One of my sections of composition is comprised by 23 medical career majors. So I decided to change their assignments over to all medical topics so they'd be interested in what they were writing about. Their first article is called "Learning the Language" and it is written by a first year med school student who talks about all the words and acronyms she has to memorize, but when she finally accomplishes the task, she feels like she belongs.
When our friends were here from Miami, one brother read a little vignette from the days of party lines on the phone, and it was someone who was listening in on witness conversations and then telling a friend how dangerous we were. We were always talking about a ransom for one thing, great crowds, etc.
Isn't it cool how we have our own pure language? One of the acronyms the doctors used was CTD, which stood for circling the drain. As in about to die, just lingering. That's pretty callous, and of course now I have to hope I never overhear a doctor or nurse saying it about me or someone I love. Medical people have to keep some professional distance. Otherwise they couldn't stand their job. Ultimately, they lose all their patients.
Language works so that you "grow" new words when you need them. Like the Inuit who have seven words for snow - something we never needed in Oklahoma but I wonder about this place. And we recognize the different Greek words for love, but the secular use of it is always just love, and you have to add words to it to modify it into the kind of love you want to express.
Jennifer is very pregnant right now with Jordyn but I hope Jordyn holds off a few days because her mommy has a sinus infection and so does her dad and brother. Get well soon! I want to be in Arkansas this week helping my little Ruth move (long but happy story about a cluster of four siblings all going home to Texas) and helping Jennifer till the baby arrives. Jennifer is a medical transcriptionist and knows medical terms and the pure language too.
Every group has their own words. You hear a few brothers in the corner it doesn't take long to figure out if they are talking about fishing or cars or football. Sisters, well we know plenty of great words when it comes to cooking or shopping, and I don't mean to limit us by gender. I know a lot of car words and I know a few guys who understand the difference between tbsp and tsp.
And even when someone falls out of the truth, or jumps out of it or walks away from it, often that person retains the language of it. It reminds me of Bryan's poem about the subconscious jukebox in his head that still played Kingdom songs sometimes even though he forgot half the verse to "We Thank You, Jehovah."
Here is my new word of the week. I got it from a book title called "Walking the Wrack Line". Guess what a wrack line is? It's the line where the tide comes in an deposits stuff from the ocean on the beach. Who knew they had a word for that line? Maybe you did, but Okie girl did not know. And I'm fascinated by that lovely word.
Tonight I am thankful for new words, for knowing that if I am blessed with eternal life, I will never get tired of the pure language.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Monday, September 12, 2011
At least the sun was out today . . .
The problem is, I wasn't out anywhere. It was on my mind to blog about that incredible WT yesterday, but I had a long day at school and now my brain is dead. Three times in the fall semester we have a visiting writer come to our campus and we extend hospitality. The writer gives a master class, then a reading then we all go out to dinner.
I had about $18 in sushi on the departmental dime, so I am thrilled about that. California roll and spicy tuna if you are wondering. But that means from six p.m. till ten p.m., my schedule was eaten alive. I came home, graded a set of journals, and now to bed. And Tuesday/Thursday I have a 9:30 class. I never volunteer to teach that early, but it is an override class meaning I am teaching one extra for bonus money to pay tuition for a future cosmetologist. So I must be up and going early tomorrow.
I suppose I am whining. The third week of school and I'm already ready to be finished! I like what I do but I wish it was not so intense or something.
I wish I just had time to hang out with sisters all the time. That makes my heart happy, but doesn't pay these stupid bills.
Jennifer went to the doctor today and no change as of yet. She had Jace early. Jordyn may go longer. As long as everyone is healthy, I won't mind. I was packing up the baby stuff I've been buying lately (did you know they make little pink knee pads for crawling? I am a sucker for the stuff I never saw when my girls were babies). I have a great sturdy box but it isn't full. So I asked Jennifer did she stock up on maxi pads yet for the postpartum period and she said no, she forgot that part.
It is so unfair that the one biological fringe benefit of pregnancy (no monthly cycle!) is paid back after the baby arrives. I understand it, but it is such a complicated struggle to be nursing a baby and feel like you need to change your own diaper. Do you just sit there and try not to breathe?
So I stuffed the top of the box from our coupon store in the basement. It's nice how Jehovah uses me in small ways from time to time. I'm getting them in the mail tomorrow, parcel post, so anytime after five or six days Jordyn can arrive! Oh beautiful baby I wish I could be there.
I had about $18 in sushi on the departmental dime, so I am thrilled about that. California roll and spicy tuna if you are wondering. But that means from six p.m. till ten p.m., my schedule was eaten alive. I came home, graded a set of journals, and now to bed. And Tuesday/Thursday I have a 9:30 class. I never volunteer to teach that early, but it is an override class meaning I am teaching one extra for bonus money to pay tuition for a future cosmetologist. So I must be up and going early tomorrow.
I suppose I am whining. The third week of school and I'm already ready to be finished! I like what I do but I wish it was not so intense or something.
I wish I just had time to hang out with sisters all the time. That makes my heart happy, but doesn't pay these stupid bills.
Jennifer went to the doctor today and no change as of yet. She had Jace early. Jordyn may go longer. As long as everyone is healthy, I won't mind. I was packing up the baby stuff I've been buying lately (did you know they make little pink knee pads for crawling? I am a sucker for the stuff I never saw when my girls were babies). I have a great sturdy box but it isn't full. So I asked Jennifer did she stock up on maxi pads yet for the postpartum period and she said no, she forgot that part.
It is so unfair that the one biological fringe benefit of pregnancy (no monthly cycle!) is paid back after the baby arrives. I understand it, but it is such a complicated struggle to be nursing a baby and feel like you need to change your own diaper. Do you just sit there and try not to breathe?
So I stuffed the top of the box from our coupon store in the basement. It's nice how Jehovah uses me in small ways from time to time. I'm getting them in the mail tomorrow, parcel post, so anytime after five or six days Jordyn can arrive! Oh beautiful baby I wish I could be there.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
unlimited
We watched a movie the other night called "Limitless". I think the screenwriter must have studied with us at some point. The premise of the story was there was a new designer drug - came in a cool little clear pill - and it gave the person taking it 100% use of their brain instead of what we have now. In the movie they said we use 20% now. I thought it was more like 3%, but I could be mistaken.
Haha, I googled it. The truth is we really do use 100% of our brains now. You cannot remove 80 to 97% of it and still function. However, we do not use the full potential of our brains. How much of it is not being utilized is the point. It's like the difference between average and normal. It is average to be able to run half a mile. It is normal for the human body to run 20 miles. Soldiers consistently are capable of this as are athletes. It is not an abnormal feat. But on average, we can't do that.
On my knees, the half of a mile is out of the question. I can walk, but bouncing impact, oh no. It hurts to bang my knees around.
So I would like 100% of the rest of me too.
Anyhow, the side effects of the drugs were eventual death after staggering headaches. One of the guys in the movie who was taking it was not swallowing the pill. He translated the drug into a liquid that he shot up intravenously. It lasted longer, got there faster, and had less side effects. Eventually the main character has figured out how to take the drug - no alcohol with it, remember to eat (how is that ever a problem?) and a few other things.
In other words, he was stuck in this system, but he was living like the new world. The thing is, he was the only one or one of very few and it gave him, naturally, a tremendous advantage over everyone else. Towards the end of the movie, he puts his hand on another guy's chest and can tell his aorta needs repair (or some medical gobbledygook, now I don't remember the exact phrases). I thought about how Jesus could tell that power went out of him when the woman touched the fringe of his outer garment. How he could discern people's motivation and intent.
It made me think about what the new world will be like. I don't mean to be distracted with false stories. But I am mindful of the need to "just see yourself, just see me too, see us all in a world that is new."
Some things cannot be shown on the pages of the Watchtower magazine. You can see all the khaki-panted guys in the universe eating big clusters of grapes while all the kids frolic over cobra holes, and it will not show you what that man is able to think while he is viewing the vista. Imagine if we use our brain to process sight, and 40% of the brain is dedicated to sight - what if our ability to process visual images improves from 3 or 20 to 100%? Just looking around will be more joy than we can stand at first. We love looking at Discovery channel now. What if we could see more, better, with more intensity and more ability, then?
And if that improves, imagine how those grapes might taste, what the sound of that baby laughing will be like, and how warm the sunshine will be on the back of your hand.
Haha, I googled it. The truth is we really do use 100% of our brains now. You cannot remove 80 to 97% of it and still function. However, we do not use the full potential of our brains. How much of it is not being utilized is the point. It's like the difference between average and normal. It is average to be able to run half a mile. It is normal for the human body to run 20 miles. Soldiers consistently are capable of this as are athletes. It is not an abnormal feat. But on average, we can't do that.
On my knees, the half of a mile is out of the question. I can walk, but bouncing impact, oh no. It hurts to bang my knees around.
So I would like 100% of the rest of me too.
Anyhow, the side effects of the drugs were eventual death after staggering headaches. One of the guys in the movie who was taking it was not swallowing the pill. He translated the drug into a liquid that he shot up intravenously. It lasted longer, got there faster, and had less side effects. Eventually the main character has figured out how to take the drug - no alcohol with it, remember to eat (how is that ever a problem?) and a few other things.
In other words, he was stuck in this system, but he was living like the new world. The thing is, he was the only one or one of very few and it gave him, naturally, a tremendous advantage over everyone else. Towards the end of the movie, he puts his hand on another guy's chest and can tell his aorta needs repair (or some medical gobbledygook, now I don't remember the exact phrases). I thought about how Jesus could tell that power went out of him when the woman touched the fringe of his outer garment. How he could discern people's motivation and intent.
It made me think about what the new world will be like. I don't mean to be distracted with false stories. But I am mindful of the need to "just see yourself, just see me too, see us all in a world that is new."
Some things cannot be shown on the pages of the Watchtower magazine. You can see all the khaki-panted guys in the universe eating big clusters of grapes while all the kids frolic over cobra holes, and it will not show you what that man is able to think while he is viewing the vista. Imagine if we use our brain to process sight, and 40% of the brain is dedicated to sight - what if our ability to process visual images improves from 3 or 20 to 100%? Just looking around will be more joy than we can stand at first. We love looking at Discovery channel now. What if we could see more, better, with more intensity and more ability, then?
And if that improves, imagine how those grapes might taste, what the sound of that baby laughing will be like, and how warm the sunshine will be on the back of your hand.
Saturday, September 10, 2011
Busy Bugs
My friend Jennifer is ready to have her daughter any time now according to the obstetrician. Jace is three now and ready to be the big brother. I have been watching the shelves in stores to pick things up for him and of course stuff for his sister. I about have a box ready to go. I wish I could mail myself in it.
Of course, all the cutest little flip flops were marked down in Target last time we were there so I got some for next summer. I never pay retail and I never buy anything until the store needs to get rid of it. You can't live by that for groceries, but just about everything else, oh yeah.
I also buy coats in April. At any rate, toys don't go out of season much so they are harder to buy. I found one called Busy Bugs and I got it although it says for ages 3 and up. I don't know if it is for Jordyn or Jace or for Jace to wind up to play the song for Jordyn.
The song is Beethoven's Fur Elise. I have always loved that song. It's just a little wind up music box and the top, instead of a ballerina in place, it has two lady bugs that waltz around, only they aren't attached. They are made with egg-shaped bottoms like those toys in my childhood with the commercial that went: Weebles wobble but they don't fall down. So the little circle top dance floor rotates and the weeble lady bugs whirl. It's pretty nifty. We had to take it out of the box and make sure it worked and of course, observe how it worked.
I like it so much I wouldn't mind having one of my own. But I totally have no use for it. Still, all this week, every time I was in my room I'd wind the Busy Bugs up and listen to the song and watch them spin.
Kim said I am being juvenile. I said I am A.) being pensive; B.) gloating; C.) bonding with Jordyn from afar; or D.) all of the above.
The answer is D. I am pensive and homesick for Jennifer and her babies. I am gloating because the toy is so cool, and I am thinking that this same little music box will be somewhere in her house, that Jace will keep winding it up for her even after he loses the lady bugs outside, she will like the song too, and something that was part of me for a week will be just a little bitty part of her babyhood. Since I can't be there.
I'm going to mail it this week. The only thing wrong with it is it doesn't wind up for very long. Seemed to me like I couldn't fold half a load of laundry before the song wound down. I'm counting on Jace to keep the tune tapping.
It's all I got right now. Since I can't be there, it'll have to do.
Of course, all the cutest little flip flops were marked down in Target last time we were there so I got some for next summer. I never pay retail and I never buy anything until the store needs to get rid of it. You can't live by that for groceries, but just about everything else, oh yeah.
I also buy coats in April. At any rate, toys don't go out of season much so they are harder to buy. I found one called Busy Bugs and I got it although it says for ages 3 and up. I don't know if it is for Jordyn or Jace or for Jace to wind up to play the song for Jordyn.
The song is Beethoven's Fur Elise. I have always loved that song. It's just a little wind up music box and the top, instead of a ballerina in place, it has two lady bugs that waltz around, only they aren't attached. They are made with egg-shaped bottoms like those toys in my childhood with the commercial that went: Weebles wobble but they don't fall down. So the little circle top dance floor rotates and the weeble lady bugs whirl. It's pretty nifty. We had to take it out of the box and make sure it worked and of course, observe how it worked.
I like it so much I wouldn't mind having one of my own. But I totally have no use for it. Still, all this week, every time I was in my room I'd wind the Busy Bugs up and listen to the song and watch them spin.
Kim said I am being juvenile. I said I am A.) being pensive; B.) gloating; C.) bonding with Jordyn from afar; or D.) all of the above.
The answer is D. I am pensive and homesick for Jennifer and her babies. I am gloating because the toy is so cool, and I am thinking that this same little music box will be somewhere in her house, that Jace will keep winding it up for her even after he loses the lady bugs outside, she will like the song too, and something that was part of me for a week will be just a little bitty part of her babyhood. Since I can't be there.
I'm going to mail it this week. The only thing wrong with it is it doesn't wind up for very long. Seemed to me like I couldn't fold half a load of laundry before the song wound down. I'm counting on Jace to keep the tune tapping.
It's all I got right now. Since I can't be there, it'll have to do.
Friday, September 9, 2011
Superwoman
I love this song from the 70's by Karyn White that goes: "I'm not your superwoman. I'm not the kind of girl that you can let down and think that everything is okay. Boy I am only human. This girl needs more than occasional hugs as a token of love from you to me."
I just love that song. I'm thinking it works for motherhood too. I feel like singing it to half my daughters tonight. No one had school or work today but me, and I worked four hours (which drained my brain for what I was teaching today was new to me) and then I came home and feeling good after the episode with the cannonball and sleeping eleven hours last night, I cleaned the entire house top to bottom and went to Walmart. So when I got back, said daughter had eaten leftovers and placed dishes in the sink of a spotless kitchen. I was ticked off. There was room in the dishwasher so why couldn't she load it? She said she loaded and ran the dishwasher earlier in the day.
Is that some kind of quota she is meeting? She's a legal adult now. I know. I should enforce some kind of demand for help around here. I think I've just given up and am circling the airport in a landing pattern waiting for them to empty my nest.
I want them out, the parts of them that smart off and back talk and play video games and act like the dishwasher is a major chore when they dirtied their share of the dishes. I want them to stay forever, the parts of them that scratch my back unexpectedly and knows right where the itch is, that lines up 19 bottles of BBQ sauce and 12 jars of peanut butter on the bar for me to see when I get home, that they are helping out with groceries, the part of them that laughs at my stupid jokes still.
All that cleaning made me tired and I have to work tomorrow. You think school is Monday through Friday, but it ain't necessarily so. When I get everything up to my standard (the house) it means something else is behind (the office). And I don't even want to talk about finishing that new book from the DC.
Goodnight.
I just love that song. I'm thinking it works for motherhood too. I feel like singing it to half my daughters tonight. No one had school or work today but me, and I worked four hours (which drained my brain for what I was teaching today was new to me) and then I came home and feeling good after the episode with the cannonball and sleeping eleven hours last night, I cleaned the entire house top to bottom and went to Walmart. So when I got back, said daughter had eaten leftovers and placed dishes in the sink of a spotless kitchen. I was ticked off. There was room in the dishwasher so why couldn't she load it? She said she loaded and ran the dishwasher earlier in the day.
Is that some kind of quota she is meeting? She's a legal adult now. I know. I should enforce some kind of demand for help around here. I think I've just given up and am circling the airport in a landing pattern waiting for them to empty my nest.
I want them out, the parts of them that smart off and back talk and play video games and act like the dishwasher is a major chore when they dirtied their share of the dishes. I want them to stay forever, the parts of them that scratch my back unexpectedly and knows right where the itch is, that lines up 19 bottles of BBQ sauce and 12 jars of peanut butter on the bar for me to see when I get home, that they are helping out with groceries, the part of them that laughs at my stupid jokes still.
All that cleaning made me tired and I have to work tomorrow. You think school is Monday through Friday, but it ain't necessarily so. When I get everything up to my standard (the house) it means something else is behind (the office). And I don't even want to talk about finishing that new book from the DC.
Goodnight.
Thursday, September 8, 2011
cannon ball vs. bowling ball
At 5:00 a.m. I woke up and my first thought, wonder of wonders, was not hey, let's go tinkle, which, at my age, waking up in the middle of night is all about making a tinkle, but this morning my first thought was:
I am pregnant with a 27 pound bowling ball. No wait, a cannon ball, and it is about to ignite.
Then I realized, stupid girl that I can be, that I did not have pain in my reproductive parts but rather in my digesting parts. So I wasn't pregnant, but I did have a full belly.
I ate chicken but so did Kim. I'm the only one sick. And I did it to myself - when I went to bed I had extra saliva like I wanted to hurl, but I made myself ignore it. Till 5:00 a.m. at least.
Once, I actually hobbled around till someone pointed out to me that I was limping and I looked and sure enough, I had an infected ingrown toenail. I had breast discharge when I was five month's pregnant with Carly or I might have been one of those idiot girls who shows up at the hospital with no idea what is about to come undone only to be told: You are in labor, moron.
How on earth can someone not hear what her body is saying?
The simple answer is you have to be trained not to hear it, to have it say something so unbearable that you make yourself not listen. It's the ultimate denial, to not hear one's biological self.
And lots of girls can do it. It's the only way to get through a childhood when your body says someone is doing things to me that are wrong. You're a kid and powerless to help yourself so you quit listening.
Then you can't listen when you need to. I am better at it. I at least knew I should have let myself vomit at midnight. Today, I have not had any appetite at all and I'm so tired from waking up hurting. I have some vicodin downstairs and I hurt to bad to go down there and get it. I bet I move it to the bathroom upstairs after this.
I feel pretty old. Carly is on her way to pick me up and I am going home to bed. I am 49 years old and my father died 14 years ago, and still this hurts in new ways.
I am pregnant with a 27 pound bowling ball. No wait, a cannon ball, and it is about to ignite.
Then I realized, stupid girl that I can be, that I did not have pain in my reproductive parts but rather in my digesting parts. So I wasn't pregnant, but I did have a full belly.
I ate chicken but so did Kim. I'm the only one sick. And I did it to myself - when I went to bed I had extra saliva like I wanted to hurl, but I made myself ignore it. Till 5:00 a.m. at least.
Once, I actually hobbled around till someone pointed out to me that I was limping and I looked and sure enough, I had an infected ingrown toenail. I had breast discharge when I was five month's pregnant with Carly or I might have been one of those idiot girls who shows up at the hospital with no idea what is about to come undone only to be told: You are in labor, moron.
How on earth can someone not hear what her body is saying?
The simple answer is you have to be trained not to hear it, to have it say something so unbearable that you make yourself not listen. It's the ultimate denial, to not hear one's biological self.
And lots of girls can do it. It's the only way to get through a childhood when your body says someone is doing things to me that are wrong. You're a kid and powerless to help yourself so you quit listening.
Then you can't listen when you need to. I am better at it. I at least knew I should have let myself vomit at midnight. Today, I have not had any appetite at all and I'm so tired from waking up hurting. I have some vicodin downstairs and I hurt to bad to go down there and get it. I bet I move it to the bathroom upstairs after this.
I feel pretty old. Carly is on her way to pick me up and I am going home to bed. I am 49 years old and my father died 14 years ago, and still this hurts in new ways.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Storage Wars
I stayed in my office after I finished teaching for five hours and got a lot done. All administrative tasks. Correspondence. I came home and Carly had made spaghetti and I had dinner and ate too much. I felt blah and just sat on the couch for a half hour watching the new episode of "Storage Wars".
How it works is people bid on storage units for which the rent has not been paid. The facility will break the lock and the bidders have five minutes to look inside without touching or opening anything and then they bid. Sometimes they lose money and sometimes they start opening boxes and discover a fortune in coins, football cards, you name it. Tonight the guy had Vera Wang shoes he thought were worth $200 but I got news for him, those are several seasons old and no longer in style but not old enough to be vintage.
I like looking at weird stuff and wondering who leaves all these lockers? I would empty it somewhere before losing the stuff. How many people die or get sent to prison to leave their storage unrenewed?
I don't know. But there is one bidder on there named Barry who is evidently somewhat wealthy and older and likes to collect things. A couple of the bidders have second-hand stores and are providing for their families. This guy just discards everything and tosses it around like it's junk because he is looking for a Strato Caster Guitar or carved jade Buddhas.
What bothers me is how he throws stuff away because he doesn't want it. Can't he donate it to people who need it? Today, my students in my seminar class read an essay about an immigrant from Sudan named Siba who was seeking political asylum in the US after being tortured as a rebel suspect. He was not a rebel, but he did want better conditions for his country.
I got home late and the girls had dinner earlier with their dad who delivers appliances and televisions for Best Buy. Best Buy has a pretty good discount for employees but they have just capped the discount at 50%. For some accessories, employees used to buy them for cost plus 5%. You might cry over the mark up in say, headphones and ear buds for iPods. Anyhow, he delivered 14 TVs to a man building a mansion who wants to watch cable in every room including the bathroom. Someone is watching Cribs. David told the girls the guy had a rug from an art gallery in NY and the price tag was still on it for $20,000.
I don't know what to think of that. I appreciate nice things. If I ever have a best selling book, I want a swanky Prada purse and wallet. But I think I like some of the $500 rugs at Lowe's and I could put $19,500 towards some other purpose. I am wondering how many pioneers that would support for how long. How many Kingdom Halls that would build in Sudan. My mother had a stack of bills from QVC last time we were there, August of 2009, and of course the girls picked them up and looked at the total, and it was about $2500 for the last six months. I could not serve my daughter a bologna sandwich with that kind of jewelry bill. If you say anything to my mother, she will tell you Jesus appreciated nice things and his garments were so costly the guards cast lots over them.
I never saw the point of telling her that Jesus did not have a house with a walk-in closet filled with more such garments and he could also turn water into wine and one fish into many, so he would probably not give us a bologna sandwich either.
The guy in the essay, Siba, from Sudan, part of the process he went through in seeking asylum was the doctor had to examine him and document his scars so they knew he wasn't making up the torture part just to get a free ride to the land of the free. He had to measure the depth and width and degree of the scars. Siba described how his torturers placed the glass and tightened the ropes so you couldn't bleed to death and die, but every few hours the cuts were a little deeper, at the back of the knees so you couldn't walk, the bend of the back, between the shoulder blades.
The scars were ridged with more scars, over and over.
He was happy working as a sandwich delivery boy in NY. Probably not bologna. I don't know what he would think of a $20,000 rug. I don't know why Barry can throw nice furniture away simply because he doesn't need it. Doesn't he know someone else does, or they are so far beneath his notice he doesn't care? Does Siba get any tips? David did not for the 14 televisions.
Sometimes the big things that are wrong are so hard to bear I have to ignore them to get by. Sometimes all the little things accumulate until I am depressed. Sometimes I wonder how Jehovah can handle all these burdens I throw on him, along with everyone else's. One of my students sent an email today that says when God answers your prayers, you have faith in his abilities. When he doesn't answer them, He has faith in yours. Sounds like something worldly people would say, and I know Jehovah knows me better than I know myself, but any ability I have comes from Him. So today I pray to be fortified despite the insensitivity that surrounds me.
How it works is people bid on storage units for which the rent has not been paid. The facility will break the lock and the bidders have five minutes to look inside without touching or opening anything and then they bid. Sometimes they lose money and sometimes they start opening boxes and discover a fortune in coins, football cards, you name it. Tonight the guy had Vera Wang shoes he thought were worth $200 but I got news for him, those are several seasons old and no longer in style but not old enough to be vintage.
I like looking at weird stuff and wondering who leaves all these lockers? I would empty it somewhere before losing the stuff. How many people die or get sent to prison to leave their storage unrenewed?
I don't know. But there is one bidder on there named Barry who is evidently somewhat wealthy and older and likes to collect things. A couple of the bidders have second-hand stores and are providing for their families. This guy just discards everything and tosses it around like it's junk because he is looking for a Strato Caster Guitar or carved jade Buddhas.
What bothers me is how he throws stuff away because he doesn't want it. Can't he donate it to people who need it? Today, my students in my seminar class read an essay about an immigrant from Sudan named Siba who was seeking political asylum in the US after being tortured as a rebel suspect. He was not a rebel, but he did want better conditions for his country.
I got home late and the girls had dinner earlier with their dad who delivers appliances and televisions for Best Buy. Best Buy has a pretty good discount for employees but they have just capped the discount at 50%. For some accessories, employees used to buy them for cost plus 5%. You might cry over the mark up in say, headphones and ear buds for iPods. Anyhow, he delivered 14 TVs to a man building a mansion who wants to watch cable in every room including the bathroom. Someone is watching Cribs. David told the girls the guy had a rug from an art gallery in NY and the price tag was still on it for $20,000.
I don't know what to think of that. I appreciate nice things. If I ever have a best selling book, I want a swanky Prada purse and wallet. But I think I like some of the $500 rugs at Lowe's and I could put $19,500 towards some other purpose. I am wondering how many pioneers that would support for how long. How many Kingdom Halls that would build in Sudan. My mother had a stack of bills from QVC last time we were there, August of 2009, and of course the girls picked them up and looked at the total, and it was about $2500 for the last six months. I could not serve my daughter a bologna sandwich with that kind of jewelry bill. If you say anything to my mother, she will tell you Jesus appreciated nice things and his garments were so costly the guards cast lots over them.
I never saw the point of telling her that Jesus did not have a house with a walk-in closet filled with more such garments and he could also turn water into wine and one fish into many, so he would probably not give us a bologna sandwich either.
The guy in the essay, Siba, from Sudan, part of the process he went through in seeking asylum was the doctor had to examine him and document his scars so they knew he wasn't making up the torture part just to get a free ride to the land of the free. He had to measure the depth and width and degree of the scars. Siba described how his torturers placed the glass and tightened the ropes so you couldn't bleed to death and die, but every few hours the cuts were a little deeper, at the back of the knees so you couldn't walk, the bend of the back, between the shoulder blades.
The scars were ridged with more scars, over and over.
He was happy working as a sandwich delivery boy in NY. Probably not bologna. I don't know what he would think of a $20,000 rug. I don't know why Barry can throw nice furniture away simply because he doesn't need it. Doesn't he know someone else does, or they are so far beneath his notice he doesn't care? Does Siba get any tips? David did not for the 14 televisions.
Sometimes the big things that are wrong are so hard to bear I have to ignore them to get by. Sometimes all the little things accumulate until I am depressed. Sometimes I wonder how Jehovah can handle all these burdens I throw on him, along with everyone else's. One of my students sent an email today that says when God answers your prayers, you have faith in his abilities. When he doesn't answer them, He has faith in yours. Sounds like something worldly people would say, and I know Jehovah knows me better than I know myself, but any ability I have comes from Him. So today I pray to be fortified despite the insensitivity that surrounds me.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
The Global Village
I gave my freshmen a quiz this morning based on a book called "If the World Were a Global Village". It was published in 2003 so is a little bit dated, but the figures are still good enough to give one an idea about the composition of humans on the planet.
The premise is that over six billion humans is a lot of math, so presume that the earth has only 100 people in a village, but the math proportions stay the same. It's so easy to do percentages when it's out of 100. The predominant religion is Christianity at 32% with Islam composing 19%, Judaism 1% and no religion = 15%. A lot of Hinduism and Confucianism, et al, aside from that. Chinese is spoken by 22 people in the village, whereas only 9 speak English. Only 24 people in the village always have enough to eat, and only 76 have electricity. There are 42 radios and 14 telephones in the village.
A lot of people are not texting all day everyday but they are not on my campus.
Forty percent of the villagers do not have adequate sanitation. Not everyone has clean air to breathe, and if the population growth rate remains constant, in 2200 there will be 1600 people in the village. There will be shortages of natural resources, shelter, and food.
One of my students said, "Thank God we won't be there to see it."
I want to be alive 187 years from now, only I think we will have a new way of numbering time, probably covered in the new scrolls.
Today I am more than thankful that I live in the 60% of people who have a toilet that flushes whenever necessary. Sanitation is a beautiful thing. I am even more thankful that I know the truth, that death is not natural, and if I am not alive in 187 years, I hope you are looking for me in the resurrection before long.
The premise is that over six billion humans is a lot of math, so presume that the earth has only 100 people in a village, but the math proportions stay the same. It's so easy to do percentages when it's out of 100. The predominant religion is Christianity at 32% with Islam composing 19%, Judaism 1% and no religion = 15%. A lot of Hinduism and Confucianism, et al, aside from that. Chinese is spoken by 22 people in the village, whereas only 9 speak English. Only 24 people in the village always have enough to eat, and only 76 have electricity. There are 42 radios and 14 telephones in the village.
A lot of people are not texting all day everyday but they are not on my campus.
Forty percent of the villagers do not have adequate sanitation. Not everyone has clean air to breathe, and if the population growth rate remains constant, in 2200 there will be 1600 people in the village. There will be shortages of natural resources, shelter, and food.
One of my students said, "Thank God we won't be there to see it."
I want to be alive 187 years from now, only I think we will have a new way of numbering time, probably covered in the new scrolls.
Today I am more than thankful that I live in the 60% of people who have a toilet that flushes whenever necessary. Sanitation is a beautiful thing. I am even more thankful that I know the truth, that death is not natural, and if I am not alive in 187 years, I hope you are looking for me in the resurrection before long.
Monday, September 5, 2011
There's a reason they call it labor
When the girls were infants, newborns, changing their diapers seemed to hurt. They didn't want to have their legs opened, held up. Not much room in my belly for calisthenics towards the end, and for Carly especially, she spent several hours in a birth canal wedged like an overripe cantaloupe. She was a cone-head for about a week afterwards. So long I got nervous.
So now the unions are responsible for getting this holiday for workers. Labor day, a day not to do it. Man may work from sun to sun, but woman's work is never done.
And then there is Proverbs 31. There's a verse in there that makes me sigh. Get out of bed and be at your work before the sun comes up. Thanks Solomon! Women are never tired or need to sleep in.
How many women are so busy taking care of someone else, a lot of other elses, and no one is taking care of them? I need a pedicure something fierce, and while the house is clean right now, I go back to school tomorrow and the weeks just fly by and I spend all my time with work and grading and meetings and teaching and rush home and do laundry (the washer is filling to rinse right now, about five feet behind me, as I write in a landing upstairs and how blessed am I not to have a basement laundry facility). How blessed I am not to be alive in Solomon's day and do laundry at the riverbanks.
Somebody always has it worse and somebody always has it better. I can't buy a blouse this month from Fashion Bug because A.) my closets are full and B.) I can't afford it. Everything is accounted for. The man said he fixed my check engine light in the car, but he only cleared the code and the light is back. The part is nearly $200 (some core to go with it, a mass air sensor? some such thing) plus putting it in. Hello Firestone! I can't get that credit card paid off.
It's getting colder, but I have that comforter so warm and an electric blanket, so I don't need more laundry, someone wanting dinner on a schedule that revolves around his belly and not my job, and I sure don't need help to keep warmer.
This is not how we are supposed to live our lives. Technology is amoral, and it brings a lot of time saving devices with it and upgraded communications. But I am not sure it isn't a bad thing used against us by Satan at every turn. I love the girls and they coupon a lot. I get the largesse of the savings on my budget. I am glad they can contribute. But they send me emails to prints coupons at school. Somehow the coupons are all able to figure out your isp number so you reach your print limit. An added computer means we can get two more coupons on the good buys. I don't mind clicking on a link and hitting the print command. But I can't sign up for things, fill our surveys, or like stuff on facebook and spend a half hour a day on the computer getting to the coupons, and the girls resent me for acting like I'm too important to do it.
That blog is not paying for anything and this is, so spend your time on this.
I want to scream. It's MY time is the issue. I need to take care of me. I need a pedicure. I need to put those clothes in the dryer but I am going to bed so in the morning that load will be wrinkled. It's mostly towels, but sometimes it is not. And I need to write the way some people need to drink water.
That's why babies are so cute when you have them even though they are all sore just like you from the process of separating them from your body. If they came out 20 years old telling you what to do, you'd give them all up for adoption and tie your tubes on the first one.
Who knew it was going to be this much work for this long? Mother's Day, Labor Day, Giving Thanks. None of that is reasonable, right, or even adequate.
Too cold for flip flops anyway, so I guess the pedicure can wait. Sigh.
So now the unions are responsible for getting this holiday for workers. Labor day, a day not to do it. Man may work from sun to sun, but woman's work is never done.
And then there is Proverbs 31. There's a verse in there that makes me sigh. Get out of bed and be at your work before the sun comes up. Thanks Solomon! Women are never tired or need to sleep in.
How many women are so busy taking care of someone else, a lot of other elses, and no one is taking care of them? I need a pedicure something fierce, and while the house is clean right now, I go back to school tomorrow and the weeks just fly by and I spend all my time with work and grading and meetings and teaching and rush home and do laundry (the washer is filling to rinse right now, about five feet behind me, as I write in a landing upstairs and how blessed am I not to have a basement laundry facility). How blessed I am not to be alive in Solomon's day and do laundry at the riverbanks.
Somebody always has it worse and somebody always has it better. I can't buy a blouse this month from Fashion Bug because A.) my closets are full and B.) I can't afford it. Everything is accounted for. The man said he fixed my check engine light in the car, but he only cleared the code and the light is back. The part is nearly $200 (some core to go with it, a mass air sensor? some such thing) plus putting it in. Hello Firestone! I can't get that credit card paid off.
It's getting colder, but I have that comforter so warm and an electric blanket, so I don't need more laundry, someone wanting dinner on a schedule that revolves around his belly and not my job, and I sure don't need help to keep warmer.
This is not how we are supposed to live our lives. Technology is amoral, and it brings a lot of time saving devices with it and upgraded communications. But I am not sure it isn't a bad thing used against us by Satan at every turn. I love the girls and they coupon a lot. I get the largesse of the savings on my budget. I am glad they can contribute. But they send me emails to prints coupons at school. Somehow the coupons are all able to figure out your isp number so you reach your print limit. An added computer means we can get two more coupons on the good buys. I don't mind clicking on a link and hitting the print command. But I can't sign up for things, fill our surveys, or like stuff on facebook and spend a half hour a day on the computer getting to the coupons, and the girls resent me for acting like I'm too important to do it.
That blog is not paying for anything and this is, so spend your time on this.
I want to scream. It's MY time is the issue. I need to take care of me. I need a pedicure. I need to put those clothes in the dryer but I am going to bed so in the morning that load will be wrinkled. It's mostly towels, but sometimes it is not. And I need to write the way some people need to drink water.
That's why babies are so cute when you have them even though they are all sore just like you from the process of separating them from your body. If they came out 20 years old telling you what to do, you'd give them all up for adoption and tie your tubes on the first one.
Who knew it was going to be this much work for this long? Mother's Day, Labor Day, Giving Thanks. None of that is reasonable, right, or even adequate.
Too cold for flip flops anyway, so I guess the pedicure can wait. Sigh.
Sunday, September 4, 2011
hibernating
When I turn my computer on after a long time away, if I did not turn it off, the screen says hibernating in those few seconds before it goes back into wake up mode.
After I shake the mouse of course. Now, I am trying to shake my own mouse. Labor Day is just another holiday in the south, let's have a day off good, but here it's like a signal to batten down the hatches; winter is coming. So we decided to make the best of it and go out of town. Didn't get far, 80 miles, but we got close to malls, theaters, and Sonic, so we were happy. As we were coming home tonight, arriving at 9:00 p.m., I couldn't help noticing it was full dark. The days are shorter. We used to come home from a day of gallivanting in Greensburg and get home at 9:00 in daylight.
That's in June.
At any rate, it was good to be away from working, from the house that I am always cleaning, from the office I am always in. I don't know that we accomplished much other than of course I bought school supplies at Target for 75% off. I have always been a lover of school supplies and Target has the coolest.
So no progress spiritually or economically or educationally. Just vegged out. Sometimes I think of Job. Those days when all he could do was sit and scratch what itched. I am not as hard up as Job, but the weight of this system is like a malignant boil on all of us, on our hearts, our attitude, our desire to keep going.
I scratched and prayed a lot. Not much else. Was it enough? I want to keep going. Some days I am not sure that is the case. Today, yes.
So that is all I have gotten done of late. I am trying to get back into my usual swing of things tomorrow. Goodnight, my sisters.
After I shake the mouse of course. Now, I am trying to shake my own mouse. Labor Day is just another holiday in the south, let's have a day off good, but here it's like a signal to batten down the hatches; winter is coming. So we decided to make the best of it and go out of town. Didn't get far, 80 miles, but we got close to malls, theaters, and Sonic, so we were happy. As we were coming home tonight, arriving at 9:00 p.m., I couldn't help noticing it was full dark. The days are shorter. We used to come home from a day of gallivanting in Greensburg and get home at 9:00 in daylight.
That's in June.
At any rate, it was good to be away from working, from the house that I am always cleaning, from the office I am always in. I don't know that we accomplished much other than of course I bought school supplies at Target for 75% off. I have always been a lover of school supplies and Target has the coolest.
So no progress spiritually or economically or educationally. Just vegged out. Sometimes I think of Job. Those days when all he could do was sit and scratch what itched. I am not as hard up as Job, but the weight of this system is like a malignant boil on all of us, on our hearts, our attitude, our desire to keep going.
I scratched and prayed a lot. Not much else. Was it enough? I want to keep going. Some days I am not sure that is the case. Today, yes.
So that is all I have gotten done of late. I am trying to get back into my usual swing of things tomorrow. Goodnight, my sisters.
Thursday, September 1, 2011
polka dots
The baby pictures are of Adalyn. She is five months old, and if I remember right, 19 pounds now. She has those cute little thighs that you just want to pinch like the Pilsbury Dough Boy.
Her mother's name is Gianna, and Gianna is close to Carly's age, and they used to be pretty good friends in Arkansas. Gianna is now in Texas, which is where I would like to be, but I would like to be anywhere else but here. As we draw closer to winter, that feeling will get worse.
Anyhow, Gianna is also my friend but to be honest, we've hurt each other a few times. I don't know why that is. I always want to do right by Gianna, but sometimes I think my relationship with her is just to keep me humble. It's like Jehovah said, "Cherri Ann, you've gotten a little too big for your britches. You think you can just make everything okay, but you can't. Case in point, Gianna."
She's doing pretty fine without me by the looks of her baby girl. So I am humbled yet again. Sometimes I think the trouble between us is being too much alike. Having a lot of energy and no outlet for it. Spinning wheels and not having a chance.
It's a funny feeling now to see how she dresses her baby - because it is how I knew she would dress her and how I would dress her. Funny how her name is Adalyn and we have an Adelaya in our congregation (Addy) who's mother dresses her the same. Sunday, Addy had on a green dress with a horizontal stripe in the skirt - graduated green then white then purple. Now one of my favorite color combinations is green and purple. Yes, you have to do it right, but Addy was right. And then I noticed she had a hair bow that married green and purple and it was just fabulous.
Gianna dresses her baby in all these cool lady bug print hats, feathery boa-like headbands, and polka dotted pants. Panda bear sleepers and frou frou onesies. Part of me feels funny, because Carly is about Gianna's age and she is still at home, no husband, no baby. I could be a grandma by now. And Gianna takes good care of her baby and puts her first. Somehow, that has made her grow up fast. I wish there was a little more growing up around this house some days (most days.) Maybe not from that, but anyhow.
I would never oversimplify life and say a baby solves problems, but I am grateful I had my babies and I got my act together on their behalf. I loved them more than I loved myself. I didn't care about or take care of me, but them, oh them. All that self-sabotaging behavior had to stop for me to be a mom.
I have heard that when two people are very much alike, they don't get along. Opposites attract. Maybe that is why Gianna and I have gone round and round. Maybe we won't anymore. I would like that.
I'll give you one reason, though there are many, for why I feel that way. We used to have these talent night get togethers in Arkansas. I have posted (way back in June I think) photographs of the Hannah play I wrote and directed for our congregation youth. I always got up and read poems written for the occasions as well. Well, the first one we had, Gianna got up to sing with a karaoke back up band. And right smack in the second verse, she forgot the lyrics for about four lines. And she stood her ground, hummed, and when the chorus kicked back in, she went right back to it without a second glance. She did not run off the stage or step back. She messed up over nerves, but she owned it. She took responsibility and got on with the business of singing what she did know.
I admire that. It's tough to do. Plenty of other girls would have left as soon as the show was over so no one could snicker about them, and you know how a bunch of teenaged girls are, sadly, even in the congregation. She got a few snickers, but she stayed there.
Someday me and Adalyn are going to have to go out for ice cream and talk about these blessings. Plus, I gotta tell her, I love that funny looking monkey her momma bought her in the picture.
Her mother's name is Gianna, and Gianna is close to Carly's age, and they used to be pretty good friends in Arkansas. Gianna is now in Texas, which is where I would like to be, but I would like to be anywhere else but here. As we draw closer to winter, that feeling will get worse.
Anyhow, Gianna is also my friend but to be honest, we've hurt each other a few times. I don't know why that is. I always want to do right by Gianna, but sometimes I think my relationship with her is just to keep me humble. It's like Jehovah said, "Cherri Ann, you've gotten a little too big for your britches. You think you can just make everything okay, but you can't. Case in point, Gianna."
She's doing pretty fine without me by the looks of her baby girl. So I am humbled yet again. Sometimes I think the trouble between us is being too much alike. Having a lot of energy and no outlet for it. Spinning wheels and not having a chance.
It's a funny feeling now to see how she dresses her baby - because it is how I knew she would dress her and how I would dress her. Funny how her name is Adalyn and we have an Adelaya in our congregation (Addy) who's mother dresses her the same. Sunday, Addy had on a green dress with a horizontal stripe in the skirt - graduated green then white then purple. Now one of my favorite color combinations is green and purple. Yes, you have to do it right, but Addy was right. And then I noticed she had a hair bow that married green and purple and it was just fabulous.
Gianna dresses her baby in all these cool lady bug print hats, feathery boa-like headbands, and polka dotted pants. Panda bear sleepers and frou frou onesies. Part of me feels funny, because Carly is about Gianna's age and she is still at home, no husband, no baby. I could be a grandma by now. And Gianna takes good care of her baby and puts her first. Somehow, that has made her grow up fast. I wish there was a little more growing up around this house some days (most days.) Maybe not from that, but anyhow.
I would never oversimplify life and say a baby solves problems, but I am grateful I had my babies and I got my act together on their behalf. I loved them more than I loved myself. I didn't care about or take care of me, but them, oh them. All that self-sabotaging behavior had to stop for me to be a mom.
I have heard that when two people are very much alike, they don't get along. Opposites attract. Maybe that is why Gianna and I have gone round and round. Maybe we won't anymore. I would like that.
I'll give you one reason, though there are many, for why I feel that way. We used to have these talent night get togethers in Arkansas. I have posted (way back in June I think) photographs of the Hannah play I wrote and directed for our congregation youth. I always got up and read poems written for the occasions as well. Well, the first one we had, Gianna got up to sing with a karaoke back up band. And right smack in the second verse, she forgot the lyrics for about four lines. And she stood her ground, hummed, and when the chorus kicked back in, she went right back to it without a second glance. She did not run off the stage or step back. She messed up over nerves, but she owned it. She took responsibility and got on with the business of singing what she did know.
I admire that. It's tough to do. Plenty of other girls would have left as soon as the show was over so no one could snicker about them, and you know how a bunch of teenaged girls are, sadly, even in the congregation. She got a few snickers, but she stayed there.
Someday me and Adalyn are going to have to go out for ice cream and talk about these blessings. Plus, I gotta tell her, I love that funny looking monkey her momma bought her in the picture.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Pharisees
The Pharisees had their traditions. They added rules. Today, they would be lawyers. Seriously. One thing I really miss about teaching in Arkansas is getting to teach world lit I survey. All of literature from the beginning of literature to about 1600. And what is best about that is that most literature is based on religious tenets and beliefs. All governments are based on some sort of moral conception of the universe, and most societies base their morals on their predominant religion.
Which is why a lot of people are scared to live in an atheist society. If you have surgery and get anesthesia, you can see the relationship between the words atheist and aesthete. Anesthesia literally means without sensation. The prefix a/an means without. Theist means god, so a monotheist worships one God, and a polytheist worships many, such as the Hindus. Atheist means without a god.
Funny how the introduction of Islam was not the true religion, but it still was an improvement, or was closer to the truth, because it took the Arabic people descended from Ishmael from a polytheist to a monotheist society. "No God but God" was their chant. Nearly every principle found in the Bible is found in the Quran. Yes, they made Joseph a prophet, and added and played loose with quite a bit. Still, it got the nation rid of all those stupid graven images.
Time pollutes things. We get careless or selfish or some other agenda pops up. Even in language. I say "ya'll" all the time even knowing it means all of you. Today I saw an ad for a product called "whonu". Why can't they say Who Knew? I understand why my students are using these abbreviations like oic and lol and ttyl. It's a lot easier if you are texting on a keyboard the size of Barbie's hands.
In view of all that, it amazes me that the Bible has maintained its integrity. That must be some serious holy spirit. The military moves soldiers to a new fort at least once every three years. "Familiarity breeds contempt" and they want the troops to maintain readiness for battle. Stay on your toes. I was thinking about what allows us to treat each other harshly or with contempt. We get used to each other and take each other for granted. Sometimes I wonder if we are even familiar with the object of our contempt in the first place. My boss treats me like I'm a fool but she doesn't even know me, never took any time or made any effort to understand me, to know what makes me tick.
Like, have you seen the movie "Dead Poet's Society"? Yeah, you're right. I like that one. There's a subplot in that movie about a boy who is at the prep school and is a talented actor. Extremely gifted brilliant even. It's after the depression and his parents went through that time period, and they do not want their good boy to be an actor. They want him to have a real solid dependable job. I don't remember what they want him to study, doctor, lawyer, accountant. Something like that
He just wants to act. They take him out of prep school and tell him he's headed to military academy on the train the next morning. He has no choice.
Oh but he does. His father has a gun in his study. The boy goes inside and gets it, and uses it. He commits suicide. If he can't live doing what he loves, and must live doing what he abhors, he would prefer to end his life.
Now that is a hard choice to face. When the parents hear the bang, the father rushes to his study. You don't see the boy; the scene lasts maybe ten seconds. All you see is the father opening the door to a darkened room, and then his voice breaking as he says, "Oh, my baby boy."
I suppose some regret in that father's heart for forcing such a choice on his child. There is no doubt the father loves his son, and that scene (yes it is a made up story) breaks your heart when you hear his voice breaking down. But there are real people like that. Can you love someone without knowing who they are, what they think, what they want? Evidently.
Isn't it sad humans can get so far away from each other that all the love in the world can't help them overcome their differences? People used to tell me when the girls were teenagers that I was the boss and just go in their rooms and rip the rock star calendars off the wall. For what? So they can hate me more, and then secretly plot the days till they can move out and hook up with rock stars? That's what my mother did. I didn't want rock stars, just education. But she made it so impossible for me to live at home, between her and my father I had to go. I didn't have any direction to go towards. I just had a direction to leave behind. Something to get away from.
Sunday our talk was about relying on Jehovah. Leslie's husband Chris gave it. He started talking about an example in the bible of someone who relied on Jehovah when no one else understood what they were going through. I thought wow, that should be Hannah, but he'll probably talk about some guy in the bible.
He turned to 1 Samuel and we read about Hannah and how no one except Jehovah understood why she was so hurt. Even Elkanah didn't get it, said what do you want with sons when you have me? Chris says: "Some people just don't know what to say." That's so funny. Elkanah was stupid when it came to his wife's desire to have a child. Socially inept, awkward, whatever you want to call it. He just didn't get it. Jehovah did. That's all.
Hannah got to have her babies finally, but it was many years of listening to Peninah brag about her babies. It takes nine months to make one, and she bragged about more than one, so that's a long time to be in Hannah's shoes.
I suppose my mother might love me, or the idea of me. I don't think she knows who I am, or wants to know. She doesn't understand books and reading and writing and wanting to be in words all the time. For the last two days I wore only black and white to school. Why? Because I don't have to waste my brain on matching anything. I just want to get dressed and get on with what matters. And my mother cares about clothes and how you look and varying your fashion. I don't. I mean, it's nice to look nice. I wish I was gorgeous. But I would rather have a half hour a day to blog a lot more than a half hour to piddle around in the closet. It's just not that interesting.
Here, the words, now that is engaging. I have a favorite word, a favorite letter, a favorite Bible verse (lots of them) a favorite quote, book, poem, saying, lyric. I don't have a favorite outfit. Am I decent and socially acceptable? Fine, let's go.
I am such a disappointment to her. I have tried to be who she wanted me to be, and it isn't in me. I was so depressed from 17-18 that I barely functioned. I had a quiet little nervous breakdown and no one bothered to see it. Here's a quote I like: Trying to be someone else wastes the person you really are.
I got tired of wasting me, my brain, my life. Here is what is ironic. She is such a disappointment to me. Last time we were there, before she threw us out, we went to meeting with her. All the way home, a 20 minute drive, she kept asking us did we see this sister, that family, those brothers, and all she could do was criticize their appearances. Some of those spiritual kin did not seem to have much money, so I don't know how she expected them to dress better or have a new car in the parking lot. I don't know if Jehovah feels reproached over a 1974 panel van with duct tape over one of the windows parked at His house on Sunday morning. But I got so tired of hearing her whine about how no one met the standards she was busy setting on Jehovah's behalf.
I'm pretty sure that we didn't meet that standard either. We are decent and covered, but we don't look like a runner up in the Miss New Mexico pageant like she was. So we disappoint her. There was a brother five years younger than me named Charlie and when I was 12 and he was 7 he asked me to marry him. Well, I didn't hold him to that, and he married a nice girl named Shawn and they had babies nearly the exact ages of my babies. And they are thin and blonde and my mother goes on and on about them. She never goes on and on about my girls.
That's pretty tough to bear. I don't bear it anymore. I just stay away. The whole time she does stuff like this the word going on in the back of my mind is "Pharisee." Quit praying where everybody can see you Mother. Quit feeling so righteous because you are wearing a $300 belt from QVC to meeting. Quit being so concerned with your additions that you lose sight of the will of God. Quit being shallow.
I hate shallow people. When Sara was here to spend a month with us, a sister who never speaks to my daughters at the Hall runs up to Sara and wants to meet her. Sara is thin and wearing a Kathy purse and Steve Madden shoes and leopard striped jewelry. She's cool.
My kids are cool. And smart. Just not thin and wearing high heels. I'm doing everything I can to get life for them, and then they go to the Hall to be hurt. You are not serving people, I say. Only trust in Jehovah. No one else matters.
Which is why a lot of people are scared to live in an atheist society. If you have surgery and get anesthesia, you can see the relationship between the words atheist and aesthete. Anesthesia literally means without sensation. The prefix a/an means without. Theist means god, so a monotheist worships one God, and a polytheist worships many, such as the Hindus. Atheist means without a god.
Funny how the introduction of Islam was not the true religion, but it still was an improvement, or was closer to the truth, because it took the Arabic people descended from Ishmael from a polytheist to a monotheist society. "No God but God" was their chant. Nearly every principle found in the Bible is found in the Quran. Yes, they made Joseph a prophet, and added and played loose with quite a bit. Still, it got the nation rid of all those stupid graven images.
Time pollutes things. We get careless or selfish or some other agenda pops up. Even in language. I say "ya'll" all the time even knowing it means all of you. Today I saw an ad for a product called "whonu". Why can't they say Who Knew? I understand why my students are using these abbreviations like oic and lol and ttyl. It's a lot easier if you are texting on a keyboard the size of Barbie's hands.
In view of all that, it amazes me that the Bible has maintained its integrity. That must be some serious holy spirit. The military moves soldiers to a new fort at least once every three years. "Familiarity breeds contempt" and they want the troops to maintain readiness for battle. Stay on your toes. I was thinking about what allows us to treat each other harshly or with contempt. We get used to each other and take each other for granted. Sometimes I wonder if we are even familiar with the object of our contempt in the first place. My boss treats me like I'm a fool but she doesn't even know me, never took any time or made any effort to understand me, to know what makes me tick.
Like, have you seen the movie "Dead Poet's Society"? Yeah, you're right. I like that one. There's a subplot in that movie about a boy who is at the prep school and is a talented actor. Extremely gifted brilliant even. It's after the depression and his parents went through that time period, and they do not want their good boy to be an actor. They want him to have a real solid dependable job. I don't remember what they want him to study, doctor, lawyer, accountant. Something like that
He just wants to act. They take him out of prep school and tell him he's headed to military academy on the train the next morning. He has no choice.
Oh but he does. His father has a gun in his study. The boy goes inside and gets it, and uses it. He commits suicide. If he can't live doing what he loves, and must live doing what he abhors, he would prefer to end his life.
Now that is a hard choice to face. When the parents hear the bang, the father rushes to his study. You don't see the boy; the scene lasts maybe ten seconds. All you see is the father opening the door to a darkened room, and then his voice breaking as he says, "Oh, my baby boy."
I suppose some regret in that father's heart for forcing such a choice on his child. There is no doubt the father loves his son, and that scene (yes it is a made up story) breaks your heart when you hear his voice breaking down. But there are real people like that. Can you love someone without knowing who they are, what they think, what they want? Evidently.
Isn't it sad humans can get so far away from each other that all the love in the world can't help them overcome their differences? People used to tell me when the girls were teenagers that I was the boss and just go in their rooms and rip the rock star calendars off the wall. For what? So they can hate me more, and then secretly plot the days till they can move out and hook up with rock stars? That's what my mother did. I didn't want rock stars, just education. But she made it so impossible for me to live at home, between her and my father I had to go. I didn't have any direction to go towards. I just had a direction to leave behind. Something to get away from.
Sunday our talk was about relying on Jehovah. Leslie's husband Chris gave it. He started talking about an example in the bible of someone who relied on Jehovah when no one else understood what they were going through. I thought wow, that should be Hannah, but he'll probably talk about some guy in the bible.
He turned to 1 Samuel and we read about Hannah and how no one except Jehovah understood why she was so hurt. Even Elkanah didn't get it, said what do you want with sons when you have me? Chris says: "Some people just don't know what to say." That's so funny. Elkanah was stupid when it came to his wife's desire to have a child. Socially inept, awkward, whatever you want to call it. He just didn't get it. Jehovah did. That's all.
Hannah got to have her babies finally, but it was many years of listening to Peninah brag about her babies. It takes nine months to make one, and she bragged about more than one, so that's a long time to be in Hannah's shoes.
I suppose my mother might love me, or the idea of me. I don't think she knows who I am, or wants to know. She doesn't understand books and reading and writing and wanting to be in words all the time. For the last two days I wore only black and white to school. Why? Because I don't have to waste my brain on matching anything. I just want to get dressed and get on with what matters. And my mother cares about clothes and how you look and varying your fashion. I don't. I mean, it's nice to look nice. I wish I was gorgeous. But I would rather have a half hour a day to blog a lot more than a half hour to piddle around in the closet. It's just not that interesting.
Here, the words, now that is engaging. I have a favorite word, a favorite letter, a favorite Bible verse (lots of them) a favorite quote, book, poem, saying, lyric. I don't have a favorite outfit. Am I decent and socially acceptable? Fine, let's go.
I am such a disappointment to her. I have tried to be who she wanted me to be, and it isn't in me. I was so depressed from 17-18 that I barely functioned. I had a quiet little nervous breakdown and no one bothered to see it. Here's a quote I like: Trying to be someone else wastes the person you really are.
I got tired of wasting me, my brain, my life. Here is what is ironic. She is such a disappointment to me. Last time we were there, before she threw us out, we went to meeting with her. All the way home, a 20 minute drive, she kept asking us did we see this sister, that family, those brothers, and all she could do was criticize their appearances. Some of those spiritual kin did not seem to have much money, so I don't know how she expected them to dress better or have a new car in the parking lot. I don't know if Jehovah feels reproached over a 1974 panel van with duct tape over one of the windows parked at His house on Sunday morning. But I got so tired of hearing her whine about how no one met the standards she was busy setting on Jehovah's behalf.
I'm pretty sure that we didn't meet that standard either. We are decent and covered, but we don't look like a runner up in the Miss New Mexico pageant like she was. So we disappoint her. There was a brother five years younger than me named Charlie and when I was 12 and he was 7 he asked me to marry him. Well, I didn't hold him to that, and he married a nice girl named Shawn and they had babies nearly the exact ages of my babies. And they are thin and blonde and my mother goes on and on about them. She never goes on and on about my girls.
That's pretty tough to bear. I don't bear it anymore. I just stay away. The whole time she does stuff like this the word going on in the back of my mind is "Pharisee." Quit praying where everybody can see you Mother. Quit feeling so righteous because you are wearing a $300 belt from QVC to meeting. Quit being so concerned with your additions that you lose sight of the will of God. Quit being shallow.
I hate shallow people. When Sara was here to spend a month with us, a sister who never speaks to my daughters at the Hall runs up to Sara and wants to meet her. Sara is thin and wearing a Kathy purse and Steve Madden shoes and leopard striped jewelry. She's cool.
My kids are cool. And smart. Just not thin and wearing high heels. I'm doing everything I can to get life for them, and then they go to the Hall to be hurt. You are not serving people, I say. Only trust in Jehovah. No one else matters.
*****
Sometimes I think it is good the end has not come yet. All the sheep are not gathered, the number of the anointed is not sealed, and I don't know if I am ready to make it, if the girls are, if I am too critical and my mother too shallow and we need this time to balance ourselves. As I approach 50 next year, I absolutely understand how we can live eternally, and still have things to learn.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
childcare 101
I meant to blog about Benjamin last night, but I ended up trying to get my beauty sleep. It didn't work, sigh. When I logged in just now, I saw where the picture of Benjamin from yesterday was my 100th blog. Whew. I didn't know if I could make this work that long or not. So this will be blog #101, which is a generic term for a college course. Right now I am teaching English writing 1700 (seminar for seniors) and introduction to creative writing 0050 and three sections of English comp I 0005 (for freshmen). But the numbering system here is strange. Back home, those classes would be numbered 1013, 2023, and 4023. Anyhow, here is where I am.
Benjamin's grandparents were pregnant with Benjamin's father when I was about five years old. I am trying to do math (a four-letter word) and what I've decided is Ben's papa is in his mid 40's. I thanked Jehovah last night, as I always do, for something. But this time it was different. I thanked him for something that was not. I thanked him I was not the parent of a little one. I am too old for that now.
I know what you're thinking. If Carly was having a baby, or Kim (I say Carly because she is firstborn, but that doesn't mean squat really) there would be baby pictures everyday on here and I'd be the overwhelming grandparent everyone hates to be seated next to during a long wait in a doctor's office. Maybe. But I'm content not to find out.
Anyhow, Ben's grandfather is a handy guy. I respect him more than I can say. Leslie commented during the WT on Sunday about elders that she had several spiritual fathers back in Philly and she considers our WT conductor her spiritual father here. At first I thought oh come on, really? But of course she does; she's 22 or so. I'm his age so he doesn't strike me as paternal. I respect him, but I just don't see him as fatherly to me. But Ben's grandfather, yes. I'd turn to him for anything and have absolute trust in him.
When Kimberly was five, she had her tonsils out, and the following week an artery started bleeding and she had a second operation in the middle of the night. Both times, Tom and Sherry were there. When Kim came out of recovery, it was after midnight, and I said thank you Tom and ya'll can go home now; she is okay.
He said, "I'm here for Kimberly's mother too." And he took my hand and said a prayer for us both. Unable to say goodnight when he left, I just nodded, about to bawl.
So when Leslie was commenting about that on Sunday, I was thinking of Tom and Kimberly and Sherry and spiritual parents of my own ~ thinking about this grandbaby that Tom and Sherry now have and what kind of grandparents they turned out to be.
It's really funny, because I have to email them every so often and say hey, send me a new picture of that boy! Maybe they are afraid of becoming those kinds of grandparents in waiting rooms who have photo albums in their bags. So this is the latest picture. I laughed with joy over seeing him. His face reveals both his parents and half his grandparents in that little smile. Here we are, 6,000 years removed from perfection, who knows how deteriorated the coding in our DNA is, but we go downhill a lot faster than Methusaleh, for sure, yet look how sweet this little boy is.
His grandfather made him a child-sized podium so he can "Play Kingdom Hall." I am so delighted by this idea I can hardly contain myself. I am thinking of looking for a child-sized brief case to contribute to his "playing out in service" and I would like to bake him a pie to "play get-together." I'd like to send a scaled down name tag from conventions so he could "Play DC."
Bryan is right in his poem. You can't get this kind of family anywhere else. Although I have yet to meet Benjamin in person, he is as real to me as the children in my own congregation, as often in my prayers, and as much joy in my heart. He doesn't know me, but I love him already.
Benjamin's grandparents were pregnant with Benjamin's father when I was about five years old. I am trying to do math (a four-letter word) and what I've decided is Ben's papa is in his mid 40's. I thanked Jehovah last night, as I always do, for something. But this time it was different. I thanked him for something that was not. I thanked him I was not the parent of a little one. I am too old for that now.
I know what you're thinking. If Carly was having a baby, or Kim (I say Carly because she is firstborn, but that doesn't mean squat really) there would be baby pictures everyday on here and I'd be the overwhelming grandparent everyone hates to be seated next to during a long wait in a doctor's office. Maybe. But I'm content not to find out.
Anyhow, Ben's grandfather is a handy guy. I respect him more than I can say. Leslie commented during the WT on Sunday about elders that she had several spiritual fathers back in Philly and she considers our WT conductor her spiritual father here. At first I thought oh come on, really? But of course she does; she's 22 or so. I'm his age so he doesn't strike me as paternal. I respect him, but I just don't see him as fatherly to me. But Ben's grandfather, yes. I'd turn to him for anything and have absolute trust in him.
When Kimberly was five, she had her tonsils out, and the following week an artery started bleeding and she had a second operation in the middle of the night. Both times, Tom and Sherry were there. When Kim came out of recovery, it was after midnight, and I said thank you Tom and ya'll can go home now; she is okay.
He said, "I'm here for Kimberly's mother too." And he took my hand and said a prayer for us both. Unable to say goodnight when he left, I just nodded, about to bawl.
So when Leslie was commenting about that on Sunday, I was thinking of Tom and Kimberly and Sherry and spiritual parents of my own ~ thinking about this grandbaby that Tom and Sherry now have and what kind of grandparents they turned out to be.
It's really funny, because I have to email them every so often and say hey, send me a new picture of that boy! Maybe they are afraid of becoming those kinds of grandparents in waiting rooms who have photo albums in their bags. So this is the latest picture. I laughed with joy over seeing him. His face reveals both his parents and half his grandparents in that little smile. Here we are, 6,000 years removed from perfection, who knows how deteriorated the coding in our DNA is, but we go downhill a lot faster than Methusaleh, for sure, yet look how sweet this little boy is.
His grandfather made him a child-sized podium so he can "Play Kingdom Hall." I am so delighted by this idea I can hardly contain myself. I am thinking of looking for a child-sized brief case to contribute to his "playing out in service" and I would like to bake him a pie to "play get-together." I'd like to send a scaled down name tag from conventions so he could "Play DC."
Bryan is right in his poem. You can't get this kind of family anywhere else. Although I have yet to meet Benjamin in person, he is as real to me as the children in my own congregation, as often in my prayers, and as much joy in my heart. He doesn't know me, but I love him already.
Monday, August 29, 2011
Benjamin
I'm going to write about this little guy tonight. But the picture is on my day computer, so I'm putting him up here now! His Grandpa said it was okay. :)
Sunday, August 28, 2011
School
I am posting this on the Sunday before school starts here in Pennsylvania. We have such long winters that we have to squeeze out every iota of summer as long as we can. In the south, school started mostly last week, but who cares, because you still have weekends of fun for about four more months, then a few months of hoodies, of jackets, for skinny people even coats, but no snow, no salted roadways, no plows at 5:00 a.m. in the eerie glow of daybreak preparing the grids for traffic.
I love school. I wonder sometimes, in thinking about the Israelites, if we will home-school in the new world. How will we educate the resurrected? I don't know. I just couldn't wait for the first day of first grade, and anytime my parents made me stay home sick, I was sick another way. I would lie and say I was okay to get to go to school.
Wasn't just because I wanted out of the house either. I did want to be away from my house as much as possible, but I wanted to be in school if it was open. I was pretty much a hermit with two part time jobs as a teenager just because of that. And I could get lost in a book so easily, so happily.
Still.
In Arkansas, a lot of parents chose to home-school their children, and I admire them. I would never do that. Supposedly I am more qualified than a lot of people, and I was criticized for not doing this, but I never once even thought about home-schooling. If it crossed my mind it was accompanied by hysterical laughter.
Are you kidding me?
The best thing about school was my children had to face the Pledge of Allegiance every day. During the primaries for a presidential election in 2004, my daughter wrote a position paper on why she voted the theocracy ticket rather than the democratic or republican. They learned to get along with a variety of people, some nice, some not, and they learned to keep to a schedule and say no to drugs and peer pressure.
The state of Arkansas requires home-schooled children to take a competency test every spring and then to submit notarized scores to the school board as proof of compliance with the law that children must be educated through age 16. Sadly, some of the members of the congregation were not in compliance with this law. This was called to the attention of the Circuit Overseer, and in several congregations announcements were made that parents should obey Caesar in this too just like paying taxes.
After that meeting, standing in the back of the hall, an elder stated that in this particular congregation, no effort would be made to insure parents actually did so and parents should be guided by their conscience.
My sadness is overwhelming because I can name five children who can not read above fourth grade level, and they are the same ages as my children. My fear is in expectation that a reporter will figure this out and the headlines in the paper will read: Jehovah Witness Cult Children Ignorant
And that is such a reproach. I am grateful everyday it has not happened.
There is a song we sang a few weeks ago, and I have been listening to it in my head as my subconscious jukebox shuffles my music. Here is the line:
Oh what love God's son for us showed, when he left his Father's abode
that with men he might live ...
It doesn't say the Christ for us showed, or Jesus, but God's son. It puts the emphasis both by words and musical accent on the familial relationship between Jehovah and his firstborn son, Jesus. You know that phrase "only-begotten" son? It literally means Jehovah begat Jesus in King James' linguistics. The tense, beget, begat, begotten.
And I had never thought of it quite like the song put it, that it took a lot of love for humans for Jesus to leave his Father's presence. He was very content being there.
A Watchtower a few months ago mentioned that Jesus prayed for Jehovah's will to be done, as he was crucified on the stake, for this burden to be lifted from him. He was not saying I don't want to do this. He was still willing to die, but he didn't want to die branded as a blasphemer to his Father.
He wanted no reproach to his Father's name. He also left us a model to follow closely. My goal this year is to do all things to reflect well on the name Jehovah's Witnesses. I'm determined to be nice to everyone, to control my temper and my tongue, and to not reproach my God.
I love school. I wonder sometimes, in thinking about the Israelites, if we will home-school in the new world. How will we educate the resurrected? I don't know. I just couldn't wait for the first day of first grade, and anytime my parents made me stay home sick, I was sick another way. I would lie and say I was okay to get to go to school.
Wasn't just because I wanted out of the house either. I did want to be away from my house as much as possible, but I wanted to be in school if it was open. I was pretty much a hermit with two part time jobs as a teenager just because of that. And I could get lost in a book so easily, so happily.
Still.
In Arkansas, a lot of parents chose to home-school their children, and I admire them. I would never do that. Supposedly I am more qualified than a lot of people, and I was criticized for not doing this, but I never once even thought about home-schooling. If it crossed my mind it was accompanied by hysterical laughter.
Are you kidding me?
The best thing about school was my children had to face the Pledge of Allegiance every day. During the primaries for a presidential election in 2004, my daughter wrote a position paper on why she voted the theocracy ticket rather than the democratic or republican. They learned to get along with a variety of people, some nice, some not, and they learned to keep to a schedule and say no to drugs and peer pressure.
The state of Arkansas requires home-schooled children to take a competency test every spring and then to submit notarized scores to the school board as proof of compliance with the law that children must be educated through age 16. Sadly, some of the members of the congregation were not in compliance with this law. This was called to the attention of the Circuit Overseer, and in several congregations announcements were made that parents should obey Caesar in this too just like paying taxes.
After that meeting, standing in the back of the hall, an elder stated that in this particular congregation, no effort would be made to insure parents actually did so and parents should be guided by their conscience.
My sadness is overwhelming because I can name five children who can not read above fourth grade level, and they are the same ages as my children. My fear is in expectation that a reporter will figure this out and the headlines in the paper will read: Jehovah Witness Cult Children Ignorant
And that is such a reproach. I am grateful everyday it has not happened.
There is a song we sang a few weeks ago, and I have been listening to it in my head as my subconscious jukebox shuffles my music. Here is the line:
Oh what love God's son for us showed, when he left his Father's abode
that with men he might live ...
It doesn't say the Christ for us showed, or Jesus, but God's son. It puts the emphasis both by words and musical accent on the familial relationship between Jehovah and his firstborn son, Jesus. You know that phrase "only-begotten" son? It literally means Jehovah begat Jesus in King James' linguistics. The tense, beget, begat, begotten.
And I had never thought of it quite like the song put it, that it took a lot of love for humans for Jesus to leave his Father's presence. He was very content being there.
A Watchtower a few months ago mentioned that Jesus prayed for Jehovah's will to be done, as he was crucified on the stake, for this burden to be lifted from him. He was not saying I don't want to do this. He was still willing to die, but he didn't want to die branded as a blasphemer to his Father.
He wanted no reproach to his Father's name. He also left us a model to follow closely. My goal this year is to do all things to reflect well on the name Jehovah's Witnesses. I'm determined to be nice to everyone, to control my temper and my tongue, and to not reproach my God.
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Big Girl Panties
The girls have a phrase: put on your big girl panties and deal with it. I think it means you don't wear diapers anymore so stop whining. So, I wallowed in my mother's notecard for a few days, but it is time, as the saying goes, to put on the big girl panties and deal with it.
(Thank you for indulging me though).
So today, as I headed for my office, I was behind a big white pick-up truck. And I couldn't figure out what was wrong with it, but something was "off". I was trying to see the driver and passenger, and I was looking all over the truck, and I just couldn't figure out why my alarm bell was going off. Sometimes that bell goes off just before something awful, so I try to listen to it. (It evidently does not work for earthquakes).
Then I realized what it was. The tag had a diamond in the middle of it. That's right! It had Arkansas tags, so I got to feel homesick in a nice little highway way.
And I have been thinking of late about Brian. I went to school for three years in Arkansas with Brian. We had a lot in common as we both grew up as Jehovah's Witnesses. He was no longer interested in being one. But I could appreciate his poems in a way no one else could.
I was thinking about Sister Scully and my girls and all of the sisters who have loved ones who have not gotten active in the truth. Or who are actually disfellowshipped. The end is approaching and some of us are anxious over where everyone stands now, will stand soon, what the survivor rate will be.
Also, I was considering my own life, how the whole six years I was out of the truth part of it stayed with me. It might have looked like I was in the world, but in my head, I still used the name Jehovah when I thought about God, still was not afraid of the end of the world or my dying and going to hell.
So I wanted to share this poem (it is a prose poem, does not rhyme, is instead reliant on imagery and language for its poetic elements) for those of you who dare not give up hope. I did change one word, indicated by the **.
There are days
There are days I want to believe so badly. The twinge when
news of war in the Holy Land, or famine, or pestilence,
when Revelation 6 comes screaming back into my head
unbidden and I wonder, I wonder if I was wrong to search
elsewhere for that which transcends, if soon the day will
come when my old family will be the only ones left standing
strong for God in the face of the wild beast with seven heads
and ten horns and on those horns ten diadems and on its
heads blasphemous names . . . See what I mean? Most days I
wonder if I'll ever be free of it, of the songs that insinuate
themselves into rotation on the unconscious jukebox. It's
just wrong to go from I ain't saying she's a golddigger to We
thank you, Jehovah, especially since I only remember half the
chorus now. And yet, I never felt more accepted, more part
of a family. I've never gotten that anywhere else, and really,
I'll never get it again, even if I went back. You can't pray a
lie, Huck said, and you can only live one for so long. But
sometimes I still wonder if I've *messed* up, if I'll wave to my
parents as I die at Armageddon and say "you were right."
This is from Brian's collection published by Louisiana University Press entitled "A Witness in Exile."
(Thank you for indulging me though).
So today, as I headed for my office, I was behind a big white pick-up truck. And I couldn't figure out what was wrong with it, but something was "off". I was trying to see the driver and passenger, and I was looking all over the truck, and I just couldn't figure out why my alarm bell was going off. Sometimes that bell goes off just before something awful, so I try to listen to it. (It evidently does not work for earthquakes).
Then I realized what it was. The tag had a diamond in the middle of it. That's right! It had Arkansas tags, so I got to feel homesick in a nice little highway way.
And I have been thinking of late about Brian. I went to school for three years in Arkansas with Brian. We had a lot in common as we both grew up as Jehovah's Witnesses. He was no longer interested in being one. But I could appreciate his poems in a way no one else could.
I was thinking about Sister Scully and my girls and all of the sisters who have loved ones who have not gotten active in the truth. Or who are actually disfellowshipped. The end is approaching and some of us are anxious over where everyone stands now, will stand soon, what the survivor rate will be.
Also, I was considering my own life, how the whole six years I was out of the truth part of it stayed with me. It might have looked like I was in the world, but in my head, I still used the name Jehovah when I thought about God, still was not afraid of the end of the world or my dying and going to hell.
So I wanted to share this poem (it is a prose poem, does not rhyme, is instead reliant on imagery and language for its poetic elements) for those of you who dare not give up hope. I did change one word, indicated by the **.
There are days
There are days I want to believe so badly. The twinge when
news of war in the Holy Land, or famine, or pestilence,
when Revelation 6 comes screaming back into my head
unbidden and I wonder, I wonder if I was wrong to search
elsewhere for that which transcends, if soon the day will
come when my old family will be the only ones left standing
strong for God in the face of the wild beast with seven heads
and ten horns and on those horns ten diadems and on its
heads blasphemous names . . . See what I mean? Most days I
wonder if I'll ever be free of it, of the songs that insinuate
themselves into rotation on the unconscious jukebox. It's
just wrong to go from I ain't saying she's a golddigger to We
thank you, Jehovah, especially since I only remember half the
chorus now. And yet, I never felt more accepted, more part
of a family. I've never gotten that anywhere else, and really,
I'll never get it again, even if I went back. You can't pray a
lie, Huck said, and you can only live one for so long. But
sometimes I still wonder if I've *messed* up, if I'll wave to my
parents as I die at Armageddon and say "you were right."
This is from Brian's collection published by Louisiana University Press entitled "A Witness in Exile."
Friday, August 26, 2011
I T Y
So many hard words end with the letters ITY. I notice words and letters. I have about 700 fonts loaded on my office computer just because I like artistic letters. Yes, I had a calligraphy set as a teenager.
I am thinking this morning of responsibility. A woman wrote into Dear Abby in today's paper that after a difficult divorce, her grown children still blame her entirely and she has to "walk on eggs" around them in order to continue seeing her grandchildren. What kind of adult children do not understand that it takes two to tango? That no single person on the planet is without flaw, so probably daddy contributed something to mom's angst even if he didn't mean to? And haven't we enough evidence of that? That even when you love someone with your entire being, you still let them down?
I have let my children down so often. I don't know some days how I can keep living with myself. When Kim was in first grade, I was PTA president at her school. A virus ran through the entire population which resulted in 60% absentee rates. In our household, Kim got it first. One night, after a long day of being a mom and president and wife and maid and banker and cook I was worn out. Kim was just sitting like a zombie on this chair in the living room, and I told her to wash up and go to bed. She said she couldn't get up. I said get up or I'll wear your butt out with a belt. Why she believed me, I don't know. I must have said it really mean, because I was not a butt buster ever. I could never aim to hit them on their tender bottoms. I tried a few times, but I would look down at my baby lying there crying, and I could not do it. I don't know how anybody can. I'm not criticizing anyone's parenting. I'm saying I made those little butts in my belly. I have struck out of anger, hit shoulders and slapped them and I'm ashamed of this. But to calmly administer lashes, no. That is my mother, not me. Anyway, Kim must have believed something because she got up, but it looked like it hurt her to get up. She was literally dragging.
The next week, I had the virus, and when I felt how bad it was, how much dragging I had to do, I felt like slime for not being more sympathetic to her. I apologized then and now too. She doesn't remember this. She remembers plenty of other things as there have been so many.
I am sitting here with tears flowing down my cheeks just remembering. I have never been more aware of my imperfections in any aspect of my life quite like I am as a mother. I just want to be perfect for them. I love them so much. Those failures are the hardest to bear. But I don't pretend I've been a perfect mom.
It takes a lot of humility to take that kind of responsibility. Sometimes I think we can be too humble. That was a problem with Abel. He was so quick to make excuses when he showed something inappropriate on his TV. Eventually he apologized, but he jumped on all the reasons it was not his fault first. And I cannot be with someone like that. I am too quick to apologize and admit my mistakes to the point that I become that wife writing Dear Abby. Low self-esteem can masquerade as humility. Balance is the key to so many things.
I am thinking also of charity, and I am still thinking about my mother. A friend emailed me in response to yesterday's blog that she wonders what her daughter might say about her. I would like to point out a major difference. My mother does not treat me the way I want to be treated as her daughter. But she does not treat me the way I want to be treated as her spiritual sister. I would not treat a stray dog on the street the way my mother treats my daughters. She has no charity in her heart for us. I have asked her for economic help one time in my life and I was sorry for it ever after. In 1994 David had to have orthopedic surgery and was off work for five weeks. We had to go on food stamps, but you cannot buy detergent with food stamps.
I asked her for laundry supplies because the girls were in school and I literally had nowhere else to turn. She sent a box of Tide over with my father and a single grocery bag filled with bounce, suave shampoo, a few other things. She never asked us if we needed additional help later, and she was gainfully employed and happily married at the time to a man with a very comfortable station in life.
Yesterday, I was so crushed by her letter and yet so relieved in a way, like the straw broke my camel's back and I give up. Towel thrown. I wanted to write her back, but what left is there to say between us? She has always done every possible thing she can to ignore my facility with language, to ridicule my writing. I thought well what would I say to her if I was going to write her a letter? And that became yesterday's blog. I did not write her, but I sent her a printed copy of the blog. And maybe that was wrong. Not to her especially, but to you. I used this medium to pursue my own agenda.
But, I take responsibility for that and have enough humility to admit that was not a bright shining moment in my life. I trust you have enough charity for me to love me anyway, and that is why you are not my mother, but my sisters. My mother ended her note by saying she did love me. Maybe she does. Maybe she thinks backs to moments like my standing in a little red wagon and feels regret for her choices. But there is also this adage: Insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. She seems incapable of change, of moving forward in our relationship. It has to be her way or the highway. She even said that in my childhood: My way or the highway. See, I got some of that poetry from her.
I pick the highway. I want different results.
I am thinking this morning of responsibility. A woman wrote into Dear Abby in today's paper that after a difficult divorce, her grown children still blame her entirely and she has to "walk on eggs" around them in order to continue seeing her grandchildren. What kind of adult children do not understand that it takes two to tango? That no single person on the planet is without flaw, so probably daddy contributed something to mom's angst even if he didn't mean to? And haven't we enough evidence of that? That even when you love someone with your entire being, you still let them down?
I have let my children down so often. I don't know some days how I can keep living with myself. When Kim was in first grade, I was PTA president at her school. A virus ran through the entire population which resulted in 60% absentee rates. In our household, Kim got it first. One night, after a long day of being a mom and president and wife and maid and banker and cook I was worn out. Kim was just sitting like a zombie on this chair in the living room, and I told her to wash up and go to bed. She said she couldn't get up. I said get up or I'll wear your butt out with a belt. Why she believed me, I don't know. I must have said it really mean, because I was not a butt buster ever. I could never aim to hit them on their tender bottoms. I tried a few times, but I would look down at my baby lying there crying, and I could not do it. I don't know how anybody can. I'm not criticizing anyone's parenting. I'm saying I made those little butts in my belly. I have struck out of anger, hit shoulders and slapped them and I'm ashamed of this. But to calmly administer lashes, no. That is my mother, not me. Anyway, Kim must have believed something because she got up, but it looked like it hurt her to get up. She was literally dragging.
The next week, I had the virus, and when I felt how bad it was, how much dragging I had to do, I felt like slime for not being more sympathetic to her. I apologized then and now too. She doesn't remember this. She remembers plenty of other things as there have been so many.
I am sitting here with tears flowing down my cheeks just remembering. I have never been more aware of my imperfections in any aspect of my life quite like I am as a mother. I just want to be perfect for them. I love them so much. Those failures are the hardest to bear. But I don't pretend I've been a perfect mom.
It takes a lot of humility to take that kind of responsibility. Sometimes I think we can be too humble. That was a problem with Abel. He was so quick to make excuses when he showed something inappropriate on his TV. Eventually he apologized, but he jumped on all the reasons it was not his fault first. And I cannot be with someone like that. I am too quick to apologize and admit my mistakes to the point that I become that wife writing Dear Abby. Low self-esteem can masquerade as humility. Balance is the key to so many things.
I am thinking also of charity, and I am still thinking about my mother. A friend emailed me in response to yesterday's blog that she wonders what her daughter might say about her. I would like to point out a major difference. My mother does not treat me the way I want to be treated as her daughter. But she does not treat me the way I want to be treated as her spiritual sister. I would not treat a stray dog on the street the way my mother treats my daughters. She has no charity in her heart for us. I have asked her for economic help one time in my life and I was sorry for it ever after. In 1994 David had to have orthopedic surgery and was off work for five weeks. We had to go on food stamps, but you cannot buy detergent with food stamps.
I asked her for laundry supplies because the girls were in school and I literally had nowhere else to turn. She sent a box of Tide over with my father and a single grocery bag filled with bounce, suave shampoo, a few other things. She never asked us if we needed additional help later, and she was gainfully employed and happily married at the time to a man with a very comfortable station in life.
Yesterday, I was so crushed by her letter and yet so relieved in a way, like the straw broke my camel's back and I give up. Towel thrown. I wanted to write her back, but what left is there to say between us? She has always done every possible thing she can to ignore my facility with language, to ridicule my writing. I thought well what would I say to her if I was going to write her a letter? And that became yesterday's blog. I did not write her, but I sent her a printed copy of the blog. And maybe that was wrong. Not to her especially, but to you. I used this medium to pursue my own agenda.
But, I take responsibility for that and have enough humility to admit that was not a bright shining moment in my life. I trust you have enough charity for me to love me anyway, and that is why you are not my mother, but my sisters. My mother ended her note by saying she did love me. Maybe she does. Maybe she thinks backs to moments like my standing in a little red wagon and feels regret for her choices. But there is also this adage: Insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. She seems incapable of change, of moving forward in our relationship. It has to be her way or the highway. She even said that in my childhood: My way or the highway. See, I got some of that poetry from her.
I pick the highway. I want different results.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Mother's Day
My mother got baptized three months after I did. In 1986 she was disfellowshipped. She left my father and remarried without proving that my father had broken their vows. Of course, for a few years before that, she slowly fell out of the truth. It isn't falling. I think it should be called sliding out of the truth.
I do not have a picture of her on my computer to post. She is beautiful. She was in the Miss New Mexico pageant in 1958 and was a runner-up. She was six feet tall and had blonde hair, green eyes. When I was about 11 she got sick (gall bladder) and lost a lot of weight and then she was a knock out again.
She got reinstated in 2007 just before we moved from Arkansas to Pennsylvania. My former mother-in-law had grandchildren from her daughter, and she had very little interest in my daughters. All I can say is my children did not win the grandmother lottery.
The last time I spoke to her on the phone was while we were in Reading for the DC in 2010. So after a year, I thought I should check on her. Every time we interact I am crushed. But I have this long history of trying.
Her phone was no longer in service. Nor was her cell phone working. I got a little uptight and googled the obituary page for her local newspaper. She was not there, for which I am thankful.
I'm pretty sure my brother would not bother to tell me if that happened.
So I sent my mother a card like a doofus. I sent her a picture of Carly and Kimberly at the DC. I told her I had not been able to contact her.
She didn't reply right away. Nearly a month later I got a generic card that read:
Cherri -
Got your card ~ my new cell number is 940-xxx-xxxx. I disconnected my home phone because it was just an extra expense I didn't need. Cherri the past is the past. Everybody has to answer for their own doings so I guess we all have to stand before Jehovah for what we do. I'm sorry we can't get along. Maybe someday we can. We just don't see eye to eye on things. Let's just leave it at that. I am happy for you on your plans to possibly go to Saipan in 2013. Hope it all works out for you. I am glad the girls are well ~ just know Cherri that I do love you very much.
Mom
She's right that we don't see eye to eye. When I was a baby, she went back to work and left me with my father. He was a raving alcoholic. She told me stories when I was older how she would come home and I'd have diaper rash from being in a crappy diaper in my crib for five or six hours while my father was passed out on the couch. When I got older, I could climb out of the crib, and she said I would drink his beer, his coffee, whatever was left laying around because I was hungry and thirsty. Her most horrifying story is coming home and the man is passed out as usual and I have pulled my little red wagon up to the stove to reach the pot that is burning up with what might be chicken noodle soup left in the pan and she yells at me, "Baby no!" and I turn quickly to look at her and unbalance in the wagon and fall down. I cry.
She is so relieved she didn't show up a split second later when I would have pulled the pan down into my face.
Thanks Dad. All through my childhood I thought what a dog my father was for this. Then I had my own two little girls, and I could barely leave them with anybody. I was a total control freak on the girls because of these stories. I did not want the cycle to continue. But I would look at my babies and think how did my mother continue to go to work everyday leaving me in that situation?
She says she didn't know what else to do. And there were some days when the man didn't get drunk and I was fine when she got home. She prayed for those days, is what she told me when I was a mother myself.
So yeah, I guess we don't see eye to eye on what it means to be a mother for sure.
I don't think my eye is a standard to go by. I think everybody should be trying to see by Jehovah's standards and not what their eye tells them.
She also made me quit school my senior year. Now, I love school more than anything except Jehovah and the truth and my own two daughters. I wasn't as pretty as she was that I was going to find a man to take care of me and pay my bills. She did a lot better the second time around; I can say that much for her.
Nothing has ever been her fault. She didn't know what else to do. She did the best she could. And we are a supreme disappointment to her. I care about school and she cares about things. She bought me so many pretty clothes. I thought she loved me and that was her way to show it. I grew up and figured out she just wanted me to look good because as her daughter I represented her, was an extension of her.
Now, my daughters and I are fat. And I take full responsibility for that. All my life I've been obsessed with having a full cupboard. She told me my dad (who was awaiting disability from SSI in my infancy) had no money and we lived on water gravy and biscuits when I was little. She couldn't work and breast feed, so I went on carnation milk with vitamin drops and sometimes they couldn't afford the vitamin drops.
She wonders why I have food issues. We are such a disappointment to her. We don't see eye-to-eye and we should just leave it at that. I can't decide if that means she doesn't want any future contact with us or not.
The girls do not want.
She did give me her phone number.
I have not called. I do not think I will. I know. She is not only my mother, but my spiritual sister. Wouldn't I forgive anyone of you for hurting me? I would have to if I want Jehovah to forgive me my many trespasses.
I can do that. But I cannot go stand in line for anymore either.
I do not have a picture of her on my computer to post. She is beautiful. She was in the Miss New Mexico pageant in 1958 and was a runner-up. She was six feet tall and had blonde hair, green eyes. When I was about 11 she got sick (gall bladder) and lost a lot of weight and then she was a knock out again.
She got reinstated in 2007 just before we moved from Arkansas to Pennsylvania. My former mother-in-law had grandchildren from her daughter, and she had very little interest in my daughters. All I can say is my children did not win the grandmother lottery.
The last time I spoke to her on the phone was while we were in Reading for the DC in 2010. So after a year, I thought I should check on her. Every time we interact I am crushed. But I have this long history of trying.
Her phone was no longer in service. Nor was her cell phone working. I got a little uptight and googled the obituary page for her local newspaper. She was not there, for which I am thankful.
I'm pretty sure my brother would not bother to tell me if that happened.
So I sent my mother a card like a doofus. I sent her a picture of Carly and Kimberly at the DC. I told her I had not been able to contact her.
She didn't reply right away. Nearly a month later I got a generic card that read:
Cherri -
Got your card ~ my new cell number is 940-xxx-xxxx. I disconnected my home phone because it was just an extra expense I didn't need. Cherri the past is the past. Everybody has to answer for their own doings so I guess we all have to stand before Jehovah for what we do. I'm sorry we can't get along. Maybe someday we can. We just don't see eye to eye on things. Let's just leave it at that. I am happy for you on your plans to possibly go to Saipan in 2013. Hope it all works out for you. I am glad the girls are well ~ just know Cherri that I do love you very much.
Mom
She's right that we don't see eye to eye. When I was a baby, she went back to work and left me with my father. He was a raving alcoholic. She told me stories when I was older how she would come home and I'd have diaper rash from being in a crappy diaper in my crib for five or six hours while my father was passed out on the couch. When I got older, I could climb out of the crib, and she said I would drink his beer, his coffee, whatever was left laying around because I was hungry and thirsty. Her most horrifying story is coming home and the man is passed out as usual and I have pulled my little red wagon up to the stove to reach the pot that is burning up with what might be chicken noodle soup left in the pan and she yells at me, "Baby no!" and I turn quickly to look at her and unbalance in the wagon and fall down. I cry.
She is so relieved she didn't show up a split second later when I would have pulled the pan down into my face.
Thanks Dad. All through my childhood I thought what a dog my father was for this. Then I had my own two little girls, and I could barely leave them with anybody. I was a total control freak on the girls because of these stories. I did not want the cycle to continue. But I would look at my babies and think how did my mother continue to go to work everyday leaving me in that situation?
She says she didn't know what else to do. And there were some days when the man didn't get drunk and I was fine when she got home. She prayed for those days, is what she told me when I was a mother myself.
So yeah, I guess we don't see eye to eye on what it means to be a mother for sure.
I don't think my eye is a standard to go by. I think everybody should be trying to see by Jehovah's standards and not what their eye tells them.
She also made me quit school my senior year. Now, I love school more than anything except Jehovah and the truth and my own two daughters. I wasn't as pretty as she was that I was going to find a man to take care of me and pay my bills. She did a lot better the second time around; I can say that much for her.
Nothing has ever been her fault. She didn't know what else to do. She did the best she could. And we are a supreme disappointment to her. I care about school and she cares about things. She bought me so many pretty clothes. I thought she loved me and that was her way to show it. I grew up and figured out she just wanted me to look good because as her daughter I represented her, was an extension of her.
Now, my daughters and I are fat. And I take full responsibility for that. All my life I've been obsessed with having a full cupboard. She told me my dad (who was awaiting disability from SSI in my infancy) had no money and we lived on water gravy and biscuits when I was little. She couldn't work and breast feed, so I went on carnation milk with vitamin drops and sometimes they couldn't afford the vitamin drops.
She wonders why I have food issues. We are such a disappointment to her. We don't see eye-to-eye and we should just leave it at that. I can't decide if that means she doesn't want any future contact with us or not.
The girls do not want.
She did give me her phone number.
I have not called. I do not think I will. I know. She is not only my mother, but my spiritual sister. Wouldn't I forgive anyone of you for hurting me? I would have to if I want Jehovah to forgive me my many trespasses.
I can do that. But I cannot go stand in line for anymore either.
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