it means…
A guy jumps out, taking off his hands-free as he finishes up a conversation:
Thanks for asking…I am already on my way – be there in a sec. He slams the door behind him and waves at me.
Er.. sir… It seems like you got a wrong house. I glance at the trailer, filled with all the apps and widgets one might need to run a professional landscaping business.
You must be Bob’s landscape guy… He shook his head and burst into laughter,
It seems to me that I am at just the right house. I look at my rabid-squirrel-rampaged lawn and slowly get off my knees.
But I didn’t call for any landscaping service…
Hm.. that’s funny. I thought you did…
I was just... I stop mid-sentence, realizing that if I finish it, I would sound totally weird. Being weird is definitely not my thing. So, I decide to steer the conversation into the familiar water teeming with excuses.
Sir, you don’t understand… It’s not that I think we don't NEED landscaping service…we really can’t afford…
How’ bout that, he interrupted, … It just so happens that we are running a special today… all-inclusive, full-service gardener with the works – tools, plants, an experienced expert, everything you need to turn this… he hesitated as if looking for an accurate word to describe my wretched yard, but decided against it…. To turn this into a garden of Eden.
This guy is either a con-artist or a lunatic, I smile at him and as if humoring a lunatic.
And how much is that pleasure going to cost me?
He clasped his hands, intertwining his fingers. I could see dirt under his fingernails.
Already prepaid. In full. No-end contract. You need to show up though. It’s your lawn after all. Sort of… Do we have a deal?
He stretched out his hand waiting for me. Something about those hands tells me he knows what he is talking about and he is dead-serious. If my jaw hasn’t been bruised enough already, this time would have done me in.
If this happens one more time, I will need a maxillofacial surgeon and who is going to pay for that?
I grab his hand and shake it vigorously.
We got ourselves a deal, Sir. We got ourselves a DEAL!
And so I got me my very own personal Gardener.
Prayer is a subversive activity. It should be entered only at your own risk.
As if on a cue, a white truck with a trailer hitched to it swings around the corner of our street and pulls in front of our house. A single word emblazoned on its side in large bold letters says EVERGRINGOT.
Now, that’s a strange name… wonder what it means…
A guy jumps out, taking off his hands-free as he finishes up a conversation:
Thanks for asking…I am already on my way – be there in a sec. He slams the door behind him and waves at me.
Er.. sir… It seems like you got a wrong house. I glance at the trailer, filled with all the apps and widgets one might need to run a professional landscaping business.
You must be Bob’s landscape guy… He shook his head and burst into laughter,
It seems to me that I am at just the right house. I look at my rabid-squirrel-rampaged lawn and slowly get off my knees.
But I didn’t call for any landscaping service…
Hm.. that’s funny. I thought you did…
I was just... I stop mid-sentence, realizing that if I finish it, I would sound totally weird. Being weird is definitely not my thing. So, I decide to steer the conversation into the familiar water teeming with excuses.
Sir, you don’t understand… It’s not that I think we don't NEED landscaping service…we really can’t afford…
How’ bout that, he interrupted, … It just so happens that we are running a special today… all-inclusive, full-service gardener with the works – tools, plants, an experienced expert, everything you need to turn this… he hesitated as if looking for an accurate word to describe my wretched yard, but decided against it…. To turn this into a garden of Eden.
This guy is either a con-artist or a lunatic, I smile at him and as if humoring a lunatic.
And how much is that pleasure going to cost me?
He clasped his hands, intertwining his fingers. I could see dirt under his fingernails.
Already prepaid. In full. No-end contract. You need to show up though. It’s your lawn after all. Sort of… Do we have a deal?
He stretched out his hand waiting for me. Something about those hands tells me he knows what he is talking about and he is dead-serious. If my jaw hasn’t been bruised enough already, this time would have done me in.
If this happens one more time, I will need a maxillofacial surgeon and who is going to pay for that?
I grab his hand and shake it vigorously.
We got ourselves a deal, Sir. We got ourselves a DEAL!
And so I got me my very own personal Gardener.
Prayer is a subversive activity. It should be entered only at your own risk.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Whining Fast 101 – From Discouragement to Despair
Having been stripped of my ingenious Plan B, in addition to being utterly disillusioned by my new found identity of the Great Weed Exterminator I feel like I am losing ground and slipping fast from discouragement into Despair. Capital D Despair. I have nothing left. I am doomed forever.
In the back of my mind, a tiny bee starts buzzing… I am annoyed and would much rather be left alone to rot. But the bee doesn’t leave me alone. In between the annoying buzzings, I think I hear something along the lines of despair being a compost pile for real growth.
The counter-intuitive nature of the statement gets me quite distracted from my doom-n-gloom. I latch on it like a nursing infant.
Despair is the compost pile for real growth… Despair… is a compost pile… for real… growth…
There is no question that my life resembles a big, stinky compost pile, indeed. And, there sure is a lot of despair. But, real growth? Do I even know what this 'real growth' thing is all about…?
I realize I need a serious miracle. And the only One I know qualified in this department is… God.
OMG! I am such a loser! I need God to weed my garden! How pathetic is that? HOW pathetic is THAT!
Pathetic or not, I have nowhere else to turn. So, I slump down on my knees and utter the most sincere prayer I’ve said in a very long time:
Ah, LORD God, You who created this amazing world out of nothing, You who give life to the dead, make me a gardener.
Just like that.
When you are at the bottom, the only way to look is up.
In the back of my mind, a tiny bee starts buzzing… I am annoyed and would much rather be left alone to rot. But the bee doesn’t leave me alone. In between the annoying buzzings, I think I hear something along the lines of despair being a compost pile for real growth.
The counter-intuitive nature of the statement gets me quite distracted from my doom-n-gloom. I latch on it like a nursing infant.
Despair is the compost pile for real growth… Despair… is a compost pile… for real… growth…
There is no question that my life resembles a big, stinky compost pile, indeed. And, there sure is a lot of despair. But, real growth? Do I even know what this 'real growth' thing is all about…?
I realize I need a serious miracle. And the only One I know qualified in this department is… God.
OMG! I am such a loser! I need God to weed my garden! How pathetic is that? HOW pathetic is THAT!
Pathetic or not, I have nowhere else to turn. So, I slump down on my knees and utter the most sincere prayer I’ve said in a very long time:
Ah, LORD God, You who created this amazing world out of nothing, You who give life to the dead, make me a gardener.
Just like that.
When you are at the bottom, the only way to look is up.
Monday, February 27, 2012
Whining Fast 101 – Plan B The Astro-Turf
B is for Brilliant…
Planting? She said, I was PLANTING?!! I shook my head, talking to the tree who stares at me without a blink. What was that crazy woman thinking?!! Can’t she tell the difference between WEEDING and PLANTING?? I take the tree’s silence as agreement and turn my attention back to the lawn.
With all the holes and craters, it now looks more like the surface of the Moon. I’ve never seen anybody plant anything on the Moon, except, maybe Neil Armstrong when he planted the flag of the United States. I certainly am not a Neil Armstrong.
The wasteland sprawled in front of me speaks its own language.
I can feel the wind fizzling out of my sail, leaving hopelessness and self pity behind. I hug the tree and begin to weep; the puddle around my feet soon overflows the property lines of our yard and threatens to flood both neighbors’. Even though we are in the drought season, somehow I don’t think they would appreciate my free watering service.
I need fresh perspective, I think, still hugging the tree.
Perhaps I should try planking…
I climb to the lowest branch, which is still pretty high for a woman my age and athletic prowess. Somehow I manage anyway, shake of my dripping boots and look down. Being lifted out of the puddle of self-pity indeed helps.
Up in the sky, half way to the Moon, I consider alternatives – adding an expansion to our driveway and turning the whole yard into a basketball court… adopting an Arizona style rock garden with zero grass landscaping. Finally, the energy efficient light bulb comes on in my head and I have a brilliant idea:
Astro-turf! That’s what we should do – we should put down Astro-turf. All my woes instantly evaporate as I clamber down the tree trunk to call the family meeting.
We are switching to Astro Turf! I announce, very much impressed with myself.
My husband looks at me over his reading glasses and without apology nixes my brilliant idea.
Ain’t gonna work. He says, It’s against our HOA CC&Rs, and goes back to clipping the coupons.
What do you mean, It’s against our HOA CC&Rs?!!! They can’t do that! They are overreaching their authority! Forbidding fake grass - outrageous! Think of all the water conservation and NO MAINTENANCE! How can they object to that?!!! That… that’s like banning all the fake Christians, all the phonies and hypocrites from going to church!
Our I-read-Encyclopedia-Britannica-just-for-fun son sticks his nose out of the pages and throws in his two cents.
Mom, it’s really not as great as it sounds… There are some serious drawbacks. The infill required for laying down artificial turf may carry heavy metals which can leech into the water table, plus the turf carries pathogens which are not broken down by natural processes in the same way as regular grass and that… He looks up, sees that my bruised jaw is about to hit the floor again, and stops mid sentence.
I had no idea that fake can be hazardous to your own, your family’s and your community’s health.
B is for Brilliant… or, perhaps, Bad…
Planting? She said, I was PLANTING?!! I shook my head, talking to the tree who stares at me without a blink. What was that crazy woman thinking?!! Can’t she tell the difference between WEEDING and PLANTING?? I take the tree’s silence as agreement and turn my attention back to the lawn.
With all the holes and craters, it now looks more like the surface of the Moon. I’ve never seen anybody plant anything on the Moon, except, maybe Neil Armstrong when he planted the flag of the United States. I certainly am not a Neil Armstrong.
The wasteland sprawled in front of me speaks its own language.
I can feel the wind fizzling out of my sail, leaving hopelessness and self pity behind. I hug the tree and begin to weep; the puddle around my feet soon overflows the property lines of our yard and threatens to flood both neighbors’. Even though we are in the drought season, somehow I don’t think they would appreciate my free watering service.
I need fresh perspective, I think, still hugging the tree.
Perhaps I should try planking…
I climb to the lowest branch, which is still pretty high for a woman my age and athletic prowess. Somehow I manage anyway, shake of my dripping boots and look down. Being lifted out of the puddle of self-pity indeed helps.
Up in the sky, half way to the Moon, I consider alternatives – adding an expansion to our driveway and turning the whole yard into a basketball court… adopting an Arizona style rock garden with zero grass landscaping. Finally, the energy efficient light bulb comes on in my head and I have a brilliant idea:
Astro-turf! That’s what we should do – we should put down Astro-turf. All my woes instantly evaporate as I clamber down the tree trunk to call the family meeting.
We are switching to Astro Turf! I announce, very much impressed with myself.
My husband looks at me over his reading glasses and without apology nixes my brilliant idea.
Ain’t gonna work. He says, It’s against our HOA CC&Rs, and goes back to clipping the coupons.
What do you mean, It’s against our HOA CC&Rs?!!! They can’t do that! They are overreaching their authority! Forbidding fake grass - outrageous! Think of all the water conservation and NO MAINTENANCE! How can they object to that?!!! That… that’s like banning all the fake Christians, all the phonies and hypocrites from going to church!
Our I-read-Encyclopedia-Britannica-just-for-fun son sticks his nose out of the pages and throws in his two cents.
Mom, it’s really not as great as it sounds… There are some serious drawbacks. The infill required for laying down artificial turf may carry heavy metals which can leech into the water table, plus the turf carries pathogens which are not broken down by natural processes in the same way as regular grass and that… He looks up, sees that my bruised jaw is about to hit the floor again, and stops mid sentence.
I had no idea that fake can be hazardous to your own, your family’s and your community’s health.
B is for Brilliant… or, perhaps, Bad…
Saturday, February 25, 2012
Whining Fast 101 – This Is Much Harder Than I Thought It Would Be
I’m In Way Over My Head
Smitten by the sudden realization of my compulsive habit, I look at my yard with fresh eyes. They just about pop out of my sockets as I notice weeds ALL around. Crabgrass, Pennywort, Sedge, Goosegrass, Button weed… I stare at the lawn suspiciously, wondering if it might be trying to imply that Whining shares the apartment with its evil twin sisters... Complaining, and Grumbling, and Criticizing, and Comparing, perhaps even Gossiping, and Who-Knows-What-Else… I dismiss the thought as utterly preposterous, since if I had to stop all that, I might as well stop talking altogether! So, I resolutely turn to my lawn and with renewed determination dive head first into it.
I will NOT allow THIS on MY watch!! I dig like a rabid squirrel, dirt flying, a mountain of pulled-out weeds next to me growing by the second. I am in the zone. I have finally found the purpose of my existence.
I am the GREAT weed EXTERMINATOR! Despite the heat, the dirt, the sweat, I actually feel pretty good about my new identity. I can sense adrenaline pumping through my cardiovascular system and I double the speed and intensity of digging.
Suddenly, a tiny voice yanks me right off my high stampeding horse.
Mommy, what is this lady doing??!!?
I stop in my tracks and look at the boy. I can’t really see him for my eyes are caked with dirt now. I use the inside of my elbow to wipe them off. I notice a large patch of uprooted turf had somehow landed on the eye-shade of my multipurpose baseball cap. I try to shake it off, but in the process I scatter some dirt on the boy and his mom. The perplexed look on his face is a mixture of curiosity, fear and desire to join me in the mud rolling. The fear seems to overtake the other two and he steps closer to his mama and hugs her right leg.
All around me there are holes were weeds used to be. Our lawn resembles an exploding minefield.
The lady… , his mama speaks slowly, enunciating every word, The lady is… planting!
She dusts the dirt off his shoulder as they move on. My jaw drops with a thump, hitting the mound of dirt in front of me.
I’m In Way Over My Head.
Smitten by the sudden realization of my compulsive habit, I look at my yard with fresh eyes. They just about pop out of my sockets as I notice weeds ALL around. Crabgrass, Pennywort, Sedge, Goosegrass, Button weed… I stare at the lawn suspiciously, wondering if it might be trying to imply that Whining shares the apartment with its evil twin sisters... Complaining, and Grumbling, and Criticizing, and Comparing, perhaps even Gossiping, and Who-Knows-What-Else… I dismiss the thought as utterly preposterous, since if I had to stop all that, I might as well stop talking altogether! So, I resolutely turn to my lawn and with renewed determination dive head first into it.
I will NOT allow THIS on MY watch!! I dig like a rabid squirrel, dirt flying, a mountain of pulled-out weeds next to me growing by the second. I am in the zone. I have finally found the purpose of my existence.
I am the GREAT weed EXTERMINATOR! Despite the heat, the dirt, the sweat, I actually feel pretty good about my new identity. I can sense adrenaline pumping through my cardiovascular system and I double the speed and intensity of digging.
Suddenly, a tiny voice yanks me right off my high stampeding horse.
Mommy, what is this lady doing??!!?
I stop in my tracks and look at the boy. I can’t really see him for my eyes are caked with dirt now. I use the inside of my elbow to wipe them off. I notice a large patch of uprooted turf had somehow landed on the eye-shade of my multipurpose baseball cap. I try to shake it off, but in the process I scatter some dirt on the boy and his mom. The perplexed look on his face is a mixture of curiosity, fear and desire to join me in the mud rolling. The fear seems to overtake the other two and he steps closer to his mama and hugs her right leg.
All around me there are holes were weeds used to be. Our lawn resembles an exploding minefield.
The lady… , his mama speaks slowly, enunciating every word, The lady is… planting!
She dusts the dirt off his shoulder as they move on. My jaw drops with a thump, hitting the mound of dirt in front of me.
I’m In Way Over My Head.
Friday, February 24, 2012
Whining Fast 101 – I can quit any time
You don’t know you are addicted until you try quitting.
Fasting is hard. I need all the help I can get to stick with it. So, in order to get my fixated mind unglued from whatever I am attempting to eradicate out of MY-life so I can squeeze a speck of God-life in, I go back to gardening. My yard is always there, waiting for me, always ready to embrace me with open arms. It never talks back to me (well, maybe a time or two). There is always ample work available yielding instant results (unlike my parenting). Best of all, I can do it mindlessly. I get on my knees, pull the crabgrass by the roots, and just let my brain wander off wherever it wishes…. I don’t even hear it buzz…
If only there were no weeds. I would be a better gardener… if only there were no weeds. I would be a better gardener… … if only there were no weeds. I would be a better gardener… … IF ONLY THERE WERE NO WEEDS. I WOULD BE A BETTER ?#*&%@# GARDENER…
I am jerked out of my mindless state, wondering who the heck yelled that last sentence. I suspiciously checked out the neighbor power-walking her dog on the other side of the street, but she seemed an unlikely candidate.
Since nobody else is around, I decide, instead of playing the blame game, I am going to take ownership of this random, isolated, single little thought.
If only there were no weeds, I would be a better gardener. True or false?
Well…
I realize part of me believes the statement is true. The part that likes to deny the reality. For, reality, even my favorite gardener Tom MacCubbin would agree, is - Where there is a garden, there are weeds. Like it or not.
I step back, frowning at my lawn for being so blunt.
Where else in my life am I in equal denial about the fact of weeds?
Suddenly, an onslaught of barking thoughts jump at me, having been hidden around some shady corner inside my brain waiting to be released:
If there were no temptations, I would be a better Christian… I was actually a pretty good parent before we had kids. If there were no immature, selfish, SINFUL people in our church, it would…
The whining, complaining, howling dogs have broken the rickety fence in the back of my brain and took the full stage, front and center.
You don’t know you are addicted until you try quitting.
Fasting is hard. I need all the help I can get to stick with it. So, in order to get my fixated mind unglued from whatever I am attempting to eradicate out of MY-life so I can squeeze a speck of God-life in, I go back to gardening. My yard is always there, waiting for me, always ready to embrace me with open arms. It never talks back to me (well, maybe a time or two). There is always ample work available yielding instant results (unlike my parenting). Best of all, I can do it mindlessly. I get on my knees, pull the crabgrass by the roots, and just let my brain wander off wherever it wishes…. I don’t even hear it buzz…
If only there were no weeds. I would be a better gardener… if only there were no weeds. I would be a better gardener… … if only there were no weeds. I would be a better gardener… … IF ONLY THERE WERE NO WEEDS. I WOULD BE A BETTER ?#*&%@# GARDENER…
I am jerked out of my mindless state, wondering who the heck yelled that last sentence. I suspiciously checked out the neighbor power-walking her dog on the other side of the street, but she seemed an unlikely candidate.
Since nobody else is around, I decide, instead of playing the blame game, I am going to take ownership of this random, isolated, single little thought.
If only there were no weeds, I would be a better gardener. True or false?
Well…
I realize part of me believes the statement is true. The part that likes to deny the reality. For, reality, even my favorite gardener Tom MacCubbin would agree, is - Where there is a garden, there are weeds. Like it or not.
I step back, frowning at my lawn for being so blunt.
Where else in my life am I in equal denial about the fact of weeds?
Suddenly, an onslaught of barking thoughts jump at me, having been hidden around some shady corner inside my brain waiting to be released:
If there were no temptations, I would be a better Christian… I was actually a pretty good parent before we had kids. If there were no immature, selfish, SINFUL people in our church, it would…
The whining, complaining, howling dogs have broken the rickety fence in the back of my brain and took the full stage, front and center.
You don’t know you are addicted until you try quitting.
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Facebook Fast
Even though I have been walking with Jesus for over twenty years, last year was the first time I made a feeble resolution to join millions of others in giving up something for Lent. The lot was cast, and it fell on… Facebook!
Not Facebook!!! I protested within my own head. I can’t give up Facebook?!!??
The radical thought generated such internal turmoil that I became suspicious I might need to give up Facebook, for in the short time since I'd opened my account, it started dominating my life more than I care to admit.
So, I embarked on my first ever Facebook fast.
The first couple of days, I was too busy with other stuff to even notice I wasn’t logging in. But then my scheduled opened up and I began to hear my virtual friend calling my name. All the symptoms of a detox started popping up like sponsor ads. Suffering through withdrawals, I knew I had become addicted. Going the way of most addicts, I relapsed and peeked in (well, gorged on), just to check if anybody still 'likes' me. Just to make sure I wasn’t missing out on something really fun or perhaps on a cataclysmic event everybody is re-posting and I am oblivious of since I so recklessly chose to cut off my life line. Eventually, I quieted down, being assured that most likely I won’t be left behind if the Second Coming of Christ occurs during my fast. I could finally relax, for a split millisecond peel my eyes off of me - what I think and say and do and how much I am liked for it by other FB addicts - and start noticing even enjoying Life apart from Facebook. What a concept!
The final couple of weeks flew by and Easter Sunday greeted me with a huge dose of embarrassment at my own fickle faith and renewed appreciation of the enormity of Christ's love and sacrifice for the idolatrous sinners like me. Even though my virtual love affair with the social networking site started quite innocently, it somehow connected with this thing inside me and morphed into a cheap substitute, leaving me emotionally and spiritually starved.
On Monday after Easter, when the FB ban was lifted, I found myself strangely free from its choking grip. Part of me didn't want the fast to end. I slowly eased into checking and posting status updates, sharing photos and links. I continued doing FB throughout the year with greater or lesser sense of entanglement. My idolatry-prone heart knows its capacity to seek life, acceptance and fulfillment in all the wrong places.
This year, encouraged by the outcome of last year's experience, I considered doing the FB fast again. But a quiet voice surprised me with another suggestion,
How about quitting whining, instead?
Whining??? You mean for my kids to quit whining? Now I would really like that!
Not your kids - for YOU to quit whining! Who do you think your kids learned it from?
Surely not from me??? Whining??? ....Not whining!!! I can’t give up whining?!!??
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
Playing Your Part with Heart
Yesterday we finally reached a miniature (or perhaps a huge) milestone in our son’s violinist ‘career’. His baby steps with the instrument were of the kind only a mother can love and appreciate. The rest of the family (and unfortunate neighbors and classmates) endured with less or more tolerance the hair-raising screeching produced by often out-of-tune strings. Being his mom, I always thought that what might have been missing in his experience and skill was abundantly made up by his love affair with the cheap Made in China imitation of the famous Stradivarius.
The day he got a tiny violin to match his size, he swung the front door of our house wide open, marched out, planted himself in the lawn under a holly tree and as he drew the bow against the strings exclaimed,
Hey! Listen! I am using this song to quiet the wind!
His youthful zeal, nurtured by time, practice, expert guidance and community of fellow-mini-musicians finally brought us the day when we can actually enjoy his concerts, rather than suffer through them.
The uniqueness of the MAYS (Metropolitan Area Youth Symphony) concerts lies in the fact that they feature several different levels of performers – from talented beginners playing more simple pieces (if one dares calling a theme from Brandenburg Concerto No. 5 ‘simple’) all the way to some exceptional, Orlando Philharmonic Orchestra worthy young men and women, awe-ing the audience by their virtuoso performance of Bach, Beethoven, Rachmaninoff and Mozart.
The comprehensive umbrella of age, talent, skill and experience provides an observer with a form of a musical timeline, a fascinating time-lapse snapshot of the developmental progression in the life of a musician. Each group, each stage is to be relished and celebrated in their own merit – recognizing the familiar tune amidst a horde of straying notes as much as forgetting to breathe while taken by an outstanding soloist. It might be humbling but it is certainly good for the older ones to look back and remember where they came from. And, it’s just as good for the youngsters to be encouraged and inspired by those ahead of them towards greater heights in loving, appreciating and performing timeless classics.
In that multilayer harmony the conductor, the orchestra, the soloist and the audience together are lifted into an even grander design of inspiration and beauty transcending time, place, any individual or group, era or style. They all point towards the Great Composer who gave His one and only Son to be a pitch pipe (or DaTuner, if you are a techie type) for us, who invites us to leave the bleachers, join in His grand orchestra and begin playing our own unique part with passion and ever-increasing grace and skill. It’s the symphony that everyone who heard it agrees is quite out of this world.
I am writing to you, little children, because your sins have been forgiven you for His name’s sake. I am writing to you, fathers, because you know Him (who has been from the beginning. I am writing to you, young men, because… you are strong, and the word of God abides in you, and you have overcome the evil one. I John 2:12-14
The day he got a tiny violin to match his size, he swung the front door of our house wide open, marched out, planted himself in the lawn under a holly tree and as he drew the bow against the strings exclaimed,
Hey! Listen! I am using this song to quiet the wind!
His youthful zeal, nurtured by time, practice, expert guidance and community of fellow-mini-musicians finally brought us the day when we can actually enjoy his concerts, rather than suffer through them.
The uniqueness of the MAYS (Metropolitan Area Youth Symphony) concerts lies in the fact that they feature several different levels of performers – from talented beginners playing more simple pieces (if one dares calling a theme from Brandenburg Concerto No. 5 ‘simple’) all the way to some exceptional, Orlando Philharmonic Orchestra worthy young men and women, awe-ing the audience by their virtuoso performance of Bach, Beethoven, Rachmaninoff and Mozart.
The comprehensive umbrella of age, talent, skill and experience provides an observer with a form of a musical timeline, a fascinating time-lapse snapshot of the developmental progression in the life of a musician. Each group, each stage is to be relished and celebrated in their own merit – recognizing the familiar tune amidst a horde of straying notes as much as forgetting to breathe while taken by an outstanding soloist. It might be humbling but it is certainly good for the older ones to look back and remember where they came from. And, it’s just as good for the youngsters to be encouraged and inspired by those ahead of them towards greater heights in loving, appreciating and performing timeless classics.
In that multilayer harmony the conductor, the orchestra, the soloist and the audience together are lifted into an even grander design of inspiration and beauty transcending time, place, any individual or group, era or style. They all point towards the Great Composer who gave His one and only Son to be a pitch pipe (or DaTuner, if you are a techie type) for us, who invites us to leave the bleachers, join in His grand orchestra and begin playing our own unique part with passion and ever-increasing grace and skill. It’s the symphony that everyone who heard it agrees is quite out of this world.
I am writing to you, little children, because your sins have been forgiven you for His name’s sake. I am writing to you, fathers, because you know Him (who has been from the beginning. I am writing to you, young men, because… you are strong, and the word of God abides in you, and you have overcome the evil one. I John 2:12-14
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Saving the Best for Last
When he first met me, I wasn’t a consideration, because I was a … foreigner. When I first met him, he wasn’t a consideration because I couldn’t pronounce his last name and I already had a boyfriend.
Nine days later, the boyfriend of six and a half years was out of the picture and for the first time I, the ever-expressive, ever-opinionated chatterbox-I discovered that words have some serious limitations.
So begins the BEST love story ever lived. It’s best, of course, because it’s our love story. It has every component of a really good love story – twists and turns, war and peace, long letters and short fuses, dazzling fireworks and all. Thus the Sock found its Monkey, the Spark found its Plug, the Type found its Writer and the Kindle found its Fire. They lived happily ever after, end of story.
This is as far as the definition of love reaches in most people’s minds. The rush of emotions, a walk on the cloud, or, as some cynics may call it a 'temporary state of insanity'. For, speaking from experience, love does make you do some crazy things we would never dream of doing otherwise. Writing poems, buying flowers in the dead of winter, abandoning our safe, carefully controlled, self-contained world and embracing some utterly Other as a vital part of our very being, putting the desires, wishes and preferences of that one above our own. Just yesterday I was my happy, content, busy me. Today I am a wreck without this long-lost soul mate who, a split second ago was a complete stranger. When, through some small token of providence I am assured of his love for me, I am blown away that cosmic forces would be so graciously inclined to pick me, this pitiful, undeserving me, and shower me with such generosity and favor!
Nobody, however, can live in a permanent state of euphoria (unless, of course, you are a drug addict or mentally ill). For, sooner or later, the flash-flood of adrenaline, dopamine, endorphin and oxytocin slowly (or abruptly) subsides. You can’t have lavish, elaborate candle-light dinners every single evening. You don’t stay up just talking all night when you have kids to take care of the next day. It’s impossible for me to look dazzling when I first wake up (or any other time, for that matter). My husband discovered that the Amazing-Sexy-Legs turns into an Incredible-Mrs-Hyde (as in Jekyll and Hyde) before she had her SECOND cup of coffee in the morning. My stunning mate is a little less of his usual Mr. Universe self before he shaves and takes a shower. And, I was shocked to learn that even Mr. Universe farts after having milk and cereal for lunch.
And so I begin to notice ever so slight a shift in my perception. I start seeing things I didn’t see before… all these big and small imperfections I was so blissfully blind to and I am at a loss. What am I supposed to do with all this new information?!!?
Suddenly I am confronted with a choice. I can choose to chase after one adrenaline-rush after another, trying to recapture or recreate the chemically-buoyed feelings of love. My OMG-keep-me-perpetually-entertained-and-happy-lest-I-die-of-boredom Botox-skin-deep culture implies there is no alternative. Much of my broken, idolatrous self gladly concedes to the allure of this course of action. If I go down that path, I discover that it is ruled by the law of diminishing returns. I need more, and more, and MORE… and my sense of discontentment and restlessness grows bigger and bigger and BIGGER. Nobody, not even my amazing Mr. Universe can measure up or compete with that kind of pressure. So, I can decide that, just as I have so hopelessly, so involuntarily fallen madly IN love, I can as easily, yet, ah so sadly – or MADly - fall OUT of love. The Museum of Broken Relationships in Zagreb, Croatia offers a guided tour of artifacts of such love gone sour. http://www.yorkdispatch.com/entertainment/ci_19960646 The end of that story, onto the next.
Or, I can chose to believe the vision imparted by the ‘temporary blindness’ (or, perhaps, it was a provision of an extra eye to see the possibility in the impossible?). I can receive the whole package – what makes sense to my pea-size brain and what doesn’t – and ask God to help me do the hard work of faith… the hammering out of that incredible, dazzling vision in the nooks and crannies of our lives, day-in, day-out, year in, year out, staying true to the promise when the glare of the stage lights is off and burned mac’n’cheese is on the dinner table. With good days and bad, cancers and cavities, fun and funerals, homework and yard work, the dark nights and the dark chocolate, when nobody is watching and nobody needs to know.
In that murky texture of ordinary life, love, true love settles down like snow… gently, quietly, patently, faithfully - no fanfare, no self-inflated noise… over, under, in and through, and all around… until the entire earth-bound landscape of our lives is transformed by its heavenly beauty. Growing deeper and deeper as the years go by, it transcends by light years any dazzling display conjured up by some fleeting, hormone-boosted emotion. And, once again, I am left speechless, marveling at the gracious inclination of the good Lord to pick me, this pitiful, undeserving me, and shower me with such generosity and favor. And I remember that He always saves the best for last.
In this is love, not that we loved God, but that He loved us and sent His Son to be the propitiation for our sins. I John 4:10
Nine days later, the boyfriend of six and a half years was out of the picture and for the first time I, the ever-expressive, ever-opinionated chatterbox-I discovered that words have some serious limitations.
So begins the BEST love story ever lived. It’s best, of course, because it’s our love story. It has every component of a really good love story – twists and turns, war and peace, long letters and short fuses, dazzling fireworks and all. Thus the Sock found its Monkey, the Spark found its Plug, the Type found its Writer and the Kindle found its Fire. They lived happily ever after, end of story.
This is as far as the definition of love reaches in most people’s minds. The rush of emotions, a walk on the cloud, or, as some cynics may call it a 'temporary state of insanity'. For, speaking from experience, love does make you do some crazy things we would never dream of doing otherwise. Writing poems, buying flowers in the dead of winter, abandoning our safe, carefully controlled, self-contained world and embracing some utterly Other as a vital part of our very being, putting the desires, wishes and preferences of that one above our own. Just yesterday I was my happy, content, busy me. Today I am a wreck without this long-lost soul mate who, a split second ago was a complete stranger. When, through some small token of providence I am assured of his love for me, I am blown away that cosmic forces would be so graciously inclined to pick me, this pitiful, undeserving me, and shower me with such generosity and favor!
Nobody, however, can live in a permanent state of euphoria (unless, of course, you are a drug addict or mentally ill). For, sooner or later, the flash-flood of adrenaline, dopamine, endorphin and oxytocin slowly (or abruptly) subsides. You can’t have lavish, elaborate candle-light dinners every single evening. You don’t stay up just talking all night when you have kids to take care of the next day. It’s impossible for me to look dazzling when I first wake up (or any other time, for that matter). My husband discovered that the Amazing-Sexy-Legs turns into an Incredible-Mrs-Hyde (as in Jekyll and Hyde) before she had her SECOND cup of coffee in the morning. My stunning mate is a little less of his usual Mr. Universe self before he shaves and takes a shower. And, I was shocked to learn that even Mr. Universe farts after having milk and cereal for lunch.
And so I begin to notice ever so slight a shift in my perception. I start seeing things I didn’t see before… all these big and small imperfections I was so blissfully blind to and I am at a loss. What am I supposed to do with all this new information?!!?
Suddenly I am confronted with a choice. I can choose to chase after one adrenaline-rush after another, trying to recapture or recreate the chemically-buoyed feelings of love. My OMG-keep-me-perpetually-entertained-and-happy-lest-I-die-of-boredom Botox-skin-deep culture implies there is no alternative. Much of my broken, idolatrous self gladly concedes to the allure of this course of action. If I go down that path, I discover that it is ruled by the law of diminishing returns. I need more, and more, and MORE… and my sense of discontentment and restlessness grows bigger and bigger and BIGGER. Nobody, not even my amazing Mr. Universe can measure up or compete with that kind of pressure. So, I can decide that, just as I have so hopelessly, so involuntarily fallen madly IN love, I can as easily, yet, ah so sadly – or MADly - fall OUT of love. The Museum of Broken Relationships in Zagreb, Croatia offers a guided tour of artifacts of such love gone sour. http://www.yorkdispatch.com/entertainment/ci_19960646 The end of that story, onto the next.
Or, I can chose to believe the vision imparted by the ‘temporary blindness’ (or, perhaps, it was a provision of an extra eye to see the possibility in the impossible?). I can receive the whole package – what makes sense to my pea-size brain and what doesn’t – and ask God to help me do the hard work of faith… the hammering out of that incredible, dazzling vision in the nooks and crannies of our lives, day-in, day-out, year in, year out, staying true to the promise when the glare of the stage lights is off and burned mac’n’cheese is on the dinner table. With good days and bad, cancers and cavities, fun and funerals, homework and yard work, the dark nights and the dark chocolate, when nobody is watching and nobody needs to know.
In that murky texture of ordinary life, love, true love settles down like snow… gently, quietly, patently, faithfully - no fanfare, no self-inflated noise… over, under, in and through, and all around… until the entire earth-bound landscape of our lives is transformed by its heavenly beauty. Growing deeper and deeper as the years go by, it transcends by light years any dazzling display conjured up by some fleeting, hormone-boosted emotion. And, once again, I am left speechless, marveling at the gracious inclination of the good Lord to pick me, this pitiful, undeserving me, and shower me with such generosity and favor. And I remember that He always saves the best for last.
In this is love, not that we loved God, but that He loved us and sent His Son to be the propitiation for our sins. I John 4:10
Monday, January 30, 2012
Less is more
To talk less and say more
To assume less and hear more
To travel less and see more
To compare less and live more
To consume less and enjoy more
To imitate less and create more
Help me O God
To assume less and hear more
To travel less and see more
To compare less and live more
To consume less and enjoy more
To imitate less and create more
Help me O God
Friday, December 23, 2011
The Divine Intrusion
“… for today in the city of David there has been born for you a Savior, who is Christ the Lord…”
Today. Out of Eternal Present into the human timeline, God stepped in...today. Not some day or whenever. Today. A day on a calendar, called Thursday or Saturday or Monday. An apparently ordinary day, just like any other day filled with normal life and mundane activities – buying and selling, teaching and learning, cooking and cleaning, blogging and twittering - today - suddenly invaded by heaven itself.
Today if you hear His voice do not harden your hearts… Hebrews 3:15
In the city of David… A place, specific location with exact geographic coordinates. That’s where you and I live. Right here. A zip code. A street and a house with a number. A grocery store on the corner. The coffee shop. A country inn. Not over there. Somewhere. Nowhere. It’s right here. God’s acts are local. His ways are above and beyond our ability to fathom, but His deeds are manifested locally – a family, an inn in a little town, in a country.
There has been born...Birth initiates something utterly new. Something that didn't exist before suddenly comes into existence and life is changed forever. The day you were born changes everything for you. It's a beginning of a one-of-a-kind adventure, having a ripple effect that only eternity will fully reveal. The birth of God-Child changes everything not only for Him, but for every one of us.
For you… You. Personal you. Not him or her. But you. Me. Pronouns carry tremendous weight that can shift focus and create either walls or bridges. Us and Them. We. The letters in my mailbox are addressed to me. I don’t read my neighbor’s mail. It’s his mail, not mine. God’s love letter to humanity enveloped in the human flesh called Jesus is addressed to YOU. The moment you receive it, it becomes personal. Your mailbox. Your Christmas card. Written, signed and sealed by God Almighty.
A Savior. Our lives reach far beyond our capacity and control. We are more, so much more than what we can understand or handle. We are designed with insatiable, often misdiagnosed, hunger that only God can satisfy… again, and again, and again…. You can call it a programming, design flaw or you can call it an upgrade. Like it or not, nothing, nothing on this earth or in heaven can put my heart and yours at rest until it rests in Him. Even after I’ve done everything in my power, there is this unfathomable landscape my soul that only Savior can rescue, redeem, tame and restore. I need a Savior. You need a Savior.
Who is Christ, the LORD. An ordinary human doesn’t qualify for this Savior job description. I can’t do it for me. I can’t do it for you. You can’t do it for me. Neither can Obama, or Ghandi, Muhammad, Buddha, Mother Theresa, Steve Jobs, Tim Tebow, European Union, or United Nations, husband, wife, father, mother, son, daughter, professor, boss. Only the Creator God is fit for this job. The one and only Son of God. The first of many Sons and Daughters of Man. The moment this Creator God, the LORD, became human - with this one decisive action – He forever changed both eternity and the space/ time continuum. He became irrevocably human. From that day on – and will remain forever. And all who receive Him become eternally, irrevocably sons and daughters of God.
The cosmic transaction – the divine intrusion - moved the eternal Word of God out of the realm of religious speculation, personal interpretation and opinion into the realm of historic action – the here, the now, the you and the I – and the Emmanuel ‘God with us’. There are no spectators in this story. Nobody’s sitting on the sidelines. No indifferent bystanders. Sooner or later everyone takes sides – even those who want to be left alone, remain unengaged – their choice made for them by default. What will it be?
Today, just like that day, some receive Him, some deny Him. Some welcome Him with open arms, and some have no room for Him. Some come from afar seeking to worship Him, and some search the neighborhood in order to kill Him.
What will it be? What will I choose?
Today, if you hear His voice, do not harden your heart… for today, in the city of David, there has been born for you a Savior, who is Christ the Lord…
Today. Out of Eternal Present into the human timeline, God stepped in...today. Not some day or whenever. Today. A day on a calendar, called Thursday or Saturday or Monday. An apparently ordinary day, just like any other day filled with normal life and mundane activities – buying and selling, teaching and learning, cooking and cleaning, blogging and twittering - today - suddenly invaded by heaven itself.
Today if you hear His voice do not harden your hearts… Hebrews 3:15
In the city of David… A place, specific location with exact geographic coordinates. That’s where you and I live. Right here. A zip code. A street and a house with a number. A grocery store on the corner. The coffee shop. A country inn. Not over there. Somewhere. Nowhere. It’s right here. God’s acts are local. His ways are above and beyond our ability to fathom, but His deeds are manifested locally – a family, an inn in a little town, in a country.
There has been born...Birth initiates something utterly new. Something that didn't exist before suddenly comes into existence and life is changed forever. The day you were born changes everything for you. It's a beginning of a one-of-a-kind adventure, having a ripple effect that only eternity will fully reveal. The birth of God-Child changes everything not only for Him, but for every one of us.
For you… You. Personal you. Not him or her. But you. Me. Pronouns carry tremendous weight that can shift focus and create either walls or bridges. Us and Them. We. The letters in my mailbox are addressed to me. I don’t read my neighbor’s mail. It’s his mail, not mine. God’s love letter to humanity enveloped in the human flesh called Jesus is addressed to YOU. The moment you receive it, it becomes personal. Your mailbox. Your Christmas card. Written, signed and sealed by God Almighty.
A Savior. Our lives reach far beyond our capacity and control. We are more, so much more than what we can understand or handle. We are designed with insatiable, often misdiagnosed, hunger that only God can satisfy… again, and again, and again…. You can call it a programming, design flaw or you can call it an upgrade. Like it or not, nothing, nothing on this earth or in heaven can put my heart and yours at rest until it rests in Him. Even after I’ve done everything in my power, there is this unfathomable landscape my soul that only Savior can rescue, redeem, tame and restore. I need a Savior. You need a Savior.
Who is Christ, the LORD. An ordinary human doesn’t qualify for this Savior job description. I can’t do it for me. I can’t do it for you. You can’t do it for me. Neither can Obama, or Ghandi, Muhammad, Buddha, Mother Theresa, Steve Jobs, Tim Tebow, European Union, or United Nations, husband, wife, father, mother, son, daughter, professor, boss. Only the Creator God is fit for this job. The one and only Son of God. The first of many Sons and Daughters of Man. The moment this Creator God, the LORD, became human - with this one decisive action – He forever changed both eternity and the space/ time continuum. He became irrevocably human. From that day on – and will remain forever. And all who receive Him become eternally, irrevocably sons and daughters of God.
The cosmic transaction – the divine intrusion - moved the eternal Word of God out of the realm of religious speculation, personal interpretation and opinion into the realm of historic action – the here, the now, the you and the I – and the Emmanuel ‘God with us’. There are no spectators in this story. Nobody’s sitting on the sidelines. No indifferent bystanders. Sooner or later everyone takes sides – even those who want to be left alone, remain unengaged – their choice made for them by default. What will it be?
Today, just like that day, some receive Him, some deny Him. Some welcome Him with open arms, and some have no room for Him. Some come from afar seeking to worship Him, and some search the neighborhood in order to kill Him.
What will it be? What will I choose?
Today, if you hear His voice, do not harden your heart… for today, in the city of David, there has been born for you a Savior, who is Christ the Lord…
Thursday, December 22, 2011
Who Mugged Up the Mirror?
Blame it on extended holiday hours, or too many lights on the Christmas tree, or too much blue in the sky, or just plain old human nature that simply can’t handle too much of anything, including a good thing… whatever the cause, the effect was that right around bedtime the pandemonium broke out. Tempers flared. Fists flew. Fingernails clashed. Words were said. By an executive decision, the baths were suspended and the offenders sent straight to bed. Being stinky never killed anyone.
The next day, even after a good night’s sleep, the memory of what had happened lingered heavy over the household. I would have much preferred to start the new day with a sincere apology, but experience taught me that those can’t – nor should be – coerced. A good scrubbing would have to suffice.
I listened to the water running behind the closed bathroom door, rehearsing ways to address the previous night’s issues without instigating the WWIII in the process. What seemed like eternity later, I heard a tiny voice calling my name.
The moment the door swung open, I was enveloped by the billows of steam, creating a pocket of zero-visibility inside the bathroom. In the middle of it, Child #1 stood wrapped in a bath towel, looking sheepishly at me. The mirror behind was completely veiled in puffy white. Then, with the corner of my eye, I noticed something scribbled on it. As the fog slowly dissipated I read the message:
I am sorry for mugging up the mirrer.
I stared at the writing at a complete loss of what I was supposed to do… Thank the Child #1 for taking such meticulous responsibility for the self-correcting housekeeping infringement?!!?? I had an item or two from The Need to Apologize list I was itching to volunteer that, according to my scale, far exceeded in importance the borderline insulting confession.
I cleared my throat hoping to buy some time in order not to add more steam to the situation from my own boiling over temper. Finally, I spluttered:
Is THAT ALL you have to apologize for?
The Child #1 bowed her head and quietly nodded.
We stood in silence in the middle of the bathroom for about a decade or two. The steam slunk out through the open door, gradually clearing up the large mirror. I noticed our reflection, the furrowed brow, the weighed-down look, the fuzzy towel and the softness of the blushed skin. The peculiar apology, I observed, also disappeared, going the way of the mist.
The anger, the exhaustion, the noise, the words that should never be of last night suddenly resembled the thick haze mucking up the mirror of our lives, clouding up the image of the One we were uniquely designed to reflect… I think how all too easily the baggage of life – the restlessness, fatigue, expectations, disappointments, misunderstandings and sometimes even the high-pitched chords of seasonal happiness - perturb the reflection of the Christ-reality, fogging up the mirror we are uniquely designed to be…
The Child #1 looks up, splatters of bashful hope glistening like droplets dripping from her wet hair.
Perhaps, that’s exactly what we need to apologize for… what I need to be sorry… and broken for … … for perpetually mugging up the mirror of my life…of our lives… obliterating, twisting, marring the image, the reflection of the face of God we are created and cleansed to become…
Then God said, Let Us make man in Our image, according to Our likeness… Genesis 1:26
Alas, even to this day there is still a veil over their hearts when the Scriptures are read – they don’t realize it is removed in Christ. But whenever a man turns to the Lord the veil disappears…But we all, with unveiled face beholding as in a mirror the glory of the Lord, are being transformed into the same image… 2 Corinthians 3:14-18
The next day, even after a good night’s sleep, the memory of what had happened lingered heavy over the household. I would have much preferred to start the new day with a sincere apology, but experience taught me that those can’t – nor should be – coerced. A good scrubbing would have to suffice.
I listened to the water running behind the closed bathroom door, rehearsing ways to address the previous night’s issues without instigating the WWIII in the process. What seemed like eternity later, I heard a tiny voice calling my name.
The moment the door swung open, I was enveloped by the billows of steam, creating a pocket of zero-visibility inside the bathroom. In the middle of it, Child #1 stood wrapped in a bath towel, looking sheepishly at me. The mirror behind was completely veiled in puffy white. Then, with the corner of my eye, I noticed something scribbled on it. As the fog slowly dissipated I read the message:
I am sorry for mugging up the mirrer.
I stared at the writing at a complete loss of what I was supposed to do… Thank the Child #1 for taking such meticulous responsibility for the self-correcting housekeeping infringement?!!?? I had an item or two from The Need to Apologize list I was itching to volunteer that, according to my scale, far exceeded in importance the borderline insulting confession.
I cleared my throat hoping to buy some time in order not to add more steam to the situation from my own boiling over temper. Finally, I spluttered:
Is THAT ALL you have to apologize for?
The Child #1 bowed her head and quietly nodded.
We stood in silence in the middle of the bathroom for about a decade or two. The steam slunk out through the open door, gradually clearing up the large mirror. I noticed our reflection, the furrowed brow, the weighed-down look, the fuzzy towel and the softness of the blushed skin. The peculiar apology, I observed, also disappeared, going the way of the mist.
The anger, the exhaustion, the noise, the words that should never be of last night suddenly resembled the thick haze mucking up the mirror of our lives, clouding up the image of the One we were uniquely designed to reflect… I think how all too easily the baggage of life – the restlessness, fatigue, expectations, disappointments, misunderstandings and sometimes even the high-pitched chords of seasonal happiness - perturb the reflection of the Christ-reality, fogging up the mirror we are uniquely designed to be…
The Child #1 looks up, splatters of bashful hope glistening like droplets dripping from her wet hair.
Perhaps, that’s exactly what we need to apologize for… what I need to be sorry… and broken for … … for perpetually mugging up the mirror of my life…of our lives… obliterating, twisting, marring the image, the reflection of the face of God we are created and cleansed to become…
Then God said, Let Us make man in Our image, according to Our likeness… Genesis 1:26
Alas, even to this day there is still a veil over their hearts when the Scriptures are read – they don’t realize it is removed in Christ. But whenever a man turns to the Lord the veil disappears…But we all, with unveiled face beholding as in a mirror the glory of the Lord, are being transformed into the same image… 2 Corinthians 3:14-18
Saturday, December 03, 2011
Room to Spare
It shows up every year, some time in early December. Out of the dust-covered box lying dormant on the dirty garage floor, buried under loads of other dusty boxes, untouched for eleven months. When it first appeared in the middle of our living room, years ago, my husband and I were newly married, young and quite naïve. At the time, our lives were simple and our furniture few. Happy and ignorant, we went out to shop one of those after-Christmas clearance sales. We came back home jubilant, hauling in the biggest Christmas tree we could afford. The tree was beautiful and tall. When put together branch by branch, it filled at least a half of our living room, imposing its glorious presence on all this empty space. We loved our tree.
Then, a friend gave us his old TV because he was moving to Australia. Later on, we bought an armoire to accommodate our newly-acquired TV and a matching stand to hold our collection of CDs and VCRs (DVDs were not invented yet). Over the years, we kept accumulating more and more stuff – a DIY project here, and a curb-side mall find there; then came our first child with all his accompanying paraphernalia and soon afterward, another with all the mentioned paraphernalia of a different, she color. So, bit by bit, mountain by mountain stuff kept marching across our doorstep. The stuff we needed, or thought we or somebody we knew needed or might need some day kept ringing our doorbell. Slowly but surely, our huge house started filling up all its empty places, obliterating the memory of the simple life we once used to live.
The tree also appeared to grow bigger and bigger each year, transforming from a beautiful symbol of everlasting life that the birth of God’s Son brought into the world, into a household monstrosity, turning our home upside down each Christmas season. Every December, in order to make room for its ever-expanding (or so it seemed) limbs, we have to move the sofa into the guest bedroom, and the keyboard with its stand into our son’s bedroom, and the spare desk into the dining room, and the bench from the guest bedroom…
Honey, where are we going to put the bench?!!!
Making room for the tree has become our number one Christmas chore…er… I meant to say tradition.
This is insane! We need to hire movers or a chiropractor to set up the darn thing. We should just get rid of it. I scowled at the tree as if it was its fault.
We don’t have room for you! No room. Period.
The silent echo reverberated with familiarity. No room… no room… no room…… in… the… inn…
With sudden realization, a mess of conflicting feelings that must have torn the insides of the Bethlehemian inn-keeper settled in my stomach. I could imagine myself standing at the door of our house, suspiciously eyeing a tired, frost-bitten couple with the baby on the way…
I am so sorry, but we have no room for you anywhere in the house…. However, there is a bit of space in our garage among all the boxes, and garden tools, and discarded toys, and bicycles… if you don’t mind…
I took a step away from the tree, staggered by its quiet testimony of the clutter overcrowding my life. The space.
The time.
What else got pushed out by the relentless torrent of unrestrained real and perceived needs, wants, desires, personal and ministry responsibilities, demands, requirements? Is all my worthless junk swallowing up what is really precious before my very eyes? Do I even know the difference?!!! And, how in the world did I come to resent something I used to love... and enjoy?!!
The evergreen assayer stood still, its lights blinking brightly.
Perhaps… what I really need… for Christmas… is to just to make… a little more room… a LOT more room in my life. So the Life Himself can come in.
He came to His own and those who were His own didn't receive Him... John 1:11
Then, a friend gave us his old TV because he was moving to Australia. Later on, we bought an armoire to accommodate our newly-acquired TV and a matching stand to hold our collection of CDs and VCRs (DVDs were not invented yet). Over the years, we kept accumulating more and more stuff – a DIY project here, and a curb-side mall find there; then came our first child with all his accompanying paraphernalia and soon afterward, another with all the mentioned paraphernalia of a different, she color. So, bit by bit, mountain by mountain stuff kept marching across our doorstep. The stuff we needed, or thought we or somebody we knew needed or might need some day kept ringing our doorbell. Slowly but surely, our huge house started filling up all its empty places, obliterating the memory of the simple life we once used to live.
The tree also appeared to grow bigger and bigger each year, transforming from a beautiful symbol of everlasting life that the birth of God’s Son brought into the world, into a household monstrosity, turning our home upside down each Christmas season. Every December, in order to make room for its ever-expanding (or so it seemed) limbs, we have to move the sofa into the guest bedroom, and the keyboard with its stand into our son’s bedroom, and the spare desk into the dining room, and the bench from the guest bedroom…
Honey, where are we going to put the bench?!!!
Making room for the tree has become our number one Christmas chore…er… I meant to say tradition.
This is insane! We need to hire movers or a chiropractor to set up the darn thing. We should just get rid of it. I scowled at the tree as if it was its fault.
We don’t have room for you! No room. Period.
The silent echo reverberated with familiarity. No room… no room… no room…… in… the… inn…
With sudden realization, a mess of conflicting feelings that must have torn the insides of the Bethlehemian inn-keeper settled in my stomach. I could imagine myself standing at the door of our house, suspiciously eyeing a tired, frost-bitten couple with the baby on the way…
I am so sorry, but we have no room for you anywhere in the house…. However, there is a bit of space in our garage among all the boxes, and garden tools, and discarded toys, and bicycles… if you don’t mind…
I took a step away from the tree, staggered by its quiet testimony of the clutter overcrowding my life. The space.
The time.
What else got pushed out by the relentless torrent of unrestrained real and perceived needs, wants, desires, personal and ministry responsibilities, demands, requirements? Is all my worthless junk swallowing up what is really precious before my very eyes? Do I even know the difference?!!! And, how in the world did I come to resent something I used to love... and enjoy?!!
The evergreen assayer stood still, its lights blinking brightly.
Perhaps… what I really need… for Christmas… is to just to make… a little more room… a LOT more room in my life. So the Life Himself can come in.
He came to His own and those who were His own didn't receive Him... John 1:11
Sunday, November 06, 2011
A Glimpse of Eternity in the Daylight Savings Time
It’s my favorite day of the year. The Daylight Savings Time change – backwards. Suddenly, instead of running 35 minutes behind, I am actually 25 minutes ahead! And this is AFTER I've slept in! One morning of the year, everything I ever want to do can fit leisurely in my schedule like a pair of fluffy slippers. The second cup of coffee. Snuggling with George. Sunday comics. Listening in on seemingly casual conversation - Jesus shooting the breeze with a woman by a well (Gospel of John chapter 4). Even the kids suspend their usual squabbles for 47 seconds. And I am actually awake in church.
I savor the glorious elasticity of time, amazed at the effect the arbitrary decision to set our clocks one hour back has on me. Just one extra unhurried hour and I am transformed from a rushed, order-barking general who sees people like uncooperative obstacles in my life’s agenda, into a human BEing, surrounded by other human BEings and magnificent creatures, like our guinea pig George. When the rubber band of time shrinks, I realize, the first thing that goes out of the window is my ability to listen. Without listening, life unravels like a ball of yarn rolling downhill.
Each year, the time warp gives me a unique glimpse into a world beyond the relentless constraints of time. Eternity. A place of rest, quiet… a place of wholeness. Part of me wants to extend this one hour even further before the onslaught of life’s demands devours it with nothing but the memory left. I am reminded that the onslaught will come but I need not be sucked into it. I don’t need to wait to change my clock back once a year to experience eternity. I can live each moment of every day from the vantage point of eternity by leaning into the conversations that reveal more of who God is, so marvelously expressed in the face and the way of His Son. And in the reflection of that mirror, I can discover not only who I am but also who I am meant to be.
This is eternal life, that they may know You, the only true God, and Jesus Christ whom You have sent. John 17:3
I savor the glorious elasticity of time, amazed at the effect the arbitrary decision to set our clocks one hour back has on me. Just one extra unhurried hour and I am transformed from a rushed, order-barking general who sees people like uncooperative obstacles in my life’s agenda, into a human BEing, surrounded by other human BEings and magnificent creatures, like our guinea pig George. When the rubber band of time shrinks, I realize, the first thing that goes out of the window is my ability to listen. Without listening, life unravels like a ball of yarn rolling downhill.
Each year, the time warp gives me a unique glimpse into a world beyond the relentless constraints of time. Eternity. A place of rest, quiet… a place of wholeness. Part of me wants to extend this one hour even further before the onslaught of life’s demands devours it with nothing but the memory left. I am reminded that the onslaught will come but I need not be sucked into it. I don’t need to wait to change my clock back once a year to experience eternity. I can live each moment of every day from the vantage point of eternity by leaning into the conversations that reveal more of who God is, so marvelously expressed in the face and the way of His Son. And in the reflection of that mirror, I can discover not only who I am but also who I am meant to be.
This is eternal life, that they may know You, the only true God, and Jesus Christ whom You have sent. John 17:3
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Perfectionism - the Silent Killer
Mrs. S., do you have a moment…? I need to speak to you about your child…
I learned that approximately nine out of ten times, when those words come from the mouth of your child’s teacher, you’d better have a moment or two, or you’ll just need to rebook that flight to Cayman Islands. I also learned that nine and a half out of ten times, it spells trouble. The teacher has repeatedly encountered a problem big enough to request parent’s support and assistance.
All our previous do-you-have-a-moment conversations with our children’s teachers proved to be invaluable as their loving feedback has always sought nothing but the best for our family. They have also been extremely insightful, shedding light onto some major blind spots in our family dynamics, usually having me at the root of the dysfunction. I braced myself for the impact, knowing after I survive this, it’s only going to get better.
I am all yours and all ears for as long as you need…
She offered me a chair as she sat down.
I am very concerned about T… she said. I sat down dumbfounded.
Concerned?!!! What could she possibly be concerned about with T?!!!?? My to-a-fault responsible, hard-working, straight As brainiac is a model student. Her handwriting is impeccable, her homework imaginative, her math assignments immaculate. Sometimes I wish some of that had rubbed off on her brother, but parents should never compare children, especially not in order to make their job easier.
Yes…?
I don’t know how to put this… the teacher continued. T is amazing. I love getting her work, I love the way she thinks, I love the way she expresses herself… but she … she just tries too hard… Her work is always perfect… However, she takes awful lot of time on making sure that everything is just so, that I am afraid she may fail the FCAT even though I know she knows all the content. The test is timed and they make provision of extra time for some students. But she doesn’t qualify for those provisions.
‘Tries too hard’… ‘always perfect’ ... Resonate in my mind as I wait for the teacher to continue. She adds no further comments, leaving the giant ball in my court.
I stare at the ample evidence confirming my suspicion that the gene of perfectionism indeed has been passed down to the next generation. The funny thing is that we thought it was a good thing. We even cheered and encouraged its development. We may never admit it openly, but we saw it as an asset, not a liability! In the highly competitive world we live in, in order to be successful, one seems to always need to push harder, give more of oneself, beat the latest record… For some of us, the internal pressure is compounded with the external demands (self-imposed as they may be) of the environment and culture that feeds the psychosis. Going against this culture appears like sabotaging your own or your child’s chance of success.
And yet, the gentle words of the caring teacher point to a different reality – a place of discernment where one knows when to keep going and when to stop; when to push and when to let go. A place where wisdom is found in choosing to fail well, where distinguishing the precious from the worthless is more valuable than acquiring a PhD in Trivialities; where great understanding is reserved for all those who learn to recognize when good is good enough indeed.
It is vain for you to rise up early,
To stay up late,
To wear yourself out chasing illusions;
For He gives to His beloved even in his sleep.
Psalm 127:2
I learned that approximately nine out of ten times, when those words come from the mouth of your child’s teacher, you’d better have a moment or two, or you’ll just need to rebook that flight to Cayman Islands. I also learned that nine and a half out of ten times, it spells trouble. The teacher has repeatedly encountered a problem big enough to request parent’s support and assistance.
All our previous do-you-have-a-moment conversations with our children’s teachers proved to be invaluable as their loving feedback has always sought nothing but the best for our family. They have also been extremely insightful, shedding light onto some major blind spots in our family dynamics, usually having me at the root of the dysfunction. I braced myself for the impact, knowing after I survive this, it’s only going to get better.
I am all yours and all ears for as long as you need…
She offered me a chair as she sat down.
I am very concerned about T… she said. I sat down dumbfounded.
Concerned?!!! What could she possibly be concerned about with T?!!!?? My to-a-fault responsible, hard-working, straight As brainiac is a model student. Her handwriting is impeccable, her homework imaginative, her math assignments immaculate. Sometimes I wish some of that had rubbed off on her brother, but parents should never compare children, especially not in order to make their job easier.
Yes…?
I don’t know how to put this… the teacher continued. T is amazing. I love getting her work, I love the way she thinks, I love the way she expresses herself… but she … she just tries too hard… Her work is always perfect… However, she takes awful lot of time on making sure that everything is just so, that I am afraid she may fail the FCAT even though I know she knows all the content. The test is timed and they make provision of extra time for some students. But she doesn’t qualify for those provisions.
‘Tries too hard’… ‘always perfect’ ... Resonate in my mind as I wait for the teacher to continue. She adds no further comments, leaving the giant ball in my court.
I stare at the ample evidence confirming my suspicion that the gene of perfectionism indeed has been passed down to the next generation. The funny thing is that we thought it was a good thing. We even cheered and encouraged its development. We may never admit it openly, but we saw it as an asset, not a liability! In the highly competitive world we live in, in order to be successful, one seems to always need to push harder, give more of oneself, beat the latest record… For some of us, the internal pressure is compounded with the external demands (self-imposed as they may be) of the environment and culture that feeds the psychosis. Going against this culture appears like sabotaging your own or your child’s chance of success.
And yet, the gentle words of the caring teacher point to a different reality – a place of discernment where one knows when to keep going and when to stop; when to push and when to let go. A place where wisdom is found in choosing to fail well, where distinguishing the precious from the worthless is more valuable than acquiring a PhD in Trivialities; where great understanding is reserved for all those who learn to recognize when good is good enough indeed.
It is vain for you to rise up early,
To stay up late,
To wear yourself out chasing illusions;
For He gives to His beloved even in his sleep.
Psalm 127:2
Wednesday, September 07, 2011
Meet Gorge
It wouldn’t have been as much of a surprise, if for the past five years my children haven’t been listening to my daily mantra,
We need to simplify! And …
Less is more! And …
The more you own, the more it owns you!, and so on and so forth.
Mission Simplify affected every area of our lives. Every new acquiring of possessions carefully evaluated, every new commitment brutally examined. I became a Don Quixote battling the tidal wave of physical as well as mental clutter and distractions.
So, when I learned that a friend is looking for a new home to their guinea pig, I was the one most surprised to even crack the door of consideration open. I know that owning an animal is a responsibility and represents dedicating extra time and work to their care. Even our children know this and consequently haven’t pushed the pet issue too much. Our daughter’s insatiable need for nurturing critters has been satisfied through occasional dog-sitting opportunities and by adopting lizards, frogs and snails in our back yard.
When I tentatively mentioned the guinea pig to my husband, his immediate response was,
Are you crazy?!!!
I saw no need for him to bring up the fact already agreed upon by everyone that knows me. However, I took it as a cue and I decided not to raise the subject of the guinea pig again.
In the days and weeks that followed I resisted the nagging thoughts about the rodent as temptations to sidetrack me from what I really need to do – get rid of more stuff, not add to the pile. I argued with myself that if he had a tail, I would call an exterminator. If I lived in Peru, I would serve him to my children for supper in a stew. No need to get all misty-eyed and emotional.
Then, after several weeks have gone by, I learned that George is still waiting for a new family to adopt him. And, it just so happened that I needed to go to George’s family home one day that week. Of course, being under the same roof, I had to ask if I could see him.
I never should have asked, for the moment I saw him, I fell in love with him. I knew he belonged to us.
After spending a sleepless night, I piled up the kids into the car the next morning and drove to pick him up. The kids couldn’t believe it. They still can’t believe we have a pet of our own. A new member of our family. The youngest, as our daughter likes to emphasize, member of the family. She walks around the house, talking to herself, asking her brother,
Can you believe that we have our own pet?!!! And he is soooo cute!
After a few days of sheer wonder, she finally broke down under the weight of the paradoxical nature of her mother’s recent actions and asked,
Mom… Why did you decide to adopt Gorge? Why did you choose to bring him home?
I mulled the question over for a while. I thought about how bringing a new living creature under your roof is work, and a responsibility, and a mess, and an expense, and an adjustment of schedules and priorities. We even had to rearrange the furniture in several rooms in our house, in order to accommodate Gorge’s cage.
But, it is also a way, small as it may be, to affirm life in the world where evening news are dominated by stories of death; to celebrate joy in the world overwhelmed by narrative of gloom and depression… A seemingly insignificant, yet living way to feel and touch and hold God’s love towards His creation embodied in the furry ball called Gorge.
Hon, I … I just wanted you… I wanted US, I corrected myself, I wanted us to get to experience God’s love for us… in a way we never could have… without bringing Gorge into our family.
We need to simplify! And …
Less is more! And …
The more you own, the more it owns you!, and so on and so forth.
Mission Simplify affected every area of our lives. Every new acquiring of possessions carefully evaluated, every new commitment brutally examined. I became a Don Quixote battling the tidal wave of physical as well as mental clutter and distractions.
So, when I learned that a friend is looking for a new home to their guinea pig, I was the one most surprised to even crack the door of consideration open. I know that owning an animal is a responsibility and represents dedicating extra time and work to their care. Even our children know this and consequently haven’t pushed the pet issue too much. Our daughter’s insatiable need for nurturing critters has been satisfied through occasional dog-sitting opportunities and by adopting lizards, frogs and snails in our back yard.
When I tentatively mentioned the guinea pig to my husband, his immediate response was,
Are you crazy?!!!
I saw no need for him to bring up the fact already agreed upon by everyone that knows me. However, I took it as a cue and I decided not to raise the subject of the guinea pig again.
In the days and weeks that followed I resisted the nagging thoughts about the rodent as temptations to sidetrack me from what I really need to do – get rid of more stuff, not add to the pile. I argued with myself that if he had a tail, I would call an exterminator. If I lived in Peru, I would serve him to my children for supper in a stew. No need to get all misty-eyed and emotional.
Then, after several weeks have gone by, I learned that George is still waiting for a new family to adopt him. And, it just so happened that I needed to go to George’s family home one day that week. Of course, being under the same roof, I had to ask if I could see him.
I never should have asked, for the moment I saw him, I fell in love with him. I knew he belonged to us.
After spending a sleepless night, I piled up the kids into the car the next morning and drove to pick him up. The kids couldn’t believe it. They still can’t believe we have a pet of our own. A new member of our family. The youngest, as our daughter likes to emphasize, member of the family. She walks around the house, talking to herself, asking her brother,
Can you believe that we have our own pet?!!! And he is soooo cute!
After a few days of sheer wonder, she finally broke down under the weight of the paradoxical nature of her mother’s recent actions and asked,
Mom… Why did you decide to adopt Gorge? Why did you choose to bring him home?
I mulled the question over for a while. I thought about how bringing a new living creature under your roof is work, and a responsibility, and a mess, and an expense, and an adjustment of schedules and priorities. We even had to rearrange the furniture in several rooms in our house, in order to accommodate Gorge’s cage.
But, it is also a way, small as it may be, to affirm life in the world where evening news are dominated by stories of death; to celebrate joy in the world overwhelmed by narrative of gloom and depression… A seemingly insignificant, yet living way to feel and touch and hold God’s love towards His creation embodied in the furry ball called Gorge.
Hon, I … I just wanted you… I wanted US, I corrected myself, I wanted us to get to experience God’s love for us… in a way we never could have… without bringing Gorge into our family.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Sidewalk Artist
Once upon a time there was an artist who went out with his paintbrushes and a bottle of paint. He found a gray sidewalk, stooped down, and with one knee on the ground, opened the bottle and started to paint.
As he was painting, a car drove by. A passenger rolled down the window and yelled,
What a waste of time! See all these cars driving by too fast for anyone to see what you are doing! If you want to be seen, put your work on a billboard!
Then, he rolled up the window and they drove away.
But, the painter kept painting.
Then a bicyclist rode by, pausing for a moment to see what the man on his knees was up to.
It’s about to rain, he said to the artist, pointing at the dark clouds on the horizon, and all your hard work will be smeared and washed off, and nobody will ever see it… why bother at all?
And he pushed off and went away. But, the artist kept creating.
Then a jogger came, running in place as he watched the man with the brush.
Hey, dude, that’s cool! But, nobody will see it so small and against such gray background. It’s way too inconspicuous. You should have chosen brighter colors and bigger image so it would catch everyone’s attention.
And he ran off.
By now the artist was already done. The small black owl, with feathers unruffled, a tiny heart inside her chest, and a face aglow with joy seemed to wink at her creator. He smiled back at the owl, took the brushes and the paint and walked away.
What do you think…?
Why did the artist choose the owl as his subject?
Why did the artist choose a gray sidewalk for his background?
What made his work seem wasteful?
What made it meaningful?
Who do you relate best to the story? Why?
In what ways does the sidewalk artist resemble God?
As he was painting, a car drove by. A passenger rolled down the window and yelled,
What a waste of time! See all these cars driving by too fast for anyone to see what you are doing! If you want to be seen, put your work on a billboard!
Then, he rolled up the window and they drove away.
But, the painter kept painting.
Then a bicyclist rode by, pausing for a moment to see what the man on his knees was up to.
It’s about to rain, he said to the artist, pointing at the dark clouds on the horizon, and all your hard work will be smeared and washed off, and nobody will ever see it… why bother at all?
And he pushed off and went away. But, the artist kept creating.
Then a jogger came, running in place as he watched the man with the brush.
Hey, dude, that’s cool! But, nobody will see it so small and against such gray background. It’s way too inconspicuous. You should have chosen brighter colors and bigger image so it would catch everyone’s attention.
And he ran off.
By now the artist was already done. The small black owl, with feathers unruffled, a tiny heart inside her chest, and a face aglow with joy seemed to wink at her creator. He smiled back at the owl, took the brushes and the paint and walked away.
What do you think…?
Why did the artist choose the owl as his subject?
Why did the artist choose a gray sidewalk for his background?
What made his work seem wasteful?
What made it meaningful?
Who do you relate best to the story? Why?
In what ways does the sidewalk artist resemble God?
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Life is a Burrito
You want a burrito for lunch?
What do you mean, ‘burrito’?
What do you mean, ‘what do you mean, ‘burrito’?’ I am stumped. You know burrito… flour tortilla, refried beans, ground meat, shredded cheese… I wonder if the morning has started too early today.
Ah, yea, yea!! Don’t forget the sour cream! She chimes as she trots off to brush her teeth.
So, I proceed to make a burrito – spreading the beans around, adding the meat in the middle, sprinkling the cheese and microwaving it for 36 seconds to a melted perfection. I put the sour cream and start wrapping it.
What’s THAT?!!?? She mumbles with the toothbrush inside her mouth.
A BURRITO – remember? I vaguely recall having this very conversation just seconds ago.
But I don’t want it – like THAT… She looks at my work-in-progress and rolls her eyes. That’s not the way I make my burritos – it’s too messy!
My eyes suddenly grow to the size of the large plate holding the offender. Part of me wants to reroute the final destination of the innocent culprit to the garbage disposal. Another part tells me that there is more to this story than meet the eye.
For I recall countless times of agreeing with Jesus on what’s on the lunch menu of my life… Loving like He loves, with a mound of joy, and a sprinkling of patience, adding growth and depth… And, I inject, Don’t forget the transformation of the boring and mundane… Then, excited about the yummy prospect, I jump into my day only to find that God’s way of wrapping the burrito of my life is slightly different from mine… and a lot more messy!
For love comes easy to me when the other person is lovable, but I have a really hard time finding those around.
Love the unlovables, He whispers, for that’s how I love…
I expect to magically ingest patience off a smooth platter of stress-free living, but He mixes up the unlikely ingredients of rejection, misunderstanding, disappointments and isolation and invites me to dine on the feast He Himself dines upon
I equate joy with fleeting emotion of happiness when the sky of circumstances is bright-blue and the light breeze is cooling my face. Instead, He sends the storm that obliterates the distinction between the up and the down, and invites me to hold His hand and find my true joy in Him and Him alone.
This is too messy! I cry out. This is NOT the way I prefer to wrap MY burrito. And He laughs, and replies,
But, hon, this is exactly what you asked for. For, this is the only way that the growth, and depth… and the transformation of the boring and mundane can take place…
…But God has chosen the foolish things of the world to confound the wise; and God has chosen the weak things of the world to confound the things which are mighty… I Corinthians 1:27
What do you mean, ‘burrito’?
What do you mean, ‘what do you mean, ‘burrito’?’ I am stumped. You know burrito… flour tortilla, refried beans, ground meat, shredded cheese… I wonder if the morning has started too early today.
Ah, yea, yea!! Don’t forget the sour cream! She chimes as she trots off to brush her teeth.
So, I proceed to make a burrito – spreading the beans around, adding the meat in the middle, sprinkling the cheese and microwaving it for 36 seconds to a melted perfection. I put the sour cream and start wrapping it.
What’s THAT?!!?? She mumbles with the toothbrush inside her mouth.
A BURRITO – remember? I vaguely recall having this very conversation just seconds ago.
But I don’t want it – like THAT… She looks at my work-in-progress and rolls her eyes. That’s not the way I make my burritos – it’s too messy!
My eyes suddenly grow to the size of the large plate holding the offender. Part of me wants to reroute the final destination of the innocent culprit to the garbage disposal. Another part tells me that there is more to this story than meet the eye.
For I recall countless times of agreeing with Jesus on what’s on the lunch menu of my life… Loving like He loves, with a mound of joy, and a sprinkling of patience, adding growth and depth… And, I inject, Don’t forget the transformation of the boring and mundane… Then, excited about the yummy prospect, I jump into my day only to find that God’s way of wrapping the burrito of my life is slightly different from mine… and a lot more messy!
For love comes easy to me when the other person is lovable, but I have a really hard time finding those around.
Love the unlovables, He whispers, for that’s how I love…
I expect to magically ingest patience off a smooth platter of stress-free living, but He mixes up the unlikely ingredients of rejection, misunderstanding, disappointments and isolation and invites me to dine on the feast He Himself dines upon
I equate joy with fleeting emotion of happiness when the sky of circumstances is bright-blue and the light breeze is cooling my face. Instead, He sends the storm that obliterates the distinction between the up and the down, and invites me to hold His hand and find my true joy in Him and Him alone.
This is too messy! I cry out. This is NOT the way I prefer to wrap MY burrito. And He laughs, and replies,
But, hon, this is exactly what you asked for. For, this is the only way that the growth, and depth… and the transformation of the boring and mundane can take place…
…But God has chosen the foolish things of the world to confound the wise; and God has chosen the weak things of the world to confound the things which are mighty… I Corinthians 1:27
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Freedom of Speech - When a Blessing Becomes a Curse
Human race has been endowed with incredible God-like ability of expressing ourselves through language. Articulating his or her first word is primary developmental milestone in every child’s life. This represents only the beginning of a sacred journey intended to teach us to use words creatively, to speak well of our Maker and His creation, and to discover appropriate ways and context for expressing our innermost thoughts, desires, needs and boundaries.
Words can be incredibly powerful. They can inspire, impart life, meaning and direction to our existence. They can also start wars and revolutions and end marriages and friendships. Every day words are used to deceive and manipulate, to reveal what should remain hidden and hide what should be exposed.
Words also can be incredibly impotent. The unbelievable proliferation of words in our global culture of blogging, social networking and minute-by-minute news updates has created unprecedented word hyperinflation, a bulging, ever-increasing river of loud noise that says nothing or at least rarely anything worth hearing. E-technology has allowed us to create links, to cut and paste long quotes with just a few clicks of a mouse and dump them thoughtlessly into the churning river of verbiage flooding the banks of our lives. None of us knows quite how to deal with so much well-intentioned at best and mean-spirited at its worst linguistic pollution.
The problem with words is that they are easy to say and in the cut-and-paste world of Internet, even easier to write. Almost anyone can do that. But, engaging our mind, our moral person inside, understanding the context of our expression and our (already overloaded, I might add) audience before we do our dumping is altogether different story. In a moral universe, I am responsible for what I put out there. I am held accountable, justified and/or condemned by my own words. Perhaps what we need is a little (or a LOT) less of empty shells of sounds and letters, void of content and meaning, and more of ‘word becoming flesh and living among us’?
That, of course, is much easier said then done.
The Word became flesh and blood, and moved into the neighborhood. John 1:14
Words can be incredibly powerful. They can inspire, impart life, meaning and direction to our existence. They can also start wars and revolutions and end marriages and friendships. Every day words are used to deceive and manipulate, to reveal what should remain hidden and hide what should be exposed.
Words also can be incredibly impotent. The unbelievable proliferation of words in our global culture of blogging, social networking and minute-by-minute news updates has created unprecedented word hyperinflation, a bulging, ever-increasing river of loud noise that says nothing or at least rarely anything worth hearing. E-technology has allowed us to create links, to cut and paste long quotes with just a few clicks of a mouse and dump them thoughtlessly into the churning river of verbiage flooding the banks of our lives. None of us knows quite how to deal with so much well-intentioned at best and mean-spirited at its worst linguistic pollution.
The problem with words is that they are easy to say and in the cut-and-paste world of Internet, even easier to write. Almost anyone can do that. But, engaging our mind, our moral person inside, understanding the context of our expression and our (already overloaded, I might add) audience before we do our dumping is altogether different story. In a moral universe, I am responsible for what I put out there. I am held accountable, justified and/or condemned by my own words. Perhaps what we need is a little (or a LOT) less of empty shells of sounds and letters, void of content and meaning, and more of ‘word becoming flesh and living among us’?
That, of course, is much easier said then done.
The Word became flesh and blood, and moved into the neighborhood. John 1:14
Sunday, August 21, 2011
Root Canal of the Soul
I love going to my dentist. The office is tastefully decorated, furnished with super-comfy chairs and it has a TV screen in each room where I can catch up on morning news. The staff is friendly and Nicole is the best dental hygienist in the world. She is just the right combination of gentleness and toughness – gentle on teeth and gums but hard on plaque. She is extremely conscientious and so sweet she poses a threat to good dental hygiene. By the time she is done with me, my teeth are so clean I don’t want to eat for a week lest I ruin her work. The feeling, unfortunately, goes away after a couple of hours. She never ever comments on the condition of my teeth, leaving the diagnosis to the Big Kahua, which, in my case, is Dr. M. The only thing I hate about her is that each visit she asks me the same question:
Do you floss… daily?
If only she left out that daily at the end, or replaced floss with brush, our relationship would be perfect.
Yesterday was my regular 6 month checkup.
We breeze through the cleaning and the usual one-way conversations since my mouth is temporarily disabled by all the instruments of torture and her two piano-player hands. As she attacks the plaque deposits with a pick and an axe, she complements me on my home care. I only grunt and mumble, her comment leaving me quite perplexed – if I am doing such a great job at home, how come there is still so much crud left in my mouth that she acts like a underground miner?
When she is done, she hands me a soft-bristled yellow brush and another package of floss and tells me the doctor will be in shortly.
He comes in, shakes my hand and turns to the computer screen behind me, his laser attention focused on the not too attractive display of my X-rays. After several minutes of pregnant silence, I can’t bear it any longer:
So, what’s the verdict, doc? I am savoring my freshly cleaned mouth, and Nicole’s earlier compliment on good home care, expecting to pass the test with flying colors.
Still looking… responded Dr. M, with his back turned. He wasn’t being chatty for sure.
Looking where?!!! I am right here! I had hoped to impress him with my shiny smile, but he never gave me a chance.
The silence was now pregnant with twins… or triplets… or octuplets… Finally, he walks over to me and without a single glance inside my mouth, he declares,
It’s not good. That old filling continues to crack and crumble and you are now getting a decay behind it. We must do something about it…
Your home care is good, he adds but that doesn’t seem to matter so much anymore. The staff will help you with the rest. Good bye.
I feel something resembling pieces of gravel inside my mouth. I vaguely remember my last visit and a word about the old filling and cracks and the paper that spelled out the damages in multiple hundreds of dollars terms. I also vaguely remember the fog descending on my mind when I saw the aforementioned terms. Six months later the fog turned into a hammer.
Now fully awake, I realize that my problem is much bigger than a soft-bristled brush can solve. It reaches back into my past when the dentist visits took place only when the pain got to be more than I could bear. The old filling may have patched up my inconsistencies at the time, but its crumbling structure indicated it has outlived its usefulness. Further delays only compound the damage and put me at a risk of losing my tooth. It’s the kind of price I am not willing to pay, either with my teeth or with my life. For there is another Doctor who is more interested in what His x-ray vision detects than in the shiny veneer that can fool everyone else. And when He sees a crumbling foundation, He'll move heaven and earth to dig as deep as He needs until my foot is set firmly on the Rock.
For the word of God is alive and active. Sharper than any double-edged sword, it penetrates even to dividing soul and spirit, joints and marrow; it judges the thoughts and intentions of the heart. Nothing in all creation is hidden from God’s sight. Everything is uncovered and laid bare before the eyes of him to whom we must give account.
Hebrews 4:12,13
Do you floss… daily?
If only she left out that daily at the end, or replaced floss with brush, our relationship would be perfect.
Yesterday was my regular 6 month checkup.
We breeze through the cleaning and the usual one-way conversations since my mouth is temporarily disabled by all the instruments of torture and her two piano-player hands. As she attacks the plaque deposits with a pick and an axe, she complements me on my home care. I only grunt and mumble, her comment leaving me quite perplexed – if I am doing such a great job at home, how come there is still so much crud left in my mouth that she acts like a underground miner?
When she is done, she hands me a soft-bristled yellow brush and another package of floss and tells me the doctor will be in shortly.
He comes in, shakes my hand and turns to the computer screen behind me, his laser attention focused on the not too attractive display of my X-rays. After several minutes of pregnant silence, I can’t bear it any longer:
So, what’s the verdict, doc? I am savoring my freshly cleaned mouth, and Nicole’s earlier compliment on good home care, expecting to pass the test with flying colors.
Still looking… responded Dr. M, with his back turned. He wasn’t being chatty for sure.
Looking where?!!! I am right here! I had hoped to impress him with my shiny smile, but he never gave me a chance.
The silence was now pregnant with twins… or triplets… or octuplets… Finally, he walks over to me and without a single glance inside my mouth, he declares,
It’s not good. That old filling continues to crack and crumble and you are now getting a decay behind it. We must do something about it…
Your home care is good, he adds but that doesn’t seem to matter so much anymore. The staff will help you with the rest. Good bye.
I feel something resembling pieces of gravel inside my mouth. I vaguely remember my last visit and a word about the old filling and cracks and the paper that spelled out the damages in multiple hundreds of dollars terms. I also vaguely remember the fog descending on my mind when I saw the aforementioned terms. Six months later the fog turned into a hammer.
Now fully awake, I realize that my problem is much bigger than a soft-bristled brush can solve. It reaches back into my past when the dentist visits took place only when the pain got to be more than I could bear. The old filling may have patched up my inconsistencies at the time, but its crumbling structure indicated it has outlived its usefulness. Further delays only compound the damage and put me at a risk of losing my tooth. It’s the kind of price I am not willing to pay, either with my teeth or with my life. For there is another Doctor who is more interested in what His x-ray vision detects than in the shiny veneer that can fool everyone else. And when He sees a crumbling foundation, He'll move heaven and earth to dig as deep as He needs until my foot is set firmly on the Rock.
For the word of God is alive and active. Sharper than any double-edged sword, it penetrates even to dividing soul and spirit, joints and marrow; it judges the thoughts and intentions of the heart. Nothing in all creation is hidden from God’s sight. Everything is uncovered and laid bare before the eyes of him to whom we must give account.
Hebrews 4:12,13
Monday, August 08, 2011
Perspective
MOM! Where are my P.J.’s?
Right there!
Where???
Right THERE… you just walked right past… I make no attempt to hide the exasperation in my voice.
He continues walking towards me, away from his pajamas, in the exact opposite direction from where I was pointing. I stare dumbfounded at my ‘gifted’ child, the master of overlooking the obvious, as he steps up to me, pauses for a moment and turns around. He aligns his field of vision to mine, makes a clicking sound with his tongue having spotted the crumpled pile of clothing. He takes a couple of steps, grabs the P.J.’s and turns around with a rascally grin,
Perspective, Mom… perspective… is everything.
Come to Me… Isaiah 55
Right there!
Where???
Right THERE… you just walked right past… I make no attempt to hide the exasperation in my voice.
He continues walking towards me, away from his pajamas, in the exact opposite direction from where I was pointing. I stare dumbfounded at my ‘gifted’ child, the master of overlooking the obvious, as he steps up to me, pauses for a moment and turns around. He aligns his field of vision to mine, makes a clicking sound with his tongue having spotted the crumpled pile of clothing. He takes a couple of steps, grabs the P.J.’s and turns around with a rascally grin,
Perspective, Mom… perspective… is everything.
Come to Me… Isaiah 55
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