Look up

I have been attending a lot of basketball games in recent days. All three of my children play, my oldest on two teams, and so the schedule is pretty packed.

The last two nights have been Mia’s team. If you have never seen a basketball game involving young girls you really haven’t lived. My husband, the coach, is incredibly patient as they learn and develop the motor skills necessary to play.

One of the phrases that he yells out often is, “Look up! Look up!” Girls (and young boys) have a tendency to look down at the ball when they are dribbling – part of learning how to control it – but they fail to see the court and their teammates and the basket when they do. Steve is encouraging them to dribble without watching, to keep their eyes set on the entire game – a skill that requires practice.

Over the last two nights, the phrase has been ringing in my ears: Look up! Look up!

It says in the book of Philippians chapter 4, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things. Whatever you have learned or received or heard from me, or seen in me—put it into practice. And the God of peace will be with you.

Don’t watch yourself dribble today.

Practice looking up.

Straight away

I am writing today while sitting in the waiting room at the orthodontist’s office. My son, JJ, is getting his SECOND set of braces put on, after wearing his first pair for 2 ½ years.

The process of getting braces put on is two-fold. The week before the wires and bands, little tyrants called “spacers” are placed between the teeth to make room for what’s coming. As you can imagine, both steps in the braces process, spacers and wires, HURT. JJ says that, for a few days, it feels like a constant toothache.

Pain is an interesting phenomenon, really. Think of the lengths we go to in order to avoid it. And, yet, if I read my Bible correctly, pain is absolutely INTEGRAL to becoming like Christ.

When they placed JJ’s spacers in last week, he continued to be AWARE of their presence – mainly because of the discomfort they caused. Often in my own life, when my relationships are out of sorts or broken, there is a discomfort – a pain – that reminds me of a problem. I suspect this is a very good thing, even though I do not like it. Sleeplessness, a disturbance in my spirit and the inability to forget are the impetus we need - to act, to change, to respond. Pain is God’s way of keeping us alert.

When JJ learned he would need another set of braces, I’ll admit he cried. Funny though, when he was younger and knew he was getting braces, he was actually excited. What’s different this time? He KNOWS what it’s like from experience – he anticipates the pain he will have to endure.

True for me, too. I know, without doubt, that the way of Christ is death and resurrection. Things must die – attitudes, habits, people, even really GOOD things – in order to make way for the new thing that God wants to do in our lives and in the world. Yet, after we experience this death a couple of times, we become gun-shy. Though we know it’s right and good and best – it HURTS. We anticipate the necessary painful process as we grow closer and closer to God, but it is still hard to welcome it. Learning to accept it straight-away, instead of practicing avoidance techniques, is a result of experiencing the freedom and wholeness that comes from completing the process.

Embracing pain as the cleansing, growing and teaching agent that it is can be difficult. God knows that – remember He went to the cross – proof positive that temporary pain creates a path for healing and redemption.

Oh, and straight teeth.

Pride cometh before the fall...

I am really crazy about my children. As a matter of fact, I must admit to some pride.

My eldest humbled me yesterday, however.

I heard some rustling yesterday morning about 5:00 am. I figured someone was using the bathroom and allowed myself a few more minutes to doze even though I am usually up at that time.

I woke with a start at 6:15 am, realizing I had overslept, and ran into my son’s room to wake him as well. He was under the covers as he is most mornings, so it never occurred to me that he had been up and around already.

Minutes before the bus was to arrive, he asked me if the printer to the family computer is working. I explained that it is, but is running low on ink, so he’d better use Dad’s printer. I then innocently asked why he needed to print something when it was almost time to catch the bus.

I won’t bore you with every sordid detail, but suffice it to say that Noah had gotten up at 5:00 am to write a major English paper that he was supposed to be working on for the entire Christmas break. And, yes, he was back in bed at 6:15 am.

The paper was based on “Our Town” by Thornton Wilder. Just like its character, Emily, Noah was asked to ponder the important things in his life that he takes for granted – things that he would realize are precious if he suddenly died.

Hmmmm. I can immediately think of a variety of things he could choose from, not the least of which is his mother’s steadfast love and attention.

What do you suppose Noah wrote about?

SHOWERS (yes, the kind where you use shampoo), WEARING CLOTHES (there was even a forced reference to those poor naked countries where people apparently are forced to work in the nude) and HANGING WITH FRIENDS AT SCHOOL.

I have been purged of my hubris. Thank you, Lord.

O mummy dear

J.J. has been working on a project for the Ancient Egyptian Fair at his school today. You can see from the pictures, that he made a mummy. He also wrote a paper entitled, “Ancient Egyptian Mummification.” He was never one for flowery titles like his mother.

As I edited his paper for him, I learned so many fascinating things. For instance, I knew that the Egyptian embalmers removed the internal organs and put them in canopic jars, but I did not know that they left the heart in the body because they believed it to be the center of feeling and the essence of the person. Apparently, a person was going to need his or her heart immediately in the after-life, so nobody dared take it out.

The brain, however, was a different story. A long spike was pushed up the nose of the corpse, the brain was smashed, and then removed with the spike. Often times, the brain was simply thrown away because it was considered generally unimportant.

Now, we know that our brains are important, but it got me thinking.

How many times have I let my “better judgment” be an obstacle to acting on a compassionate impulse? Or how frequently do I let fear undermine an empathetic urge? Often times, thinking things through has proved my downfall – and at other times, impulse has landed me in a shipload of trouble.

Perhaps there are legitimate reasons to throw the brain away.

Branching out

I keep learning from my children, and at the risk of sounding like a bragging mother today, I need to tell you about last night.

J.J. was in a play.

Now that may not sound very earth shattering to you, but let me explain. I used to be an actor – many moons ago now – but I could never get my children to even sing in the church choir – especially J.J. No amount of coercion or bribery would convince him to stand up in front of other people, and so I just let him choose for himself.

When he came home from school one day and declared, “I got a part in the play. I am the prince. I sing a solo and I have to wear tights,” I was pretty sure I would have a coronary right on the spot. This was no small step into performing. No, for a nonexhibitionist – this was a leap off a cliff.

I suspect it helped that two of his buddies from the baseball team were in it too – another fact I marveled over. What was happening to their well defined cleat wearing roles?

Last night during dinner, as we prepared to leave for the show, I asked J.J. if he was nervous, and he said exactly this:

“I think I’m always nervous when I try something new, but I chose to be the Prince, so I’m going to suck it up and go out there. It’ll probably be great once I get started.”

Later, after his thrilling performance (thrilling being his mother’s word) I thought about that response. My friend Dave, who I do not see nearly enough anymore, sent me an email the other day and he essentially talked about the price of being a true follower of Christ. He wrote, “I’ve never felt more excited about the gospel, but I feel I’m now amongst an incredibly small minority that feel this way. Most feel that they liked me better the way I was.”

It’s an old story, but the truth is that Christians want things to be easy and comfortable, and that desire seems to be in direct contradiction to the life of Jesus and His words. Being a follower of Christ demands venturing into uncomfortable, unfamiliar and brand new places – both literally and figuratively.

When God asks me to have a look at myself, I am often forced to face things about my personality and my bias’ that are disturbing to me. I would often like to think about cotton candy instead, but I recognize that if I dare to go there, God has something great for me in the end – growth, healing, better relationships.

My little baseball Prince reminded me of the truth:

I think I am always nervous when I try something new, but I chose to follow Christ, so I’m going to suck it up and go out there. It’ll probably be great once I get started.”

So, like J.J. and his baseball buddies above, I'm still branching out.

Absence makes the elbow grow tender

Sorry to be absent. Noah has another elbow problem from playing football that I am trying to get sorted out. I honestly feel like I can't win with these boys and these bones.

Grace under water pressure

On Saturday, my dear friend Beth and I, and our husbands, were in charge of the 6th grade car wash to raise funds for J.J.’s class trip. Let me just begin by telling you that if you are ever asked to lead a 6th grade car wash – don’t do it.

It was only four hours, but in that span of time I had such a myriad of feelings that I probably can’t explain them all to you.

One thing, however, that I think is worth mentioning is that very few of the kids could work hard.

Hear me out: I LOVE FUN. As a matter of fact, I prefer fun to most other things. I am all for bubble fights and hose squirting and general soap sudsy revelry. I am both happy to participate in said fun, and to allow it. Yet I had some sense on Saturday that there should be some actual car washing going on since we were taking people’s money.

Now, there were a few kids, I must say, who were great workers. They also had lots of fun, but then when a car arrived, they scrubbed and hosed and dried. The majority of kids, though, had excuses and arguments against putting out any sort of effort at all, and I began to wonder if I was chaperoning a school dance or an actually fundraising activity. The even crazier part was that even after they were (gently) encouraged to help, they still did not jump in to participate. At one point, I considered prompting them with a high pressured power washer.

You know what? I want kids to be kids, yes, but I somehow think it is important that they put forth some effort for what they want. These particular kids are going on an out of state class trip, one that will cost quite a bit of cash, and I do not think it is unrealistic for them to help raise such cash.

Perhaps too many parents are just writing checks for their kids’ activities these days. Perhaps a little elbow grease would do us all good. Perhaps I am old fashioned and out of touch.

My children claim that they do far too many chores. I claimed the same when I was a kid, but somehow I survived.

Thank you, Mom and Dad, for teaching me to work.

completely empty

My kids have this funny thing they do. Often, after playing in a game somewhere, they bring their empty water bottles back to the car with them. On the ride home, they stick the bottles out the window, and depending on the position you hold the bottle, and the speed of the car, you can produce different sounds. The kids are getting so good at it, that they actually had some harmony going the other day. J.J. thought it was an A and an F, but who’s to say.

About two weeks ago, we were driving home from the tennis courts, and Noah had his bottle out the window, trying to make the lowest pitched note he could. It was just the kids and me, and we all smiled as he experimented with it for about 2 miles or so.

We stopped at a red light at an intersection near our home, and suddenly I was completely doused through the driver’s side window of the car with a liquid I later discovered was soda.

Quite shocked, I turned to see a man in a red pick up truck in the left hand turn lane. He screamed something like, “That’ll teach you to try and throw water on my truck…” but my completely perplexed look must have caught him off guard.

“That kid over there,” he said, referring to Noah. “He’s trying to throw water on my car.” He was a VERY angry man.

“The bottle is completely empty,” was my feeble reply while I came to grips with the truth that I was covered in Sprite or Sierra Mist. “He’s just playing a game.”

“Tell the little f****r to play in front of someone else.”

Naturally, the red light refused to change to green. My children and I sat there in stunned silence, just wanting to get away, and he continued to look at us and make sneering remarks. When the left turn arrow turned green, instead of drive away, he sat right there – still staring at us. For a minute, I was afraid he was planning to follow us when our light turned green, but the car behind him starting honking its horn so persistently that he peeled away, screeching his tires the entire way.

The moment still makes me sad. My kids were frightened, I was sticky, the man was enraged.

So much for harmony.

Broken

I may not be around on Monday because the accident prone Melchior boys need to go back to the orthopaedist - ok, just J.J. He broke his left thumb diving for a baseball today, so we did the whole Emergency Room thing, yada yada, and need to head to the orthpaedist in the morning.

Scary, but I've been there so often that I actually know the correct spelling of ORTHOPAEDIST.

When we were headed home from the hospital, via McDonalds (the sure cure all supper), J.J. wanted to call some of his teammates to tell them that he would be out 4-6 weeks, but then he looked at me and said, "You'd better do it, Mom. I think I'm going to cry."

It made me feel broken too.

Propoganda

My children start school today – but just barely. Our local teachers’ union announced last week that they would strike because they were unhappy with the contract proposed by the school district. In Pennsylvania, there is a law about how much notice the union must give the community, so last Friday a judge ordered the teachers to show up today.

In this dispute, as in every dispute, there are two sides to the story. I try to educate myself with the “facts,” but honestly, when you read the information that both sides are disseminating, the facts are hard to discern. I learned last week that the school board is spending $7,500 a month to the Public Relations firm it has hired to create the right image during the negotiations.

When discussing the same letter, or the same contract items, the two sides are so different and the language used is so inflammatory that it’s hard to believe they are talking about the same thing, let alone imagine an eventual resolution to it all.

I started to think about this particular phenomenon and I think it is pretty common. You know what I mean - do we actually manipulate each other to the point of deceit, or do we really believe that our perspective is valid and true even if it’s not? I suspect both are sometimes correct.

I want to be the kind of Christian that sees relationships and communications differently. When challenged or afraid, I want to hesitate – to pause and simply consider another person’s point of view – before fiercely defending my own position. I think there are even times that I do not need to defend at all, but I can go ahead and be misunderstood in order to love someone well. Easier said than done, I know.

Imagine not needing any PR.

I think I’ll go on a propaganda strike.

Sharpened

We bought school supplies yesterday.

Each of my children walked through the store deciding what they needed in order to have a productive year. I walked around imagining the supply drawers in our kitchen – now full of broken crayons and markers without caps and dried out glue sticks from last year’s school escapades. I filled my cart with new items – including poster board – and couldn’t wait to get home and clean out.

At the register, J.J. asked why I had gathered all “this stuff.”

“Mom,” he said, “Most of this we won’t need until we are assigned a project or book report. That won’t happen for a while yet.”

I looked at him and smiled because I remembered the times when he and I were out late at the store the night before a project was due – frantically trying to find the right color construction paper because he had “forgotten” to mention the supplies he would need and I did not have them on hand.

“I guess I want to be prepared,” I answered him. “It’s nice to be ready ahead of time.”

As I continued to think about his comments, I realized that I read my Bible for some of the same kinds of reasons. Yes, I love the poetry and storytelling and drama it provides (it really is a work of literature) but reading it everyday also somehow prepares me for things – for life.

It’s not that I face every situation able to quote the scripture that is relevant, but by reading my Bible often I begin to innately know the story of God – the way of God – and His heart. In essence, it supplies me with what I need even before I need it.

It’s so much better than a frantic search the night before.

Fresh starts and other tastes of grace

Noah will begin 8th grade in a week. He did really well last year in his middle school debut, except for his last marking period math grade. His effort reminded me of the last ember of a firework – it begins so bright and brilliantly, but fizzles and falls in its final moments.

Mom was on Noah – I mean, on him. Poor kid must have felt like I was literally riding on his back. I asked him everyday about his homework and test scores and study habits…and priorities and future and self-respect. Where did he think failing a math test was going to get him? Did he think Harvard wouldn’t be looking at 7th grade math tests? When he is thirty-five, and working as rat infested sewer inspector, this math test would haunt him each day as he trudged through the human waste wondering where his life went wrong - I reminded him gently.

O, how I love my kid.

Yesterday, Noah looked at me and smiled. “Ready for school to start?” he asked. I found his question particularly amusing since it is him, as opposed to me, who has to get back into study mode, but then I understood his meaning.

We are on this journey together, my son and I - grades, adolescence, misunderstandings, unnecessary freak outs and grade point pressure, sometimes winning, sometimes losing, sometimes really screwing up. Another mother told me this summer that she calls Noah “The Ambassador of Goodwill” on the baseball diamond. As he played first base, she watched him greet each batter from the other team with a handshake and a, “Good hit!” I didn’t tell her about the math test, or how sometimes his mother forgets how wonderful he is.

I think it’s the same way that God feels about me. Sometimes His chest is bursting with joy as He watches me love someone well and at other times He shakes His head as I fail the test.

But we’re on this journey together, my God and I.

O, how He loves His kid.

Play ball!

My oldest son, Noah, is playing in a week long baseball tournament in Cooperstown, New York next week. I will have limited (if any) access to the Internet, so I may not talk with you next week.

I have been reading a book entitled, Mountains Beyond Mountains by Tracy Kidder. It won the Pulitzer Prize for non-fiction, but more than that, it is one of the more life-changing and thinking-challenging books I have read in MANY moons.

I highly encourage you to pick it up and begin. I would like to discuss it in the weeks ahead.

S.W.A.K.

My boys are sleeping at their buddy Mark’s house tonight. As I said goodbye, I leaned to kiss them and both were awkward in their responses. No – “awkward” is not the right word – more like refusing or resistant, I guess. They didn’t want to kiss their mom in front of their friends.

Ouch.

Kind of helps me understand how God feels when I fail to acknowledge/love Him.

Beauty Shoppe

My daughter and I played Beauty Shoppe on Saturday. It was very rainy here, so we all had to do indoor activities.

Beauty Parlor is a funny game, really. As I painted nails and curled hair, I wondered how we all got to the place where we put so much importance on how we look. So, I tried a little something new:

Every time I painted a toenail, Mia and I thought of a way that God makes us beautiful. In other words, as I applied the hot pink, she said, “God makes us patient” and with each stroke of the hairbrush, she would smile with, “God helps us forget each other’s mistakes.”

It was great really and maybe worth your time when you stand in front of the bathroom mirror tomorrow morning. With every tooth brushed and every lash curled and every whisker shaved – it might be helpful to review how God is making you beautiful. Take a minute to pause and focus your priorities.

More like a Beauty Stop than Beauty Shoppe.

Homemade cards and other reproach producing paper

I hope you had a great Mother’s Day. I recognize that it can be a tough day for some people. I had a friend who once told me that one of the hardest moments of the entire year for her is when she stands in the Hallmark store and tries to find a Mother’s Day card that is true.

I woke up yesterday and shortly after my daughter was leading me into a room to present me with a homemade card. It is gigantic, made on large size art paper, and here is what it says:

HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY
I LOVE YOU
Let me name all the nice things about you…
Marvelous
Outstanding
Magnificent
You’re kind, sweet, you help us when we need it. You think of us first, you forgive us! But most of all you always have time for me and more.
Love, Mia xoxoxoxoxo

It was beautiful, but somehow it gave me the strangest feeling inside. I truly long to be all the things my daughter believes that I am, all the things she needs me to be. Did you ever read a card that way?

God in cafeterias

I knew I was weepy yesterday, but I had no idea it would turn out to be a little too true.

J.J. was playing in a band assembly at another elementary school cafeteria and asked me to come and watch. Naturally I agreed, even though I will see the exact same concert twice next week at his school.

I guess it all started when the 6th grade girls’ chorus sang, “Ordinary Miracle.” Even hard core cynics begin to thaw at lyrics like:

“It’s not that usual when everything is beautiful
It’s just another ordinary miracle today
The sky knows when it’s time to snow
You don’t need to teach a seed to grow
It’s just another ordinary miracle today…”

I, being easily stirred, began to sniffle.

Of course, watching my own son, sitting upright in his chair with his fingers working adeptly at his saxophone and his foot tapping to the beat caused some eye leakage as well. I began to marvel at the opportunities we are afforded because of where we live and who we are, and then I began to mourn for every child in the world who doesn’t get the chance to play an instrument.

But the tears started rolling as I noticed a little boy with Downs Syndrome sitting to my left. He insisted on standing through the hour long assembly and one of the teacher’s aides tried to get him to sit down at first. But the lead teacher gave the aide a shake of her head – after all, he wasn’t hurting anyone and the only person whose sight line was interrupted was me – and I loved the sight of him.

At first he just stood very still, watching the instruments move and make their sounds. Slowly, however, he started to feel what he could see, and he began to sway and move his arms. After each number he would applaud enthusiastically, all while the lead teacher clapped along and smiled in encouragement.

I began to feel a blessing deep within me. It was a sense of wonder and enchantment as I sat and experienced these young musicians and what they are already contributing to the world. My heart was full for this fabulous teacher who patiently let a child be exactly who he is, in spite of the rules. But it was the boy who overwhelmed me - my sight being interrupted by a boy who had joy he could feel.

Children making music. A great teacher. Joy you can feel. Just another ordinary miracle yesterday.

Synonyms

In the thesaurus, under the entry for “mother,” one of the synonyms should be “chauffeur.” I was contemplating writing a persuasive letter to this effect last week while waiting outside the middle school for my son. I had only just begun “Dear Mr. Roget, I have a proposition for you…” when a fist fight broke out.

If I’m honest, I saw the familiar fist fight dance start before a single punch was thrown. Two boys were kind of circling each other, as other kids stood around in anticipation. I was in my car, so I couldn’t really hear any of the banter, but their posturing put me on alert.

Before I tell you the whole sordid tale, one that left my son wishing that the ground would open and swallow him up, I must be sure and paint the entire picture for you. MANY parents were playing chauffeur that day, both moms and dads, and the cars were lined up in two rows. If I had to guess, there were at least 40 cars along the school driveway full of weary drivers waiting for their charges.

When I saw the first punch, I didn’t move. Inside, I was desperately hoping one of them (especially the little guy) would just walk away. The onlookers started to egg them both on, however, and the circling continued.

At this point, my son was exiting the school, baseball bag over his shoulder, and started toward the car. He didn’t see the battle at first, but heard a cheer or two, and stopped to see what was up. The bigger boy threw Punch #2.

Suddenly, all the synonyms for “mother” started rattling through my brain:
Protector
Nurse
Care giver
Listener
ROLE MODEL

I jumped out of my car. By now, there are throngs of middle schoolers standing around watching – and all the same parents watching from their cars as well – as the bigger boy pummels the smaller one in the head over and over. I started to yell, “Stop!” as I moved across the grass towards the crowd. Kids started to scatter at my voice and most had that “I wasn’t involved” look on their faces at the sight of an adult.

I had to physically pry the boys apart while I repeated the phrase, “That’s enough,” about 15 times. The bigger kid was red faced and defiant, the smaller was red faced and embarrassed. They were both breathing heavily as they looked at me.

You know those moments when you have no idea what to say and you end up saying something really stupid? When my mouth finally opened, it said, “Guys, you are going to hurt each other.” Duh. Yeah, I know that was the whole point.

I asked their names, just to scare them a little, and then I finished gentle and pastoral with, “There are better ways to handle conflict, ok?” I patted them both on the back, made sure that the little guy’s pupils were not permanently dilated, and watched them walk away separately.

When I turned back around, everyone was staring at me – the students, the parents – but my son was nowhere to be found. I discovered him crouched down in the front seat of our car, and when I opened the door he said, “Let’s go, Mom. Just drive.”

As we went home, I felt a little like one of those unsuspecting persons on ABC’s “What Would You Do?” with John Quinones. Mortify your son or break up a fist fight?

Despite his preteen response, the answer to what should I do was not lost on my son, however. After we were out of sight range, my son sat back up and I said, “I’m sorry, Noah, if I embarrass you.”

He was smiling. “Are you kidding? You go, Mom. I’m glad you did that. It was right.”

Dear Mr. Roget,

Feel free to add “referee” too.

Blaming Gaming

I picked one of my sons up from school this week. I saw him walk toward the car talking with his buddy, but as soon as he opened the door and saw his Mom, his eyes welled up with tears.

Every year, the gym teacher at his school pulls 10 names out of a hat to participate in a March Madness basketball tournament. The grade level team plays against the other elementary school teams, and it is a pretty big deal for the kids. My oldest son was selected when he was 10, and his younger brother had been looking forward to his chance for 2 years.

Needless to say, J.J.’s name was not pulled out of the hat, and he was disappointed. Very disappointed.

As we drove to our house though, I noticed something begin to happen. J.J. began to wonder if the selection process was fixed, if the teacher’s pets were chosen and he started to come up with all sorts of malevolent reasons behind his being overlooked.

I listened for a minute, but gently reminded him that sometimes random things happen. Yes, they are disappointing, but they are nobody’s fault. When we got home, I hugged him for a very long time in the kitchen and told him how sorry I was that things had not worked out the way he planned. I assured him that there was nothing random about my love for him.

Isn’t it fascinating how we feel the urge to blame? Not only when unfortunate circumstances occur, but especially when we legitimately fail on our own. The process of simply absorbing and embracing the disappointment or sorrow is not our first choice for some reason, but I suspect we need to practice.

Refuse to blame today. Don’t blame others, don’t blame God. Hug your mother (find a safe place) and feel the pain. You’ll live to dribble another day and you won’t have been unfair or unkind to someone else in the process.

Ready....set....tea

Last week, I noticed something. Yes, just one thing.

My kids and I were out and about, and I marveled at the number of times my youngest, Mia, is instructed to, “Hurry up.”

When my kids were small, Noah was very good about holding his sister’s hand in parking lots, etc. but would always pull her along saying, “Hurry up!”

When her brothers are playing in the driveway or yard with her, since she is smaller, she is always a step behind. After the crack of the bat you can often hear, “Hurry up!” as she chugs along the bases.

Some evenings, we rush through dinner on our way to a game or practice. Mia likes to bring along books and activities to occupy herself. The rest of us sit in the car while she collects her things yelling, “Hurry up!” even though we only gave her a few scant minutes to get ready to go.

And shower time! She generously volunteers to jump in first as her brothers watch T.V. or something, but then is told to, “Hurry up,” because bedtime is fast approaching.

I was the oldest child in my family, so I was born in a hurry, but Mia is always keeping up.

My littler sister was telling me on Monday about some of the Invisible Children (from Africa) who were brought to the U.S. for educational opportunities. I have not seen the follow-up movie myself yet, but she told me that they talk of how fast paced our lifestyle is, and how they have found themselves becoming frantic to keep up – financially and educationally. Even though they were given “opportunities” when they arrived (subsidized housing, entrance to community college, manual labor jobs, etc) the young men lament their inability to go to school because they are required to work beyond full-time just to support their new life in the U.S. – and that was just rent and groceries!

We need to think about ourselves, don’t we? I suppose arguments against slowing down could be made. Is it our drive that makes us the most innovative nation in the world?

And yet, the benefits of pacing ourselves outweigh the rest. Don’t they?

What are we truly gaining or giving up by maintaining or rejecting our intensity? Is it even practical to ponder slowing down, or would it then be impossible to survive in our culture?

Maybe we could start with afternoon tea...