Bunt

I really don’t want to drag the baseball metaphors out too long, but right now I live in a town that is absolutely out of control with Phillies phever. I know other towns have gotten excited about their wins, but I suspect that this town is a little over the top in general – so winning has made our city almost a caricature of itself.

One thing about the final game that I found intriguing was Jimmy Rollins’ bunt. I know that bunting is a regular part of baseball – a strategy to move a runner along the bases – and I also know that a good player does whatever the manager asks him to. That said, I kept thinking to myself, after watching Jimmy lay down a perfect bunt that moved Jenkins to third, that it must be CRAZY difficult in the middle of the World Series to give up your shot at heroism. There is a World Series MVP award, after all, and I cannot remember a time it was given to the best bunter. Home run hitters, on the other hand, have often won the coveted prize. Rollins knows he can do it, having hit clutch homeruns in other games, and the desire to just SWING BIG must have been burning inside him as he stood at the plate with 50,000 people chanting his name.

But he didn’t. Swing big, that is. He did sacrifice his turn at bat, his potential stardom, to advance the runner as the world watched.

Now, I am not martyring dear Jimmy. He’s a baseball player who wanted to win the World Series and so he did what was best for the team, the game and the city. But, man, I would have longed to swing.

I have been doing a lot of big swinging lately (though I’m not necessarily making contact). If you have never met me (those that have can agree or disagree here), I am, well, verbal. By that I mean, I freely express my perspective and I can be difficult to argue with because my mouth works on hyper-drive. I do not always think I’m right, but I think it's fun to test the limits to see if I am, which can be confusing (and a real pain in the butt) for someone trying to relate to me. Perhaps I am an acquired taste.

Lately, though, as people are trying to navigate a complicated election, I am trying to learn to bunt. Believe me, I’m no martyr, but continually trying to hit my argument out of the park may not be the right thing. As a matter of fact, leaders and communicators, far more influential than I, may want to consider some bunting too. God does not need any more MVPs.

There's nothing else to say today

Less than a week

If you are a regular reader of this blog, it is pretty obvious that I tend to lean left on the political spectrum. If you need to skip reading today, I completely understand, but my ideology isn't a bandwagon thing. I have always seen things from this angle, even in the 80s when it was an unfashionable perspective to adhere to at the conservative Christian college that I happily attended. Earlier this week, an old college friend that I Twitter with, made an interesting comment. He wrote, “I bet no one would care if a preacher endorsed Obama from the pulpit. Bizarre country I live in.”

I did not respond to the Twitter because, well, I don’t really know why – but I have given it considerable thought.

Once before, I mentioned that one of my favorite presidents was Jimmy Carter. This fact inspired some sneering, and emails that generally said, “Oh, poor, poor, idealistic, naive Wendy who has no understanding of the real world.” Now, I like Jimmy Carter because I believe he is a man of peace and I believe that he chose to be transparent in a country that only wants to hear what they want to hear. Jimmy basically committed political suicide, but he's been resurrected to build homes for people through Habitat for Humanity.

So, I started asking myself – can Christians even aspire to be president? I do not believe that we have a Christian candidate (or vice-candidate) this election, but I'm not sure that bothers me. I’m beginning to think that it would be impossible to be a Christian and run for president. I don’t even think Jesus Himself would make it past the primaries, given the crazy system in America.

I mean, what does it mean to be a Christian? Is it defined by being pro-life and pro-heterosexual marriage?

Christian=
Love enemies.
Do not judge.
Tell the truth.
Keep no record of wrongs.
Say only things that build other people up.
Feed the hungry, give to the poor, clothe the naked, visit the sick and imprisoned.
Promote peace.
Do not hoard for yourself, but be generous with time, talent and treasure (btw – I think this is suppose to happen OUTSIDE the church building).
Love God with all your heart, soul, mind and strength. Love neighbors too.
Do to others as you would have others do to you.

OK – you get it, right? No one who aspires to honor God in these ways would survive a run for President, in my opinion. How could he or she? So much of the process violates what we intrinsically believe to be of the Gospel.

As a Christian and a voter, I look for a candidate who demonstrates a caring for the things I care about. I deeply care if people have enough to eat. I am deeply distressed over war. I believe nationalism has gone awry and that Americans have become so insular in their thinking that we have forgotten the power of humility and global cooperation. I value diplomacy and the ability to listen. So, I have to watch closely and decide whose thinking is more congruent with my own belief system, and simply realize that it's up to ME to change the world - every day, faithfully - even though I will never sit in the Oval Office.

And while I wholeheartedly support the idea that the unborn have life, I suspect that we have limited the definition for our own convenience and even for political reasons.

For a person to claim that they believe in the sanctity of life is enormous. It is a wide and encompassing issue that would demand pro-lifers be just as concerned with the children who currently live in poverty as with those who are in someone’s womb. It would insist that we help the morbidly obese. The heart of this belief would demand that we protest outside of death row just as much as Planned Parenthood, not too mention adding a passionate voice to support environmental protections. Sanctity of life would care for Africans dying from mosquito bites and whether all people have adequate health care just as much as abortion statistics. I do not believe we have a candidate that is pro-life. I can hardly find Christians who are pro-life.

The good news is, God doesn’t need us to defend Him (or what we perceive as His morality) with our votes. As a matter of fact, I suspect that God hardly cares about Election Day (bold enough for you?) because I believe He’s far more interested in whether we demonstrate the truth of Him - with the way we live out the Gospel - the other 364 days of the year. He's not looking for truth from places where grace has not been realized.

This is not an endorsement - from a pulpit or a blog. This is a simple call for generosity of spirit, for deeper thinking, for demonstrative love, and dare I say, a little idealism.

Scare crows

Walking through the park yesterday, I had the most unusual experience. Several hundred crows occupied a large tree next to the path I was using. They were all vocalizing at once and I stopped as I found myself feeling the definition of cacophony. The moment was overwhelming and loud and chaotic and beautiful. There was no rhyme or reason to the noises, there was no source of disturbance – just hundreds of birds filling the sky with their brand of sound. I lifted my head up, closed my eyes and allowed the texture of what was happening to make a memory inside me.

In the same minute, a gaggle of low-flying geese appeared overhead as well, honking and talking in perfect formation, and, without warning, the crows became unhinged. The sky was instantly filled with both crows and geese as they flew and swerved to miss one another in mid-air, their combined voices almost deafening. Even my dog was looking up, mesmerized by this event we were the only ones fortunate enough to witness.

Before I could take it all in, the birds dispersed and all was quiet again. My attention was drawn to a squirrel dashing through the higher grass, almost as if he had taken a break from his work to watch the boisterous sky as well, but was now back on task, preparing for a fast approaching winter once again. Sunny and I continued on our way.

For the rest of our trek, I pondered what God hears. Does He ever just sit and listen to the cacophony of earth all at once? The laughter of school playgrounds, the cheering at Citizens Bank Park, the gunfire in Iraq, the cries of starving children, the anger of road rage, the mourning of an American Idol whose family is shot to death, the singing in churches, the rapes of the Congo, the crashing of Wall Street, the presidential candidate speeches, the whispered prayers of underground Christians… With all the noise around us, I think it is tempting to believe that God cannot – or will not – hear our individual sounds in the chaos and fear creeps in. Does He know the unique voice that is me?

A friend was sharing with me once and was lamenting the fact that God thought everyone was special. Her exact words were, “How do I know if God thinks I’m special if He thinks everyone is special? In reality, no one is really special at all.” Spoken like someone whose sounds were still so young.

I think that maturity means seeing the bigger picture of the Kingdom, and longs for everyone to feel special. When everyone feels secure in the love and grace that God extends to them, His Kingdom is realized, and peace is established on earth as it is in heaven. I have heard snippets of peace before, but I still wonder what a cacophony of peace would sound like in my ear.

Funny, though, even though I cannot hear it, I keep asking Him to teach me its sounds from a deeper, inaudible place. And often, when I’m there, I become aware of a still Voice that assures me that I am heard after all. Nothing to become unhinged about.

You are what you read

It is difficult
to get the news from poems
yet men die miserably every day
for lack
of what is found there.

- Asphodel, that Greeny Flower

Something in the Way She Moooooves (or doesn't)

I do not listen to him every day, but I have been known to go through a James Taylor phase about once a year. It lasts anywhere from 2 to 4 weeks, and I play his 2-CD live album non-stop.

When my kids are in the car, I always forget that Sweet Baby James starts one of his songs, “Damn, this traffic jam!” It’s actually a great song, the following lines being, “How I hate to be late. Hurts my motor to go so slow. When I get home my supper’ll be cold. Damn, this traffic jam!”

My children look at me with their “Mom, that’s a bad word” look on their faces. I want to say something like, “Yeah, but isn’t that EXACTLY how it feels when you’re stuck in bumper to bumper nonsense?” I don’t say that, of course, because I want them to choose better ways to express real frustration.

Yesterday, I skipped church. Noah, Mia and I decided to visit with Diana in the hospital instead. She has been really struggling, her blood levels sinking to scary lows, and confined to her bed most of the time. She loves my children and they love her back, so hooky somehow seemed right.

On our way into Center City, we encountered serious traffic. We turned on the radio to see how bad the situation was and learned that besides the fact that the Eagles and Phillies played at home yesterday, there was a concert by The Who at the Spectrum and a special event at the Philadelphia Zoo. To make things more complicated, there were two accidents in the east bound lanes and a large 5K race on Martin Luther King, Jr. Blvd. At moments, we were at a dead stand still.

We did make it to the hospital, took Diana her laundry and a bag of Munchos for the Phillies game later, and eventually started home. As we left the hospital, we were dismayed to encounter complete congestion in the west bound lanes. This time, however, the radio offered no reason – just the fact that there was no escape. We watched the minutes tick by, sang some songs, told stories, and crept down the highway. After traveling about 6 miles at a snail’s pace, I looked ahead and saw the cars starting to move. I told Noah to watch the shoulder to see what the hold up was, and here is what we saw:

Thankfully, we had Diana’s camera so we could record the GIANT cow on the highway. No accident, no runners, no sporting event – just a gaper delay as cars slowed to see the huge bovine.

Yeah, that's it. Do something out of the ordinary and endure the frustration today just to assure someone that, "You've Got A Friend."

And the winner is...

Todd: "What a stolid choice for the weekend word."

Stolid, indeed.

Weekend Word

Well, it's Friday and the Phillies are off. I think that is a good thing, because they could use a little time to regroup. If you are looking for a restful weekend, I would suggest staying away from Philadelphia over the next three days. Phillies fans do not see themselves as mere fans. No, we are PARTICIPANTS.

So, grab your bat, ask for William Penn's favor, and refuse to leave a man on third. Then click on the word below, read its definition, use it on the person sitting in the stadium next to you, and then put it in a witty and thought-provoking sentence. Post said sentence in the comments section. Do all of this before 10 p.m. est on Sunday evening, because that is when I will choose a winner while I watch the Phils win.

P.S. No anonymous entries will win this week. Just this week, so that I can remain predictably unpredictable.

stolid

They're purple, by the way

I know you already think I reveal too much. Someone once sent me an email wondering if I was going to begin updates on the color of my underwear daily. I don’t think the person meant it to be nice, but I strongly suspect he is a tighty whitey guy – that alone would make anyone cranky.

Regardless, I have a confession to make. I am worn out. I am worn out in almost every way. Physically (I really need extra sleep, but those darn Phillies are in the World Series), emotionally, and mentally - I am profoundly tired. I have been here before, because I tend to live a little too close to the edge of over-extended. I only actually fall off the edge into the Valley of Complete Breakdown once a decade or so, and I’m certainly not anywhere near that cliff right now, but I could consider the idea of going to bed for a week or so with an electric blanket and vanilla cream puffs.

I think that when we choose to participate in real life, it can be awfully draining. A lot of people choose not to, and I suspect they want to avoid the exhaustion of it all – the hardness of opting to know and be known. We stay away from difficult family members or strange coworkers or uncomfortable past relationships. I’m guilty too.

Although there is a healthy self-preservation, a protection from dangerous people and situations, I think we elect our own interests way too often in an effort to feel good (or relaxed or blameless or satisfied or undisturbed). Funny though, over the long haul, I don’t think it feels good at all. At the very best we are left with things unfinished, and at the worst, we are left alone.

Somebody told me to look up love this week. The well-know love passage (1 Corinthians 13) says:

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

Love never fails.

I think Paul (the writer) should have added:

Love is hard. Love is worth it.

Where the trouble is

I have been having difficulty with my knees since April. At first, my doctor performed two Lyme’s Disease tests – both came back “inconclusive” so she put me on three month of antibiotics which ripped my stomach to shreds. When I still had pain after the drugs were done (interestingly, I am most uncomfortable when I’m sitting still) I saw a rheumatologist. She asked me to show her where the trouble is, and so I gave her all the gory details.

Since that appointment, I have found myself in another painful spot – this time relationally. No need to give you all the gory details, but simply know that it’s complex. As I spoke to the person on the phone yesterday, there were hurtful words spoken to me, and the initial stab was hard to bear. Afterwards, I had the strangest moment when I remembered the rheumatologist words, “Show me where the trouble is…”

Oh! How hard it is to sort out problems, huh? Not only is it difficult to lovingly confront issues, it is near impossible to hear when someone else shows you where the trouble is in your life, isn’t it? To be the kind of person who honestly says, “Show me where the trouble is” in the middle of conflict makes you vulnerable, because people are not always kind or truthful, and yet it’s the kind of attitude that leads to real growth and healing between people. Someone counseled me once to take everything that someone has to say about me – even if it seems way off base – and search for even a kernel of truth that may help me grow. The kernel isn’t always there to be found, so it’s sometimes smart to throw out the feedback, but if I never search, then I may miss a great opportunity to see my blind spots – and I have plenty.

So, I’ve been diagnosed with Patellofemoral syndrome and chondromalacia patella which, in my case, is a result of Congenital Hip Dysplasia. It took 40 years of my weight bearing down on my knees incorrectly for pain to begin, but the problem was there all along. I just didn’t know it.

Diagnosing my hurting relationship is far more difficult. Long complicated words found on Web MD won’t reveal the source of discord, and I just may discover that some of these issues have been inside me all along, but I didn’t know it until the pain began.

Dear God, show me where the trouble is.

Animal kingdom

I have been intrigued lately by the signs outside of churches offering “Bless the Animals” services. I have never attended one, but I’ve been told that you can take your pet to the church and have it blessed or prayed over.

My father was always the type that said, “A person is a person and an animal is an animal.” No, he wasn’t a farmer, and he dearly loved all our pets, but he just felt like there was a different level of investment you should make – people being more important. All that said, I wonder how God feels about blessing the animals and I hope my blog doesn’t get black-listed by PETA.

Over the years, I have known quite a few people battling illnesses. I used to work with a guy named Bob who was essentially estranged from his family because of choices he had made years before. When he discovered that he had cancer, several friends and I began to care for him. As he grew worse, it became evident that he could no longer care for his cat, Misty. Without asking her, I volunteered my mother to adopt the cat and, since he adored my mom, Bob had such a sense of peace that the animal he loved would be loved in his absence. My gracious mother agreed, and Misty moved in. Bob (and Misty) eventually died.

On Monday, I took Diana into the hospital for a surprise admission. She has been feeling terrible and her blood levels were dangerously low. Diana has a large, 13 year old, Doberman Pincher named The Lovely Miss Jasmine and Diana knows that as she feels ill and waits for a bone marrow donor match, it is getting harder and harder to care for her beloved dog.

I called my mom. After I got Diana settled in her room, I drove to her house and picked up Jasmine – all her toys and food and pillow and leash (which is red for Phillies!). We drove 20 minutes and I pulled up to the house where I had spent my teenage years. Right away, my parents pet her and soothed her and found a spot for Jasmine’s considerable luggage. I thought I’d stay a few minutes to make sure she was acclimated, but soon she was sitting in between my parents, in the family room, being cuddled and stroked and admired. She couldn’t have cared less if I was there or not.

Funny, but somehow the way that my mom blesses the animals actually blesses people. Knowing that their pets are safe and fed and loved is a great relief for people who are struggling and my mom’s animal convalescent home is a taste of the Kingdom, I think. In her faithful, poop-scoopin’ way, my mom is advancing peace. I certainly know how God feels about that.

You made me, Gypsy Rose

To get to my friend Diana’s house, I travel Route 113. It kind of winds around and when I’m not preoccupied with the radio or whatever, I look at the scenes on either side of the road.

There is a restaurant on the right side, just as you descend a hill, called the Gypsy Rose. It has a sign outside – you know the kind that you can place letters on and change them at will? The same signs that churches use to display stupid sayings like, “Get your fireproof tickets here” to attract (repel) people to their doors.

Last year, the Gypsy Rose closed its doors, and the sign read, “You made me love you.” I was so intrigued by this turn of events, and I just knew there was a story behind it all. Since I drive that way a lot, I saw the estate sale and an auction for the building contents and the weeds begin to overgrow. Then one morning, the sign changed. It simply said, “You made me,” and I knew that it wasn’t the result of the other words simply falling off, because the phrase was now perfectly centered on the sign.

I am, of course, dying to know what it all means. Every time I drive by, I imagine all the ways love can go wrong. For some reason, I’m fairly sure that a man posted the letters and that he was deserted by a beautiful woman. When they started out, they had dreams and hopes and big ideas. He became obsessed with the business, however, unable to release control to anyone else, spending every day and night in the kitchen. She was lonely and neglected until a man waltzed into the bar area promising more attention and great vacations. The woman demanded her share of the restaurant, throwing the man into financial and emotional ruin. He responded with despair and invited her suitor for a drink to talk things over. He slipped cyanide in the rival’s scotch and soda, but instead of seeing his revenge come to fruition, a young waitress innocently picked up the drink, serving it to an elderly woman celebrating her 80th birthday with the man she has loved for 62 years. They toast, and for a moment she smiles at her husband happily, but then her skin grows pale… The rest is easy to figure out.

Or maybe it was nothing like that at all.

Besides being glad that I don’t write fiction, do you see the story behind? I am trying to see everyone’s behind story, because everyone has one. My friend Diana’s story includes, “Leukemia” but other people have chapters entitled, “Abuse” or “Ignored” or “Guilty” or “Afraid” or “Always wins” or “Lost” or “Hungry” or “Dirty” or “You made me.” I am not suggesting we invent stories for each other, but I am wondering if we would find it easier to love one another if we simply acknowledged that we do not understand all the places another person has been. Grace is often effortless after we’ve heard someone’s tale, but loving and accepting someone BEFORE having the facts is truly a wonderful thing.

I think that last sentence would work nicely on a church sign.

Howie Kabowie

I have an old friend named Howie and I, admittedly, had forgotten how fun he is. He sent me this little masterpiece:

What a mother

One of the gifts I received for my recent birthday (feel bad that you forgot now, don’t you?) was a book entitled “Mother Angelica’s Private and Pithy Lessons from the Scriptures.” If you never encountered the nun, Mother Angelica, on the Eternal World Television Network (EWTN) you definitely have a hole in your life. She is one of the most wonderful trips you will ever take for many, many reasons.

My sister gave me the book, and as I was paging through, she had placed a Post It note on page 79 in the middle of Mother’s discourse on the Miracle of the Loaves and the Fishes. Besides being evidence that my sister read the book before wrapping it, the note said, “The final two paragraphs of this lesson made me think of the themes in your own writing.” I was sufficiently intrigued, and read on.

Mother was reflecting on Jesus’ words to His disciples after they fed the 5,000. He said, “Pick up the pieces leftover, so that nothing gets wasted.” She went on (in the last 2 paragraphs) to write:

“There is a lesson in those fragments lying there in the grass. In our lives we take something that God gives us that is good and we turn it into garbage. We fragment it. We pull it apart. We scatter it all over the place. Sin kind of squashes it, or just destroys it, or makes it ugly. God is saying to us, ‘Don’t throw it away. I’m going to make it nourishing for you, even in this state.’

Your life and my life are full of scraps that we would like to hide in the tall grass. But we can’t. Look, I have a tendency to temper, I have a tendency to jealousy, I have a tendency to impatience, I have a tendency to be overly sensitive. Now we think, ‘I know I have these failings, so I’m going to pray and they’re going to go away.’ That’s not necessarily true. We won’t know until we die and face God how even the failures of our life have been used by Him, and transformed by His power for our good…”

Now, when they were drafting people for the nunnery, I was immediately disqualified (and it had nothing to do with flat feet). But, regardless, I want to take ALL that I am (and was) and just offer it up. I will not strive, I will open my life w-i-d-e. His Presence will crowd some things out, but not all things. He uses my scraps to nourish me nonetheless, and in some great way, He nourishes others too. Even in our state.

Preach on, Mother.

And the winner is...

What a challenging week to pick a winner. I must admit that Sean's entry made me laugh out loud, but I'm not sure that whole paragraphs are within the rules. The reference to the Phillies is ALWAYS a smart move, but the last two winners used that strategy and I'm horribly afraid to become predictable (it leads to cliche). With all of that in mind, the winner is:

anonymous "I think this blog could stand a little more badinage among its readers. Can we pick it up a notch?"

Hear! Hear! I don't do this for my health, you know.

Hmmmm...why do I do this? I think I may have my source of angst for the week.

Thanks to all. Congrats, anonymous. Acceptance speech, please.

Weekend Word

Well, I sort of ran into an old friend - in a cyber sort of way - and it has made me smile. So, I thought the Weekend Word should reflect the joy that friends can bring. If you are new to the Weekend Word, click here to uncover the original insanity and give it a try.

In the meantime, grill some perch, put all the words into a crossword puzzle backwards and wear yellow to bed. Click on the word below, listen to its pronounciation, practice it on the dog, and then use it in an witty and engaging sentence. Post said sentence in the comments sections below and pray, pray, pray that you're the winner. The official Weekend Word Committee (me) will post a winner at 10:00 pm e.s.t. on Sunday evening.

And I'm not playin'.

badinage

Cement and adhesives

I had an email conversation with a friend yesterday. We were not sitting in the same room, I could not hear his voice inflections and I have no idea what his facial expressions were, but I had the most amazing sense of knowing the essence that is him. We used to be together a lot and he and his wife are dear to me. Even though we are no longer in each other’s space frequently, I realized that when God cements people together it is so real and so strong and so permanent.

There have only been a couple of times when I was a part of what I believe to be real community. You know, the kind where your guard is always down, where ideas are respected and heard, where help is a cry away. It's also probably interesting to note that I have been a part of the church my whole life.

I started wondering why it is so hard to really connect within the church. I mean, we have all kinds of small group and fellowship programs established, so it’s not lack of opportunity. There are certainly plenty of casseroles if someone has a baby or an illness, and sympathy cards aplenty if your loved one dies. Lots and lots of study guides. And for some, I suspect that they can label these behaviors “community” and feel like that’s enough.

Not me. I want the real deal, the kind where you can really screw up and be loved anyway, the kind where one can truly rejoice when another succeeds, and the kind full of relationships that persist in the face of defense mechanisms and differences of opinion.

The church has yet to transform itself into a culture where truth telling is honored and understood. We still operate with a 90 day probationary period, so if you’re new, we’ll tolerate anti-church behavior, clothing and thinking for about three months, but we are expecting compliance within that time period. And, with its continued coasting away from the Gospel, the church has lost its bonding agent, the unifying idea worth working toward together. Building programs can only substitute so long.

Those precious days, when I knew I belonged, were based on the fundamentals: truth-telling, an idea bigger than ourselves, and love that evened out the uneven parts of each other. I think we may have been entering the Kingdom together, step by step and push by push, in it together as if we were super glued.

My day today

Remember that at any given moment your writer could produce something brilliant, transcendent, revolutionary, or just really deep. Say it’s Monday morning and your writer appears to be drinking in front of the television—resist the natural urge to question! By mistaking research for leisure activity, well-meaning but inexperienced caregivers often disrupt critical chains of reasoning. Countless great thoughts have been lost this way. Keep in mind that a writer’s work is often unappreciated until after his or her time. In short, expect nothing less than posthumous glory, but be patient.

— McSweeney’s Internet Tendency: From The Complete Guide to the Care and Training of the Writer in Your Life by David Zeltser

Reclamation

I can remember, not so long ago, when my children were smaller and I really believed that in a few short years I would get some privacy back. Now, if that sounds selfish to you, I can almost guarantee that you do not have children.

Yesterday, after dinner, I decided to jump in the shower quickly before the Phillies game. My usual after dinner routine is homework and instruments and projects, but since I haven’t been feeling well, I decided to breathe in some steam.

J.J. was undeterred. About 5 seconds into my shower, he opened the door and arrived in the bathroom, set up his music stand, sat on the toilet, and played his saxophone for mom to hear. I stood, shampooing, and stifled the laughter that was bubbling within me. My life, space and time are completely owned.

As my son practiced his Christmas carols (getting prepared for the holiday concert), I thought about the feeling of sharing every part of me and the desire to reclaim self. I picked up the conditioner and remembered the conversation our Sunday School class had this week about what it really means to be blessed and whether what you give, God really promises to give back. (ref. Luke 6:38 Give, and it will be given to you. A good measure, pressed down, shaken together and running over, will be poured into your lap. For with the measure you use, it will be measured to you.) Besides recognizing the fact that it is one of the most taken-out-of-context distorted scriptures of all time when applied to finances, I had this great moment where I realized that when I give all of me, I am empty enough to get all of Him. And He is so much greater than me that “the fullness of Christ” is like a running over – an overflow, if you will – within me and around me. More of Him and less of me.

These words of Jesus, in context, look like this:
"Do not judge, and you will not be judged. Do not condemn, and you will not be condemned. Forgive, and you will be forgiven. Give, and it will be given to you. A good measure, pressed down, shaken together and running over, will be poured into your lap. For with the measure you use, it will be measured to you."

Each concept – judging, condemning, forgiving, giving – are seen in a reciprocal relationship.

Careful, though, because it’s tempting to think that I can make the first move, or earn, what God has for me. I don’t think that’s God’s point. I think He’s saying, “Wendy, when you dare to give yourself away, you’re finally in a position to experience all of Me – emptiness leads to all the blessing and love and fulfillment that I am waiting to pour out.”

I don’t even know if this makes sense. I’m still thinking through how to articulate the thought. And maybe you had to be there. Now, I’m all for sharing and everything, but I’m not quite ready for all of you to join me in the shower.

a little Emily Dickenson

“Hope is the Thing with Feathers”

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chilliest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity
It asked a crumb of me.

Sore throat

I have a wicked sore throat. Usually, a sore throat means a cold isn’t far behind, but so far I only feel like I’ve swallowed flames.
I am not often ill, but when I decide to do it, I do it right. It is usually easy for me to look back after a cold and see that my physical well-being and my emotional well-being are intricately connected. If you know me well, you know that a cold sore will soon be appearing.

I have been stressed and fearful over a sick friend, a tenuous book journey, trying to get assimilated into a new church, financial pressures at home, loss of community and what picture makes me look thin so I can put it on Facebook. I am fearful for our country and for my children who are inheriting more than what is fair and reasonable. I wonder if I truly do enough, help enough, love enough or just talk enough. Sometimes I throw away recyclables by mistake.

I was reading an article by Anne Lamott today. She described a moment when she was attacked and knocked over by a wolf, and she wrote something interesting about fear.

“So what did I learn that day? I learned that fear is appropriate these days, much of the time. Don't let people tell you that you can't have faith and fear, as if you have to choose. The old saying goes, Faith is fear that has said its prayers. This is the best possible time in the history of the republic both to stay extremely afraid and also to keep the faith: If you feel too much of one, look around deep inside for the other.”

I want to honor God with all of my life. To not do that makes me afraid. Not afraid of hell (swallowing flames), but afraid of missing REAL, HONEST, SATISFIED, KINGDOM life. Nothing is more frightening. Or cold sore producing.

Cold-EEZE anyone?

Monday, bloody Monday

I wish I could recall where I read it, but I can’t. Some journalist or poet or high school essay writer made the observation that “Christianity is such a bloody religion.” At the time, I remember thinking how right he/she was, and spent a few days pondering why God decided on animal sacrifices and a cross and so much bleeding.

Yesterday, I spent the day with my friend Diana who you know is battling leukemia. We thought we were headed to the hospital for a regular check-up, but the conversation with the doctor was all about blood and eventually we learned that we would wait around for her to receive platelets intravenously.

I have been blessed enough to walk this road with Diana. I have listened and learned and I have watched what happens when she receives healthy donated blood. I have discovered, first hand, that blood is truly her life force – it cleanses and carries and heals and flows. After a transfusion, she is (albeit temporarily) fixed.

Realizing that the unknown author of “bloody religion” was most likely adding the violence of Christianity – the crucifixion, the Crusades, the Passover, etc. – to his/her opinion, I am coming to a place where I also understand the purer nature, the intended purpose, of blood. Suddenly, as I celebrate blood with my friend, it makes perfect sense that God would choose to express His life-giving using the red, sticky stuff.

So, as I sit here and type, I think of it coursing through my veins. In my mind’s eye, I watch it continually doing its work even though I am mostly unaware. I am thankful for my blood. And for that which He donated to cleanse and carry and heal my needs-to-be-fixed life.

Loosing losing

I witnessed something interesting yesterday. My boys had an afternoon baseball game and our team decided to play very well. During the fifth inning, they were winning by 8 runs.

Our team was in the field, and the batter missed a pitch with a big swing. The other team had a base runner on first already and needed to play aggressive baseball, so off the runner went to steal second base. The catcher, who happened to be my son, JJ, threw hard to second base. What happened next is a little hard to explain, but suffice it to say that between our shortstop, second baseman and center fielder, we couldn’t seem to get control of the ball. It all was a little like watching the Keystone Cops.

The three boys in those positions started to laugh at themselves. They pointed at each other and giggled and patted each other with their gloves. They were having a lot of fun playing baseball, even though they had participated in a hilarious error-filled situation and the other team had successfully stolen second base.

The other team had an adult third base coach. He began to yell at our boys for laughing. Our boys did not hear a word he was saying, totally oblivious to anything but their own embarrassment and ribbing. Never one to just sit and watch, I eventually called to the coach (I was sitting nearby) and explained that they were not laughing at his team, but laughing at themselves. He blew me off, but he did stop yelling.

After the game, he approached me about the manners of our players. I listened, but explained that they were children having fun with each other and meant no harm to his team. We have been on our share of losing teams too, so I did feel some compassion for his frustration, but I was having difficulty understanding his point in this particular situation.

We jumped into the car. Noah, who had been playing 1st base, was bothered because of the things that their first base coach was saying to him. Apparently, that adult was ridiculing our entire community in my child’s ear, venting his frustration in a completely inappropriate place. I’m glad I wasn’t sitting on that side of the field. I may have had a few things for his ear.

Why is it so hard to lose?

No, really. I am intrigued as I watch people lose. I am intrigued as I watch myself lose. We blame and get mad and accuse and claim unfairness and pout. Why? What’s wrong with saying something like, “Boy, I really stunk today” or "I'm just not as good as you at this" or a simple, "You really did well today. Good for you." ???

And the winner is...

As much as I love the moniker "lovely Miss Jasmine," the way to my heart is easy to discern as I sit and watch the Phillies play the Dodgers RIGHT NOW. With that in mind, the winner is:

jared: "I just love to watch Cole Hamels pitch when he's "on", his changeup can only be described as legerdemain, or awesome depending on your level of education or which blogs you happen to read."

Now if only we could say the same about Jamie Moyer...

Jared?

Weekend Word

Well, this weekend's word is brand new to me too. As a matter of fact, I just learned it today.

SO - catch some perch, root for the Phillies and believe in the fountain of youth. Click on the word below, let it roll on your tongue, then use it in a sentence. Put said sentence in the comments section before 10 p.m. est Sunday night, because that is when a winner will be chosen and announced.

Good luck - and NO TRICKS!

legerdemain

Facing the dishes

Every night, after dinner, I face the dishes.

Now cooking, I actually like, but doing the dishes is probably my least favorite chore. I have searched my sub-conscious for a forgotten childhood dish soap tragedy that may have led to this aversion, but short of being hypnotized, I am unable to pinpoint the source of my extreme feelings about dirty plates and silverware.

Perhaps it is the everyday nature of it all. Cooking is every day, too, but it requires some creativity. The dishes just sort of sit in the sink and torment me – daring me to let them sit and pile up and get even worse – and they call to me, “Here we are, exactly like yesterday, the same old monotonous routine.”

Lately, though, I have taken a new approach. I stand at the sink and realize that doing these dishes is partial proof of who I really am and they reveal more than my book or my job or my talents. My ability or inability to be faithful in the everyday of life is so telling. When no one is looking and no one realizes, can I accomplish the mundane?

It’s funny, but I suspect we all go through these moments, deciding to stick with something even when it no longer offers any excitement or rewards or affirmation. Or at least we all should. Sometimes it’s out of love for others, and at other times it’s just to be faithful in those spaces that only God and the dishcloth see.

Imagine

Last night, JJ had his buddy, Mark, sleep over. They sat close together, in one recliner, and watched TV while making comments to one another. Often their exchanges would begin with, “Imagine….”

“Imagine if you were a kid building a sandcastle and just saw a car drive out of the ocean. I would tell everyone, but people probably wouldn’t believe me.”

“Imagine if we were professional baseball players in the playoffs. It’d be awesome, but only if we were on the same team. If we weren’t, we wouldn’t know who to root for.”

“Imagine if you HAD to break a bone, which do you think would hurt the worst?”

“Imagine being a surfer. I would stick tape on the board to help me stay on.”

I loved it and kept eavesdropping. Never once did one say to the other, “That’s the silliest thing I’ve ever heard.” No, since they are friends, they considered each other’s hypothetical situations with all seriousness, often citing potential obstacles and/or voicing enthusiasm and support.

During commercials, they would get up off the chair and ride on each others’ backs like mules across the floor. They laughed and fell and tried again, with the rider often encouraging the beast of burden - without spurs.

At one point, JJ felt hungry and he offered Mark a snack. They baked Pillsbury Cinnamon Rolls.

After they fell asleep, I thought about their friendship. Staying close, carefully listening, refusing to ridicule each other’s ideas, completely believing the other can do whatever he imagines, carrying one another, and eating.

It's hard to imagine friendship better than that.

Economy Schmecomomy

Forget Wall Street tomorrow night. Think Broad & Pattison Streets. Think Phillies.

Looking for Legacy

Is it too soon to talk legacy? With the presidential election still a month away, and the Inauguration even farther, there are certainly more pressing issues for discussion.

Yet, it is impossible to ignore the Bush Administration’s insistence that all will be well, in either the near or distant future, because somehow time will reveal truths to us that we are missing at the present. Our minds and hearts will then be at ease, just like when DNA tests reveal that an executed criminal was actually innocent, but his family receives a nice financial settlement for their trouble. Of course, if the truth does not become evident, it will be easy to blame the agents of change. New leaders with new ideologies will pursue a different course of action, will veer off of the itinerary presently in place which, if only allowed to come to fruition, would have ultimately proven profitable for all. But now we’ll never know.

Perhaps the Administration is not seizing the day. I would actually suggest that they grab at the current economic crisis, entitle it The Legacy, and pray that things get so bad that it overshadows the rest of the facts.

Recognizing the unlikelihood of such a declaration, I have decided to maximize my own earning potential and make my uncanny foresight obvious to future generations. Thus, I have begun a list of possible history book chapter headings.

What I’ve got so far:

The Legacy of Unprovoked War
The Legacy of Perfecting Torture Techniques for the Common Good
The Legacy of Ignoring Constituents in a Republic
The Legacy of Crumbling Global Credibility
The Legacy of Increased Insular Thinking and Nationalistic Pride
The Legacy of Back Alley Deregulation

The Legacy of Vanishing Surplus

I recognize that some of my ideas may not be age appropriate for children and may even be alarming for the young students of the future. If that’s the case, they can find relief by simply turning the page and looking at all the cute pictures of extinct animals, like dinosaurs and polar bears.

Weakly planner

I have been “unemployed” for almost one full year. My job was somewhat unpredictable, so it is interesting to realize that I have actually become a better planner and more schedule oriented since being at home full time.

Most days I discipline myself to write for several hours, but each day of the week holds its own routine. On Mondays, I have breakfast with my parents and sister, do the laundry and the grocery shopping. Besides the fact that the kids and their friends have emptied the pantry over the weekend, there are usually a variety of dirty uniforms that have the potential to stink up the entire house if left in the hamper.

On Sunday evening, I wrote out a grocery list, emptied the baseball equipment from the back of my car to make room for food and asked the kids if they had any special snack requests. Right before going to bed, I checked my email and discovered that a friend needed my help on Monday. I replied that I would come.

What I thought would be a brief visit turned into a trip to the hospital in Center City where we waited for a couple of hours for a treatment that never happened. I bought a book that I never opened and the nurses searched for a vein in my friend’s arm that they never found. As I sat with my friend, my mind wandered to all the things I was not accomplishing and I started to giggle.

My weekly plans are really little plans. There is another really big plan I want to live by, the plan to cooperate with God. God, who I understand in the Christ, wants to love and care for and restore people. I don’t always get that written on my calendar, so I love it when He interrupts me and reminds me of the BIGNESS of following Him.

It would have been really cool if my laundry had been miraculously finished when I got home – all neatly folded and put away in drawers and sprinkled with angel dust – but it wasn’t.

But, hey, there's always Tuesday.

Scrambled and fried

Saturday was my 41st birthday. My precious 8 year-old daughter decided to cook breakfast for me. Since there was a hot frying pan involved, I stood nearby ready to offer my assistance if needed. I watched as she cracked eggs against the edge of the stove, dripping raw egg all down the front of the oven door. I watched as she buttered the toast on the counter with no plate underneath to catch the crumbs. I watched as she dropped the silverware onto the floor, picked it up, blew on it, and kept on setting the table. She did all these things eagerly and out of love for me, even though she made a huge mess that I needed to clean up afterward.

There were a couple of moments in the kitchen when I was tempted to interfere, to fix her mistakes, to save myself some trouble. She looked at me several times, and I just smiled and encouraged her efforts, all while fighting the urge to correct her methods.

I had a conversation with my cousin last spring that I have pondered for many months. He was sharing with me about the times as a young boy when he asked his parents what they thought - of his projects, or his essay or his friends or whatever he was involved in at the moment. His parents would freely offer an opinion, sometimes positive, but often critical.

All these years later, my cousin realized that he wasn’t really asking their opinion, he was seeking their approval, and when it didn’t come it felt terrible.

After our conversation, I sat down with my kids and asked them if they feel like I withhold my approval. I told them that as a parent, the lines between love and discipline are often parallel, but I know that I don’t always get it right. Then I assured them that I love them NO MATTER WHAT and began to cite various unnecessary examples like, “I’ll love you if you are imprisoned, or change your gender, or get a “D” in Science.” But then I gave them that unspoken hairy eyeball warning look that intimates, “But don’t you dare ever do those things” and they are now developing a variety of tics and twitches.

The idea that God loves me without condition is such a hard one to grasp and yet I lived bathed in grace. I am now 41, and I spent more than half of those years really screwing up, not too mention most of last week. I have egg all down the front of my life, but I suspect that God doesn’t mind cleaning up a mess that was made out of eager love.

And the winner is...

Even though I also have those naked on the bus or underwear to school dreams (or are they nightmares?), one particular entrant knew how to butter up the judge. The winner is:

anonymous: "Will the Fightin' Phils make it to the World Series or is it just an oneiric fantasy?!?!"

Even though the sentence lacked the confidence of a World Series win (which I myself know is no mere dream), even the mention of my beloved Phillies plummeted it into the winner's circle.

Congrats. Acceptance speech, please...and sweet dreams.

Weekend Word

I have read that the subconcious mind can reveal a whole lot about our inner-workings. This week we will join in some analysis.

Lay on the couch, watch the swinging, shiny gold pocket watch, and fight your insomnia. Click on the word below, listen to its pronounciation, lay in bed and practice saying it over and over - almost like counting sheep. After participating in some word association exercises, use the word in a sentence and put that sentence in the comments section below. Get your entry in before 10 p.m. est on Sunday evening, for that is when a winner will be dreamt up.

oneiric

If you lose, you can sleep it off.

Fashion Disaster Day

Today is Fashion Disaster Day at my kids' school. Here is a picture of Mia's duds. When I asked JJ why he wasn't participating he looked at me soberly and said, "Mom, you and I are pretty much fashion disasters everyday."

I'm debating

I am typing this as I watch the vice-presidential debate. There is a lot to think about, a lot of very complex issues to be considered. In many ways, I am still debating. But there is one thing I am not debating. Let’s review what it means to be a Christian (when you claim to be one – if you don’t, then I have different expectations for you).

Lying is INEXCUSABLE for a Christian. Lying includes taking someone’s comments out of context knowingly to support your agenda.

Attacking anyone’s character is INEXCUSABLE for a Christian. Using words that build others up would be in order.

I strongly suspect that loving your neighbor, loving your enemies and blessing those that persecute you – fundamental to Christianity - works on a local and global level.

Being a Christian means believing that God’s way works, not just throwing out support for a handful of evangelical issues and displaying nationalism.

Have I ever fallen into these failures? Sure. I'm just glad I wasn't on national TV.

The healing nature of cancer

Last Saturday night, my family and 170 other people danced the night away at a “Hooray For Life” party. My friend Diana, who is battling leukemia, decided to have a bash like none other. Swoop, the Eagles’ mascot was there, a roving magician provided entertainment, and a Mummers band played! (If you don’t live in the northeast and are wondering what a “Mummer” is – believe me, it’s worth a google).

The guests were an eclectic bunch, coming from different parts of her life – family, work, church, neighbors. One of the best parts for me was finally being able to put faces to all the names that I’ve heard Diana refer to. There was Bryan and Cuzn Bob and Uncle Lou and her nieces and nephew, Linda from work whose boyfriend remains an urban myth and our mutual dear friend Julie and her new boyfriend. My kids danced so long and so hard that the DJ finally played “Last Dance” to give them warning that it was almost over.

I watched as everyone laughed, danced and embraced. In the midst of our concern for our friend, we did exactly as she asked and we celebrated the things in life that really matter – relationships, faith and food.

Diana’s sister, whose son has refused to speak to his mother, sat next to him throughout the night. I got to see and hug some folks from my old church that I haven’t seen in quite some time. People sat at tables with people they had never met, but found themselves friends.

Opposites may attract, but it’s what people have in common that bring them together. Well, that and the Mummers.

Speaking of bail

My husband is away for business and I have a whole new respect for single parents. We have three children, so even when we are both at home we are outnumbered, but at least we can strategically position ourselves between each child to avert any poking or pinching or tripping that is attempted.

With Steve away, one of three things will probably happen this week, the best of which is that I will be arrested for throttling one of my own. They are making me nuts.

We all had off for Rosh Hashanah yesterday, and even though we had plans with Grandma and Grandpa, plans with friends, and plans to watch a new Blockbuster release, we couldn’t seem to stop picking on each other. Mom gets very stressed and her buffer of a husband isn’t here to, well, buffer.

Please do not misunderstand me. I love these children desperately – every inch of them. However, I need at least one more inch of rope, because I’m at the very end of mine with four more days to go.

My children don’t ever get the benefit of my party personality. You know, that persona that instantly appears when others are around, when we are all on our best behavior. I wonder what they are thinking sometimes when they see mine appear. “Man, everybody thinks my mom is so great. They should see her when the dishwasher isn’t unloaded immediately…”

I want to be a consistent person, so only one question remains. Do I let you see what happens when you don’t pick your socks up off the bathroom floor or do I start being on my best behavior with the people I love the most?