Oddly, when the guy who wrote Galatians was listing the fruits of the spirit, he left out wine. Or more accurately, empty bottles of wine. Weird.
Weird because tonight after everyone had gone home, all that remained of my bible study was an empty bottle of wine and a picked-at crust of bread. A few lip-marked glasses and some unused tea cups. And yet, surely the spirit was here. That was the Spirit, wasn't it?
I won't lie - I am not altogether clear on the answer. I would like it to have been the Spirit. Jesus even. Hell, I'd even take the Father, up close and personal if that's on offer. But for sure, at least one tine of the Trinity would be nice. The promise is that when a few of us get together - us being Jesus-inviters - Jesus shows up too. Except that he's awfully quiet and sounds a lot like my own preferences and loud thinking most times.
I think I said somewhere before that my surest knowing that what I'm hearing is God's whisper is when what I'm hearing is New and Good News. New Good News. New Good News that leaves me wanting to love people. I don't think I said that part before but since we're here, let's add that part too.
And tonight, there was not a lot new. No GOOD NEWS! Just the familiar... oh yeah, that is good news. Could be the Spirit, could be last night's talk radio. Whatever it was, I remained unmoved in my unlove of a few, and my piss-poor love of the many.
Regardless though, we sat together and broke bread and poured wine and confessed sin and received forgiveness and read the Word and remembered together that there is Light in all this Darkness and maybe even remembered that the Darkness does not overcome the Light. Or at least were willing to hope so. At the end of it all, all that remained was the bottle poured out.
And that will have to be my evidence for now.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Saturday, September 24, 2011
F*ck Me
Tonight is my 20th Grad Reunion and I have woken up this morning with a giant Nobody Likes Me growing right in the middle of my brain.
I had felt it coming on the last few days, but I'm not a teenager anymore and know these things are easily treated with a little healthy self-talk, some affirming connections and of course, gratitude. I applied all three liberally and went to bed last night still feeling a bit off, but certain that sleep and a new day would bring restored peace.
Wrong-O Buck-O.
It's worse than ever. I'm pretty sure the friends I spent the evening with only invited me because they had to - they've started running together every Monday morning which is obviously their way of slowing easing me out of the circle. It goes without saying that if we were truly friends they would know never to mention running to me... No friends (and by "no friends", I mean "neither of the two I took the time to call and whom I would enjoy") can meet me early tonight to make me feel better about showing up at all because one is driving from White Rock after spending the day in Richmond and the other has to pick her husband up from work downtown before running to Lions Bay and back - likely stories both. Probably they're going to a cool kids party first that I wasn't invited to...
The thing is, I know I'm mostly being ridiculous. But there is the small part of me that is crying on the couch while I type this that isn't sure this is ridiculous at all. That part of me is feeling lonely, and fairly convinced that living with my flaws on the outside as often as I do has been a terrible mistake.
To be sure, I don't think that keeping all those flaws tucked away on the inside (as I assume those other un-flawed-looking people must do, assured as I am that all of humanity is flawed) is a wise or prudent thing to do, and in my case, probably not even possible. And yet, there are days when knowing that all my flaws are so well-known by so many is just too hard to live with - I prefer the version of my life where everyone around me is astounded by my awesomeness and yet loves being around me because I'm so frikkin' humble about said awesomeness.
Oh well. Chances are this will clear up in a few days and in the meantime, I'm just going to have to take a few extra minutes tonight to cover up the Nobody Likes Me with some of my better I'm Good! Concealer and hope for the best. I'll let you know how it goes.
I had felt it coming on the last few days, but I'm not a teenager anymore and know these things are easily treated with a little healthy self-talk, some affirming connections and of course, gratitude. I applied all three liberally and went to bed last night still feeling a bit off, but certain that sleep and a new day would bring restored peace.
Wrong-O Buck-O.
It's worse than ever. I'm pretty sure the friends I spent the evening with only invited me because they had to - they've started running together every Monday morning which is obviously their way of slowing easing me out of the circle. It goes without saying that if we were truly friends they would know never to mention running to me... No friends (and by "no friends", I mean "neither of the two I took the time to call and whom I would enjoy") can meet me early tonight to make me feel better about showing up at all because one is driving from White Rock after spending the day in Richmond and the other has to pick her husband up from work downtown before running to Lions Bay and back - likely stories both. Probably they're going to a cool kids party first that I wasn't invited to...
The thing is, I know I'm mostly being ridiculous. But there is the small part of me that is crying on the couch while I type this that isn't sure this is ridiculous at all. That part of me is feeling lonely, and fairly convinced that living with my flaws on the outside as often as I do has been a terrible mistake.
To be sure, I don't think that keeping all those flaws tucked away on the inside (as I assume those other un-flawed-looking people must do, assured as I am that all of humanity is flawed) is a wise or prudent thing to do, and in my case, probably not even possible. And yet, there are days when knowing that all my flaws are so well-known by so many is just too hard to live with - I prefer the version of my life where everyone around me is astounded by my awesomeness and yet loves being around me because I'm so frikkin' humble about said awesomeness.
Oh well. Chances are this will clear up in a few days and in the meantime, I'm just going to have to take a few extra minutes tonight to cover up the Nobody Likes Me with some of my better I'm Good! Concealer and hope for the best. I'll let you know how it goes.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
The Way You Should Go
And by "you", of course, I mean Me.
At some point a person might start to believe there is just One Way To Go. That person might spend some (or most) of his or her youth trying to "discern" That Way, might think that if they were to pray long enough, or fast often enough, or just have really kick-ass morning devotions enough, or hell, even move far away enough to serve the poor enough, that The Way might make itself known.
Eventually, if Grace and Mercy show up as they are wont to do, that person will figure out that when Jesus said that thing about being The Way, that was kind of all there was to it. The rest is details.
Sadly, that same person might, from time to time, forget that part.
That person might start reading great writers, or watching great lives, or hearing great words and might start to wonder if maybe there isn't a better way to do The Way than the way they're doing it. They might start to add several ways to the way they've been doing things to make their own way look a little more Right Way. But if they do that for too long that they eventually find themselves sure that there is No Way At All.
But there is A Way and I think I'm glad that this person remembered that fixing their eyes on The Way is the best way.
Maybe my only way.
At some point a person might start to believe there is just One Way To Go. That person might spend some (or most) of his or her youth trying to "discern" That Way, might think that if they were to pray long enough, or fast often enough, or just have really kick-ass morning devotions enough, or hell, even move far away enough to serve the poor enough, that The Way might make itself known.
Eventually, if Grace and Mercy show up as they are wont to do, that person will figure out that when Jesus said that thing about being The Way, that was kind of all there was to it. The rest is details.
Sadly, that same person might, from time to time, forget that part.
That person might start reading great writers, or watching great lives, or hearing great words and might start to wonder if maybe there isn't a better way to do The Way than the way they're doing it. They might start to add several ways to the way they've been doing things to make their own way look a little more Right Way. But if they do that for too long that they eventually find themselves sure that there is No Way At All.
But there is A Way and I think I'm glad that this person remembered that fixing their eyes on The Way is the best way.
Maybe my only way.
Sunday, September 18, 2011
What's On The Flip Side?
Our car got creamed yesterday. Just sitting there, minding its own business in front of the barber shop, and BOOM! smush-a-rama. The back quarter of it is really, really wrecked. Happily SJ and the boy were tucked inside of said barber shop and were able to watch it all happen from a distance. Happier still, two very credible, We're Friends With Police People types also witnessed it all and took down the license plate number of the very large truck that kept on driving.
It looks pretty terrible. It's probably going to be a huge hassle to repair, if it even can be repaired. And yet both Scott and I found ourselves very at rest with the whole thing. Like we could just check one more box off the List of Shit We'll Deal With In 2011. Almost a relief, really. There aren't that many days left in the year relatively speaking - surely we're almost done?
What I find odd is the space between this Life That Is Actually Happening and the Life That I Think Should Start Soon. I could actually be convinced that the Car Smush is just a twist in plot of a movie playing on TV, while my real car is just fine in that other life I'm meant to be living. I realize typing this, that this may reveal a bit more of my crazy than is wise.
A friend asked if this introspection is typical of the "new year" that is September and indeed it is. Every summer we find ourselves in moments where we taste rest and contentment. We begin wonder if we ought to be doing something differently more often to live in that rest and contentment more full time. And every September, the lastest version of Same Old Same Old starts up again with all its familiar sore spots and resentments and boredoms and vanities and we realize, This Is It. Again.
Tips?
It looks pretty terrible. It's probably going to be a huge hassle to repair, if it even can be repaired. And yet both Scott and I found ourselves very at rest with the whole thing. Like we could just check one more box off the List of Shit We'll Deal With In 2011. Almost a relief, really. There aren't that many days left in the year relatively speaking - surely we're almost done?
What I find odd is the space between this Life That Is Actually Happening and the Life That I Think Should Start Soon. I could actually be convinced that the Car Smush is just a twist in plot of a movie playing on TV, while my real car is just fine in that other life I'm meant to be living. I realize typing this, that this may reveal a bit more of my crazy than is wise.
A friend asked if this introspection is typical of the "new year" that is September and indeed it is. Every summer we find ourselves in moments where we taste rest and contentment. We begin wonder if we ought to be doing something differently more often to live in that rest and contentment more full time. And every September, the lastest version of Same Old Same Old starts up again with all its familiar sore spots and resentments and boredoms and vanities and we realize, This Is It. Again.
Tips?
Friday, September 16, 2011
Quit It!
These Simple Mom people are killing me. I may have to quit them soon.
This morning's post was about - well, I don't even know what it was about. I just know that reading it left me feeling like shit.
The difficulty is that it isn't the kind of bad feeling where I'm annoyed because the content is so terribly wrong or the writing is so heart-breakingly poor. It's the kind of bad feeling where I find myself wondering if I'm on the entirely wrong road. The kind where I start to think maybe God is in heaven looking at the map, then looking back at me, and wondering if maybe he overestimated me afterall: "Seriously? She thought that was north?"
To be honest, I mostly don't think that God works this way. I think God has read most of the same parenting books I have and really tries to use positive messaging to nudge us about. Shame and fear, as God well knows after all those debacles of the Old Testament, aren't effective in moving people in they way they should go. But are low-grade nausea and a hunger to do something different on the list too?
I don't know. I do know this - I'm not settled these days and it's not clear to me where settledness lies. Reading other people's journeys makes me itchier still to get moving, but alas, it's my own journey I must take. I wonder if there's a back up copy of the map God's looking at that I could borrow...
This morning's post was about - well, I don't even know what it was about. I just know that reading it left me feeling like shit.
The difficulty is that it isn't the kind of bad feeling where I'm annoyed because the content is so terribly wrong or the writing is so heart-breakingly poor. It's the kind of bad feeling where I find myself wondering if I'm on the entirely wrong road. The kind where I start to think maybe God is in heaven looking at the map, then looking back at me, and wondering if maybe he overestimated me afterall: "Seriously? She thought that was north?"
To be honest, I mostly don't think that God works this way. I think God has read most of the same parenting books I have and really tries to use positive messaging to nudge us about. Shame and fear, as God well knows after all those debacles of the Old Testament, aren't effective in moving people in they way they should go. But are low-grade nausea and a hunger to do something different on the list too?
I don't know. I do know this - I'm not settled these days and it's not clear to me where settledness lies. Reading other people's journeys makes me itchier still to get moving, but alas, it's my own journey I must take. I wonder if there's a back up copy of the map God's looking at that I could borrow...
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Justice Pesto
I blame Heidi.
First she wondered if I had spent any time cruising Simple Mom. Then she posted a picture of her award-winning jam.
In the last four weeks I have started moisturizing with coconut oil, cleansing with combinations of olive, almond and castor oils, exfoliating with lemons and sugar, masking in egg yolks and yogurt and washing all of us with Dr. Bronner's Castille Soap. I figure I've cut our chemical lode in half and our cleaning/soaping/face restoration budget by two-thirds. My skin is happy, and now I have something to do with the egg yolks left-over from pavlova making.
However, getting in touch with my inner hippie (hippy? really? spelling is an odd game sometimes) did not stop at homemade deoderant (coconut oil, cornstarch and baking soda). It moved into the kitchen. First I tried home-made yogurt in the crockpot (going to try making vanilla next time and I'm accepting tips on how to make it thicker). Next I started making granola.
And then I decided to make the pesto.
This year we planted five basil plants. Our north-west bed just loves to grow tomatoes and basil and who am I to stop it? The field of green goodness looks quite You're Such A Good Gardner all summer and I do enjoy tossing some fresh basil onto pizzas and into dips now and again. But come early September, that basil needs to be harvested and in my mind there is no higher purpose for basil than pesto. So I grab the neighbour's food processor and a swack of pine nuts, my Costco-sized jar of minced garlic and a block of parmesan and I pesto.
Pestoing requires picking basil. A lot of basil. For the first 6 or 7 minutes of basil picking, I'm quite zen about the whole thing. I delight in the sweet smell, the buzz of bees in the buds, the abundance of it all. Somewhere around the 8 minutes mark, I consider complaining. It's getting boring, and none of the leaves look good any more. And is this basil kind of bitter? Quickly, I drag my broken mind back to the delight of toiling on my own land and try to focus on the softly bending tendrils of green. At minute 8 and a half, I'm back to wondering why our beds are so low, and how I'll ever get the green out from under my fingernails. Around minute 9, I remind myself that for so many, this is the work that feeds families and that it is honourable work and that I could busy my brain praying for the migrant farmers who suffer such terrible injustice picking the food I underpay for... but then at minute 10, my prayer is cut-off by my own voice yelling at the boy, "For f*ck's sake!! Why would you throw dirt into my bowl of basil!!! I didn't want to have to wash and dry this!!"*
At minute 10 and a half, the husband suggests maybe I have enough basil.
In I go with my easily-16-cups of basil. I whir, I grate, I salt, I season.... I gently spoon my vibrant green sauce into my boiled and readied jars. All four of them. All four half-pint jars.
Yep - 4 cups of pesto.
Good people would share. Actually, I did share one jar with the neighbour who shared her food processor. But the other three jars? In *my* freezer. For *my* chicken/halibut/noodles.
I'm not sure this is the outcome those wonderful SimpleMom people intend when they encourage us to live more simply. I'm almost certain this wasn't what Heidi intended when she innocently photographed her raspberry jam. But on the other hand, I do kind of like remembering every time we break into our $15 dollar jar of pesto, that nothing is as simple as I would like it to be and that we do really have an abundance of many things, not just basil, and that when the abundance is condensed, it may seem too small.
But it's not. It's more than enough. Again.
*I figure it's been growing in my organic garden all summer. I know it's not sprayed and washing and drying takes SOOOOooo long. Besides, it's just us eating it and I can assure you, we've eaten far worse than unwashed organic basil.
First she wondered if I had spent any time cruising Simple Mom. Then she posted a picture of her award-winning jam.
In the last four weeks I have started moisturizing with coconut oil, cleansing with combinations of olive, almond and castor oils, exfoliating with lemons and sugar, masking in egg yolks and yogurt and washing all of us with Dr. Bronner's Castille Soap. I figure I've cut our chemical lode in half and our cleaning/soaping/face restoration budget by two-thirds. My skin is happy, and now I have something to do with the egg yolks left-over from pavlova making.
However, getting in touch with my inner hippie (hippy? really? spelling is an odd game sometimes) did not stop at homemade deoderant (coconut oil, cornstarch and baking soda). It moved into the kitchen. First I tried home-made yogurt in the crockpot (going to try making vanilla next time and I'm accepting tips on how to make it thicker). Next I started making granola.
And then I decided to make the pesto.
This year we planted five basil plants. Our north-west bed just loves to grow tomatoes and basil and who am I to stop it? The field of green goodness looks quite You're Such A Good Gardner all summer and I do enjoy tossing some fresh basil onto pizzas and into dips now and again. But come early September, that basil needs to be harvested and in my mind there is no higher purpose for basil than pesto. So I grab the neighbour's food processor and a swack of pine nuts, my Costco-sized jar of minced garlic and a block of parmesan and I pesto.
Pestoing requires picking basil. A lot of basil. For the first 6 or 7 minutes of basil picking, I'm quite zen about the whole thing. I delight in the sweet smell, the buzz of bees in the buds, the abundance of it all. Somewhere around the 8 minutes mark, I consider complaining. It's getting boring, and none of the leaves look good any more. And is this basil kind of bitter? Quickly, I drag my broken mind back to the delight of toiling on my own land and try to focus on the softly bending tendrils of green. At minute 8 and a half, I'm back to wondering why our beds are so low, and how I'll ever get the green out from under my fingernails. Around minute 9, I remind myself that for so many, this is the work that feeds families and that it is honourable work and that I could busy my brain praying for the migrant farmers who suffer such terrible injustice picking the food I underpay for... but then at minute 10, my prayer is cut-off by my own voice yelling at the boy, "For f*ck's sake!! Why would you throw dirt into my bowl of basil!!! I didn't want to have to wash and dry this!!"*
At minute 10 and a half, the husband suggests maybe I have enough basil.
In I go with my easily-16-cups of basil. I whir, I grate, I salt, I season.... I gently spoon my vibrant green sauce into my boiled and readied jars. All four of them. All four half-pint jars.
Yep - 4 cups of pesto.
Good people would share. Actually, I did share one jar with the neighbour who shared her food processor. But the other three jars? In *my* freezer. For *my* chicken/halibut/noodles.
I'm not sure this is the outcome those wonderful SimpleMom people intend when they encourage us to live more simply. I'm almost certain this wasn't what Heidi intended when she innocently photographed her raspberry jam. But on the other hand, I do kind of like remembering every time we break into our $15 dollar jar of pesto, that nothing is as simple as I would like it to be and that we do really have an abundance of many things, not just basil, and that when the abundance is condensed, it may seem too small.
But it's not. It's more than enough. Again.
*I figure it's been growing in my organic garden all summer. I know it's not sprayed and washing and drying takes SOOOOooo long. Besides, it's just us eating it and I can assure you, we've eaten far worse than unwashed organic basil.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Best. So?
I am really trying to remember that people are doing their best.
I mean, except for me. For the most part, I'd say I'm doing about 78% of my best. Sometimes more, sometimes less, but I figure it averages out to a mid-B grade.
But everyone else out there - the ones doing it wrong, doing it slowly, doing it backwards, doing it gratingly poorly - they're really doing their best I think. And if they're not doing their best, they're probably not sub-performing just to wreck my day. Probably they're just over-tired or underpaid or recently off the phone with a life partner who chose the wrong bread.
Maybe one or two are out to get me.
But most of the world? Just doing their best.
Too bad this doesn't make me any less annoyed with them all.
I mean, except for me. For the most part, I'd say I'm doing about 78% of my best. Sometimes more, sometimes less, but I figure it averages out to a mid-B grade.
But everyone else out there - the ones doing it wrong, doing it slowly, doing it backwards, doing it gratingly poorly - they're really doing their best I think. And if they're not doing their best, they're probably not sub-performing just to wreck my day. Probably they're just over-tired or underpaid or recently off the phone with a life partner who chose the wrong bread.
Maybe one or two are out to get me.
But most of the world? Just doing their best.
Too bad this doesn't make me any less annoyed with them all.
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
God and the Cops Need Better PR
Last week, a family in Sparwood, BC woke up and soon realized that one of their eight children was missing. Within hours, the police had issued an Amber Alert announcing young Kienan's absence and the likelihood that he was with a bad guy. A bad guy with a history of creating lairs set up for doing grievous harm to young children and even trying to take them from their homes from time to time. Finally, this broken man had succeeded and was gone with the Hebert's three-year-old. It was the description of this boy last being seen with three blankets in Scooby-Doo boxers that broke me.
The siren whine of the Amber Alert that played every 20 minutes or so on the radio stations I listen to was my call to prayer. A wordless moan in the direction of the heavens that I hope was heard as "FOR GOD'S SAKE! DO SOMETHING!" We knew the dark things that lurked in the bad guy's heart and we knew that little boy didn't talk and we surely knew he was afraid and wanted him mum and wanted to be home and WHY WASN'T GOD DOING SOMETHING?!
At 3am Sunday morning, sweet Kienan was found in his living room. The bad guy had phoned the police and told them he'd be there. The police guy said later that morning that this was "unprecedented" and a "small miracle". A day or so later, the bad guy was captured by the good guys in the woods of Alberta, hanging out in a cabin at a Bible Camp.
Radio talk show hosts and I have this in common: despite the amazingness of all that happened - the boy being returned whole, the bad guy being caught, all those "small miracles" - we are not satisfied.
If radio folk are to be believed (and possibly the TV and newspaper and internet people too - I just haven't looked), the police still screwed this up. Despite doing things in such a way that the child is home and the bad guy is in jail, the police are still wrong. Questions and second guessing abounds and there is certainty that it could have and should have been done better. That it was resolved in less than a week matters not. Those cops suck and probably suck on purpose. Because they're jerks. I'm pretty sure that's what we're meant to believe.
If I am to be believed, God was silent. Absent. Worse than useless. I could live with the Bad Thing Happening (I think that was almost all I wrote about all spring, my okayness with Bad and Hard), but I could not live with the Bad Thing Happening To That Boy. While I, in most things, truly, in my heart, believe that the promise is not of Protection but of Presence, in this case, Presence was inadequate. I needed Protection for this boy and God was clearly witholding it. And I said so outloud. Internet outloud that is. And people were confused and wondered how I could possibly be irked with God when there were so many other better bad guys out there to blame.
The radio people and I share this dilemma. Before then end of the story is known, our fears are winning and we lose sight of what is Good. In fairness, the story has often ended badly and our fears are not unfounded: sadly several police officers have made terrible mistakes here in BC in the last years, and sadly, it would seem that God doesn't always return children to their mothers. Our expectation that our fears would be realized again was not silly. But it was not fair or right.
Because now that the end is known, this time, the police did do it right. They really, truly did. I'm not altogether clear what better outcome could be expected. And if you're a person who prayed, then surely you're believing that God did it right too. God answered all those prayers.
But just like the radio people just can't cut those cops any slack, I just can't give God the credit on this one. I just can't find space to say God acted on our requests.
Because if God saved Kienan, then how do I keep on loving a God who doesn't save them all?
My tandemness with the radio people ends here. I don't suppose any of them are freaking out about their entire life's foundation.
The only okay part is that my mystery basket appears to be big enough to hold this one too. I can find a way to Praise Him Still, despite not understanding how the fuck this all works. But it's a tough one and I can tell it's going to haunt me for a while.
Thank God Kienan's home. I do.
The siren whine of the Amber Alert that played every 20 minutes or so on the radio stations I listen to was my call to prayer. A wordless moan in the direction of the heavens that I hope was heard as "FOR GOD'S SAKE! DO SOMETHING!" We knew the dark things that lurked in the bad guy's heart and we knew that little boy didn't talk and we surely knew he was afraid and wanted him mum and wanted to be home and WHY WASN'T GOD DOING SOMETHING?!
At 3am Sunday morning, sweet Kienan was found in his living room. The bad guy had phoned the police and told them he'd be there. The police guy said later that morning that this was "unprecedented" and a "small miracle". A day or so later, the bad guy was captured by the good guys in the woods of Alberta, hanging out in a cabin at a Bible Camp.
Radio talk show hosts and I have this in common: despite the amazingness of all that happened - the boy being returned whole, the bad guy being caught, all those "small miracles" - we are not satisfied.
If radio folk are to be believed (and possibly the TV and newspaper and internet people too - I just haven't looked), the police still screwed this up. Despite doing things in such a way that the child is home and the bad guy is in jail, the police are still wrong. Questions and second guessing abounds and there is certainty that it could have and should have been done better. That it was resolved in less than a week matters not. Those cops suck and probably suck on purpose. Because they're jerks. I'm pretty sure that's what we're meant to believe.
If I am to be believed, God was silent. Absent. Worse than useless. I could live with the Bad Thing Happening (I think that was almost all I wrote about all spring, my okayness with Bad and Hard), but I could not live with the Bad Thing Happening To That Boy. While I, in most things, truly, in my heart, believe that the promise is not of Protection but of Presence, in this case, Presence was inadequate. I needed Protection for this boy and God was clearly witholding it. And I said so outloud. Internet outloud that is. And people were confused and wondered how I could possibly be irked with God when there were so many other better bad guys out there to blame.
The radio people and I share this dilemma. Before then end of the story is known, our fears are winning and we lose sight of what is Good. In fairness, the story has often ended badly and our fears are not unfounded: sadly several police officers have made terrible mistakes here in BC in the last years, and sadly, it would seem that God doesn't always return children to their mothers. Our expectation that our fears would be realized again was not silly. But it was not fair or right.
Because now that the end is known, this time, the police did do it right. They really, truly did. I'm not altogether clear what better outcome could be expected. And if you're a person who prayed, then surely you're believing that God did it right too. God answered all those prayers.
But just like the radio people just can't cut those cops any slack, I just can't give God the credit on this one. I just can't find space to say God acted on our requests.
Because if God saved Kienan, then how do I keep on loving a God who doesn't save them all?
My tandemness with the radio people ends here. I don't suppose any of them are freaking out about their entire life's foundation.
The only okay part is that my mystery basket appears to be big enough to hold this one too. I can find a way to Praise Him Still, despite not understanding how the fuck this all works. But it's a tough one and I can tell it's going to haunt me for a while.
Thank God Kienan's home. I do.
Monday, September 12, 2011
Next
I want this post to be wry and funny, but it won't be. Not that it will be bleak - I don't think it will be - but I think I don't have more than the basics in me tonight.
And the basics are, my girl is all grown. Okay, well not grown. But growin'. She preschooled today and in so doing, waved a fond farewell to her Early Years with just us J's and entered into her School Years where there will be teachers and friends and little girls who cry because "she doesn't speak English the same way we do." I'm not even sure what that means.
I am not one who pines for babies and wants Just One More. We have Just Enough and have known so since the surprising conception of our second. I am not a natural, easy parent to non-speakers who require near-non-stop care and attention. I am far too aware of my own self and my own needs to be able to live easily with those newly-heres who come with so many of their own relentless needs. I think it unlikely that I will report to anyone that these were The Best Years Of Our Lives.
That said, it is not without sadness that I leave these years behind.
And I think that's all I have to say about this. But now it's said. Onwards and upwards.
And the basics are, my girl is all grown. Okay, well not grown. But growin'. She preschooled today and in so doing, waved a fond farewell to her Early Years with just us J's and entered into her School Years where there will be teachers and friends and little girls who cry because "she doesn't speak English the same way we do." I'm not even sure what that means.
I am not one who pines for babies and wants Just One More. We have Just Enough and have known so since the surprising conception of our second. I am not a natural, easy parent to non-speakers who require near-non-stop care and attention. I am far too aware of my own self and my own needs to be able to live easily with those newly-heres who come with so many of their own relentless needs. I think it unlikely that I will report to anyone that these were The Best Years Of Our Lives.
That said, it is not without sadness that I leave these years behind.
And I think that's all I have to say about this. But now it's said. Onwards and upwards.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Maybe
Maybe I'll be starting up a regular blog schedule again.
Maybe I'll forgive God for letting me get all messed up by the Kienan Hebert kidnapping and the implications for a person who prays.
Maybe I'll get over not being allowed to take water through an airport screening because of the industry of fear that grew up in the aftermath of events of September 11th, 2001.
Maybe I'll decide whether or not this year is the year I go well beyond what is comfortable.
Maybe I'll wake up un-anxious about taking TBird to preschool tomorrow.
Maybe I'll find in my a graciousness for those flawed souls I have been asked to love but with whom I feel too comfortable only being impatient and judgey.
Maybe.
Maybe I'll forgive God for letting me get all messed up by the Kienan Hebert kidnapping and the implications for a person who prays.
Maybe I'll get over not being allowed to take water through an airport screening because of the industry of fear that grew up in the aftermath of events of September 11th, 2001.
Maybe I'll decide whether or not this year is the year I go well beyond what is comfortable.
Maybe I'll wake up un-anxious about taking TBird to preschool tomorrow.
Maybe I'll find in my a graciousness for those flawed souls I have been asked to love but with whom I feel too comfortable only being impatient and judgey.
Maybe.
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