Me and Karl

Growing up in the good ol’ US of A, I knew without a shadow of a doubt that Communism was a great evil that needed to be eradicated from the face of the Earth. The Cold War was a pressing necessity, and when the Berlin Wall fell, I had the same sense of pride and eagerly participated in the “Go Capitalism!” pep rally like everyone else.

Now, I think I am a Communist – or a Marxist at the very least.

I spent one week on a cruise ship. What I observed in the dining room was enough to make me rethink the whole world, probably because the whole world was around me.

The wait staff represented 67 different countries. Our waiters were from the Philippines and Jamaica respectively – Ricky and Andre were their names. They were very hard workers, and during the first meal I decided to learn about them.

Both had families back in their countries that they were away from for 6 months at a time. Andre would disembark once a week, on Wednesdays, and jog to his kids’ school to check up on them briefly before rushing back. Both spoke multiple languages (far more than the one that I can barely use properly) and they were intelligent and fascinating men.

On Day 2, I asked them why they do this job. Ricky smiled thoughtfully and essentially explained that his sacrifice provided opportunities for his children that they would otherwise miss out on.

I began to pick up my own dishes by Day 3 – uncomfortable with being served in this way. Unless we are disabled, putting our own napkin on our laps should be a no brainer also.

There was a group at a table near us that continued to attract my attention. Using my keen observation skills, I determined that they had saved for quite a while for this trip. I will not go into further descriptive detail, but just know that they were no multi-millionaires.

The way they treated the wait staff, however, was appalling. They acted as if they were the royal family (actually, the royal family has far better manners) and were so demanding. They each ordered multiple entrees every night, sometimes just having a single bite, and wasted an obscene amount of food. You realize, I suppose, that I am really holding back on these folks trying to exercise grace – but it isn’t easy!!

They felt like someone owed them something. I’m not sure why, but they were fine upstanding examples of why the world hates Americans.

I started to wonder what Ricky and Andre thought. By Day 5, I was brave enough to ask.

“Oh, Wendy,” Ricky said with a smile, “there are people like that all over the world. Unfortunately, they all vacation here.” We both laughed.

As I ponder social inequities, I recognize that they have caused both problems – both Ricky being far from his family and people trying to feel important and acting like jerks. I hear the argument that we provide jobs and income and it all makes the world go round, but somehow somewhere something is terribly wrong.

I am not escaping the hypocrisy of my own presence there. Out of guilt and appreciation, I left them a huge tip. Did I help or hinder?

I’m not really a Communist. No, I am in favor of a dictatorship – a benevolent one where God is in charge. I wonder what that would look like?

Easy answers?

CLICK HERE and read an interesting article.

Thoughts?

Glory, glory days

SO, a funny thing happened last night. My son’s baseball team had a fundraiser at a local ice creamery raising money towards their upcoming trip to Cooperstown. The kids had a blast scooping the ice cream and serving their friends. We were fortunate enough to have a great turnout.

As we were preparing to leave, I noticed a woman talking to my husband across the courtyard. Something about her body language caught my attention, and I watched her with interest as she spoke to him and a group of team parents.

Turns out, she had gone to college with Steve, who was apparently quite a stud back in the day. The woman was regaling the group with stories about my husband and his basketball team – about how they used to steal food from her sorority refrigerator (quickly forgiven, of course), about how TALL they all were in comparison to everyone else and numerous other BMOC antics that she remembered fondly and in detail.

I watched as my husband feigned blushing and pretended to not remember how great he used to be, and I found this to be even more amusing than her gushing. Tempted to contribute to the conversation by revealing his humanness (you know - snoring, smelly sneakers - the basics), I stopped myself short.

Steve is great, I thought to myself, he was and he is.

Sometimes I am reminded of all the things I used to be or wanted to be or dreamt of being and these thought/memories can leave me momentarily unsatisfied with what IS. Oh, when my thighs were thin or what if I’d not given up acting or how cool would it be to live in a center city loft apartment… Ever have these moments?

I think dreams are great things. Scripture is full of times when God gave His people a vision for something bigger than they were able to see on their own.

I know that God’s dreams for me are so much bigger than what I call a dream. Peace on earth, free flowing forgiveness, restored relationships, minds and bodies healed. Opening my life up to His kind of dreaming, instead of being distracted by the temporary things that catch my eye, may help me stop myself short when tempted to be dissatisfied with what is.

God is great. He was and He is and He always will be. Glory days.

You are what you wear

Last Friday, I had some very precious friends coming for dinner. It was a warm day, so I figured we’d eat outside – not to mention the fact that my house is still in a state of chaos from the repairs, etc. When I ventured into the back yard earlier in the day to prepare, I decided we needed some hanging baskets of flowers to improve the “not quite worked on” state of the deck area.

I buy flowers at a busy local greenhouse near where I live that is owned and operated by a Mennonite family. They are very nice and the flowers are beautiful. I turned into the familiar parking lot, and passed their business sign – a sign that is surrounded by scripture placards. One side of the placard read, “Lord, increase our faith” and the other read, “Purge yourself of all unrighteousness.”

Now, I have always been intrigued by a couple of things when shopping there. First, the owners’ home is at the front of the property, and their wash is always hanging out – bras and very large women’s underwear included. I have always found this to be a bold and amusing decision – and, frankly, it earns them a strange sort of respect from me.

Secondly, I marvel at the amount of hard work the women do – all in skirts and clothing that covers almost everything. There are no tank tops allowed – and you know how hot a greenhouse is!

Religious garb is an interesting choice, isn’t it? Traditional Mennonites, Amish, Hassidic Jews, devout Muslims (etc) all wear clothing that immediately identifies them as religious. As I looked through the geraniums, I began to ponder the reasons behind the uniforms.

I considered modesty and tradition and all the other reasonable conclusions, but I could not get away from the fact that I suspect that sometimes religious garb is simply to make a statement – not unlike the placard.

I selected more flowers than I intended to buy and made my way to the line. It was long, so I stood there for a few minutes and observed the woman working the counter, dressed in a long sleeved gray dress and head covering. You know, she never smiled, she never greeted a customer warmly, and she scolded a woman on her cell phone for holding up the line.

I stood there in my shorts and asked the Lord to increase my faith.

Munchausen’s by Peanut

Our children are now taught that a classmate might die right in front of them if they bring PB&J for lunch. Where were these kids when we were in school?

Click here for the rest of this wonderfully snarky article.

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.

The Amazing Race

I think I watched the very first season of The Amazing Race, and I enjoyed it, but for some reason I have not watched it since then. However, I wanted to watch Fed Chief Bernanke’s interview on 60 Minutes last Sunday, and the Race immediately followed, so I watched once again.

The teams were in Russia, started in Siberia as a matter of fact, and I was intrigued as they communicated with the local people. Interestingly, one of the teams has a young man who is deaf, as well.

I vaguely remember feeling this same way the first time I watched the show, but isn’t it fascinating how Americans just expect that everyone should speak English? One of the teams was loudly yelling, “Stop!” to its cab driver and then did not hide their disgust when the driver did not stop right away. At another moment, ladies were appalled when none of the Russian snow plow drivers spoke any English.

Once when I was attending mass at St. Peter’s Basilica in Vatican City, I witnessed a lovely older Italian man politely asking an American to remove his hat before entering. The senior was very proud of his church and felt it should be respected. Now, does God care if we wear a hat in church or not? Of course not, but God cares a great deal about whether we violate what is treasured by another person.

My fellow American refused, said something about it being his inalienable right to wear a hat and all, and a scene erupted. I felt completely mortified as I realized that many Americans really do think we are an amazing race, and that everyone else is somehow secondary. Naturally, I got involved, and said a few four letter words in both English and Italian to make my point. What can I say? I was young and foolish, but the old man smiled and later sat with me through the service. Turns out he was a seasoned tour guide, employed by the Vatican, and after mass I was treated to stories and back rooms that most people never get to hear or see.

The deaf man on The Amazing Race communicates using his hands. Some of the teams have bothered to bring language translation books and are making the effort to speak in a brand new, often hard, way. I admire their effort.

Sometimes I think that Christians do the hat thing, too. We have our own language – better known as Christianese. We forget it is a foreign language to some and we somehow expect people to just get it. Then we get defensive or elitist when we are asked to dig deeply and explain what our catch phrases mean beyond their sounds. I wonder if the truth of our lives behind our words aren't sometimes as hollow as the words themselves.

Perhaps we should remember what is truly amazing and what’s not. Jesus is amazing. Being forgiven is amazing. Knowing God is amazing. Feeling entitled to judge is not an inalienable right, and pretending that the Christian life is a perfect life is just plain foolish - and not at all amazing.

Just a thought, but I wonder if Christians would solicit more credibility/respect by treating people to stories and back rooms that they don't usually let people hear or see.

Fighting the virus

My dear Noah has been struggling with a virus. He is the kind of kid who cannot shake an illness once it gets a hold on him, and one has had a hold on him all week. He is a great sick person, though. He doesn’t really complain and he just chills – not to mention that he likes to sit close to his mother when ill (not that I am pleased when he is sick, but as he gets older these moments are fewer and fewer).

So, yesterday we went back to the doctor for another check of his lungs. It was a very cold day and there was not an available parking spot near the office door. We parked further down the lot and jumped out.

Noah said, “Look, Mom,” from his side of the car and I walked over to see what had his attention. There was a note stuck into the drivers’ window of the car parked next to ours. It read:

“Just wanted to let you know that I noticed your rear right tire is terribly low on air. I didn’t want you have any trouble. Be careful and take care.”

That was it.

Noah looked at me and smiled. “That was nice of someone, wasn’t it?” he asked.

Sometimes I hear about how sick the world is, and I know it’s true on many levels. There is a selfishness in all of us, a propensity to self-preserve instead of serve. Even our economic meltdown was caused, in part, by too much taking and not enough giving. I guess there is some sickness and dysfunction in all of us.

Yet I think of the cold, of the effort to find a piece of paper and a pen, of the time it took to write the note, of the lovely tone it was written in, and I smile too.

What a great sick person, huh?

Down and dirty and heroic

If I told you how many loads of laundry I did this weekend, you wouldn’t believe me. Besides, I would be inadvertently revealing the fact that I will get down to my last pair of underwear before I act. I would rather you didn’t know that.

While I sat on the bedroom floor and folded, I watched two movies I had never seen before (more hints about the amount of laundry). First, I watched Charlie Wilson’s War with Tom Hanks and then I watched an indie called Noise starring Tim Robbins. The first I recommend, the second I do not.

Interestingly, both films were about flawed men who championed a cause. Charlie Wilson was a womanizing Congressman who proposed and supported U.S. funded weapons for the Afghani people in their war against the Soviets (1980s). Noise was essentially about a vigilante who broke into cars in order to dismantle their alarms thus reducing the noise in New York City, and many people were in full support of his tactics.

I have also been intrigued lately by the growing number of bumper stickers that read, “Nice girls don’t make history.” I’ll admit it makes me smile every time I see it.

Isn’t interesting who we make heroes? Consider how we have sainted Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt. Is New Orleans reconstruction and refugee advocacy enough to dismiss other so called “bad” behavior (multiple marriages, children out of wedlock, you know the list)?

What makes a hero and why? Is a flawed nature necessary? Perhaps some of you have read excerpts of Mother Teresa’s journal that was found after her death. She wrestled with paralyzing doubt and deep questions, but kept on steadily loving people in the name of Jesus. Many “saints” had personal lives that were messy and vices that plagued them throughout their lives.

Since I live in 2009, the irony of Charlie Wilson’s War was not lost on me. Hindsight now tells us that the very Afghani men we armed and trained are now fighting against us. Charlie Wilson saw children in a refugee camp missing limbs, and decided on a course of action that ultimately leaves us with questions. More questions than I can list.

Maybe a hero simply acts before he/she runs out of underwear.

The Lovely Miss Jasmine

If you are a regular here, you are well aware of the fact that I have a friend, Diana, who is struggling with leukemia. She just spent 43 days in the hospital, and I am taking her back again this Friday.

Diana often comments on the blog with the moniker “The Lovely Miss Jasmine” who is actually her dog, a Doberman Pincher. They were best buddies, Diana and Jasmine, so when Diana could no longer care for Jasmine last fall, we asked my Mom and Dad to care for her.

While Diana was in the hospital last week, Jasmine died. My Mom fed her breakfast that morning, took her for a walk, and then Jasmine decided to have a little nap. She died in her sleep, and considering that Doberman’s usually live 9 years or so (Jasmine was 14) it was a pleasant way to go.

After my mother called to tell me, I started driving to my parent's house to help. Jasmine was a very big dog to move, not to mention how upset my mother was. On the way, I was thinking of how to tell Diana. I knew I had to call, the hospital was too far away to deliver the news in person and still help my distressed mother. It was an awful moment, figuring out how to tell someone who is already suffering so deeply that there is even more bad news to be absorbed.

I read an interesting work of fiction a couple of weeks ago – The Grace That Keeps This World by Tom Bailey. In one chapter, a Catholic priest talks about listening to a veteran confess about the Vietnam War. The former soldier, in his fear, had shot an innocent man and failed to rescue an 8 year old girl being raped by other U.S. soldiers. He had carried the weight of his secret, and the sound of her screams, for many years. Bailey writes from the priest’s point of view, “There seemed to be no end to the stories he needed to tell. He spoke, and I listened, absorbing his words, each deed, every act. And as I listened I could not help but recall the story of Jesus’ taking possession of the demons and sending them into a herd of swine and then racing the mad, squealing bunch of them over the cliff….” (the demon story is Matthew 8:28 if you want to look it up)

I often wrestle with what the Apostle John meant when he wrote, “Walk as Jesus walked.” Absorbing my friend’s grief – the pain that was about to feel explosive inside her - was to walk as Jesus walked. There’s a lot to absorb with cancer, and I haven't quite figured out how to cast it all away. I wasn’t sure I had room for more. I sat in the car and debated whether Diana was better off not knowing, whether a white lie or two was justified just this once. As I struggled, I knew that choosing to lie was about self-protection, not friend-protection.

Sitting in my parents’ driveway, and taking a deep breath, I called Diana. I listened as she sobbed and told me how she had just dreamt of Jasmine the night before. Losing a pet is upsetting, under any circumstances, but as I listened to my friend grieve in her hospital room, I knew this was far more complex than anyone, save God, could understand.

Diana gave me instructions for burying Jasmine, and my dear father braved the snow to wrap her in her purple blanket and lay her to rest in my mother’s beautiful garden. Diana plans to plant some flowers there in the spring, a moment I will not only willingly absorb, but one I will choose to keep.

A dangerous post

Most of you are keenly aware that I live in a suburb of Philadelphia. We natives fully recognize that we have a bad reputation, and if we’re honest, we sort of like it.

Take our sports teams, for instance. We are over the top ridiculous and fanatical about the Phillies, Eagles and Flyers – the Sixers have been held in suspicion since Dr. J retired, but that’s a story for another day. We were the only NFL franchise to have a court located INSIDE THE STADIUM so a judge could process all the arrests during game time, so for me to criticize my own is an extremely dangerous proposition. If there is no blog post tomorrow morning, call 9-1-1.

Naturally, I was sitting in front of my TV yesterday afternoon, with every other Philadelphian, watching the Eagles take on the Giants. It was a hard fought game, what FOX was billing as the NFC Grudge Match, and the amount of fighting and trash-talking that appeared to be going on proved FOX’s point.

Not until the last quarter was it apparent that the Eagles would win. It was a real nail biter, as my father-in-law says. In the final minutes, our quarterback, Donovan McNabb did something that I want to talk about today.

Donovan ran out of bounds with the football, and his own momentum propelled him into the Giants sideline. He took the opportunity to rub the looming defeat in a little, and picked up the Giant’s team phone to call the Giants coaching booth. It was a little immature, honestly, but not the end of the world.

But then he got my goat. During a post-game interview, when asked how he felt about the game, Donovan said, on national TV, “First of all, God is so good.”

Ugh.

Now this may surprise those of you who accuse me of being a bleeding-heart-liberal-no mention-of-sin-bending-grace-so-far-it-will-break kind of person (yes, I do read your emails) but it drives me NUTS when athletes credit God with helping them win a football game. I am not implying that it is beyond the abilities of God to intervene, but I often wonder why He would choose to do so. How would it advance His kingdom?

So, you can imagine what I was feeling when Donovan pulled his little “in your face, Giants” phone shenanigan and then credited God for handing the team a victory. I turned to look at my husband, who knows me better than any other human being, and he already had an ear to ear grin on his face, waiting for my reaction.

“Why, oh, why do they do that?” I said, incensed.

“Do what?” Steve was still smiling.

“You know what,” I replied, “with people starving all over the world, do football players really believe that God is concerned with the outcome of a game?”

“Maybe,” was all he said.

“What do you mean, maybe?”

“Maybe God likes it when players remind viewers of His name, when they represent Him on TV.” Steve braced himself.

Let me just interrupt our conversation a minute. I am not completely unreasonable even though I can come on a little strong at times. I took at least a nano second to consider my husband’s theory before passionately defending my position.

“Are you crazy?” was how I began our reasonable exchange of ideas and thoughts. “No, I should be thanking you because you have proven my point about Donovan. When he uses God’s name on TV, he must remember that he now represents Him on some level, so why that little stunt with the telephone? Would God rub someone’s defeat in their face? God may be good, but Donovan apparently is not.” I gave the last word a little extra emphasis because I was ready for the case to go to the jury.

Steve just kept smiling, because he knew I would let it all marinate for a while, over thinking it from every angle.

I do not have a profound conclusion - and I admit that I do dumb stuff almost every day - but from my current ungracious point of view, I still think to whom much is given, much is expected.

Your thoughts?

Everyone's brilliance

SO, my friend Susan Isaacs has a book coming out in March. I am hoping to get a review copy and tell you all about it (there is an outside chance I will get an extra to give away in a blog contest – we’ll see). The book is called, “Angry Conversations With God” and, being prophetic, I have no doubt it is awesome. Susan is very gifted.

She is also generous. Susan has proved a great encouragement to me and I thought I would share something I learned from her.

After we were first connected, (through our mutual and beautiful friend Meredith) Susan did not hesitate to help me. She was several steps ahead of me in the book process, and she gave me names, warnings, and pep talks. Publishing is a very competitive business, with limited work being printed each year. Without reluctance, she emailed a copy of her book proposal to me so that I could get a feel for what was expected and she sent me a funny message asking if I would do a book tour with her after reading a sample from my website. She is an actor, I am a former one, so a combined book tour is probably a dangerous and high-strung idea, but I loved her for suggesting it, no matter how tongue-in-cheek it was.

One day, after she blessed me with more encouragement, I sent her a message thanking her for being so perfectly wonderful. She replied with the most interesting sentence. She said, “I have come to realize that there is room in the world for everyone’s brilliance.”

WOW.

I have let those words ring in my head ever since. Being the kind of person that refuses to be threatened by other people’s gifts is an extraordinary thing. No need to find fault, no need to compete, no need to compare – just the ability to be so helpful and vulnerable that you risk the possibility of being surpassed. True joy when someone else wins. It’s the stuff of God.

Not that Susan had to worry. She is now WAY ahead of me. I am never tempted to feel jealous or withholding, however, because the woman out in front taught me that her brilliance is valuable and needed. And so is mine.

Thanks, Susan. I will tell everyone to buy your book, my friend. Hooray for you!

Mischief Night

Here’s a true tale for review:

I received a message last week on Facebook. It was from a guy I went to High School with.

Apparently, in or around 1984, I knew the identity of some kids who threw eggs at his garage on Mischief Night. He told me, in his note, that when He questioned me on the school bus about it, I refused to tell who did it, although I wasn’t directly involved in the actual incident. He is still angry with me and perceives me to be insensitive to the embarrassment that he felt all those years ago.

Now, if I am truthful, I have no recollection of that bus conversation or the mischief of that Mischief Night at all. I felt really bad about the message though, for lots of reasons. I wondered if I was insensitive to his pain back then, the obvious humiliation he felt. I was sad that he still remembered and harbored it all – in detail. I longed to defend myself, but simply apologized instead. Many of these mixed feelings haven’t gone away.

There is one thing I have learned from the message. Everything I do and say has impact on someone else. It’s best to do and say carefully.

Time to give thanks

Yesterday, a friend of mine from my kids’ elementary school called me on the phone to check and see how we were all feeling (much better, by the way). As we talked for a couple of minutes, I asked where she was spending Thanksgiving. Her answer was thus: “We are headed to my in-laws, but first we are sharing a turkey with the homeless. I heard about a shelter that was asking people to cook a turkey and bring it to share. So, I cashed in a free turkey coupon I had, and we are going over there to serve and eat early in the day.”

I told her how thrilled I was that they were making this choice and she said, “Well, I read your blog.”

Thank you so much. I welled up with tears after we hung up. It may have been because I am exhausted after a vomit filled week, but I don’t think so because I am welling up now.

You know how we all walk around telling each other what we are thankful for? We thank God for good health and for families and for jobs and the list goes on. We join “Thankful” groups on Facebook and create updates intended to praise God for His goodness.

Well, this year (and I don’t just mean today) instead of just being thankful, what if we started doing thankful?

I wonder how many churches had Thanksgiving eve services last night and people were asked to stand up and express what they are thankful for. Not a bad thing, but what if we did thankful instead of said thankful? Sort of like, “God, You have been so good to me. I want to show you how thankful I am by demonstrating Your faithfulness in the world.” Put your turkey where your mouth is and be the answer to someone’s prayer.

Assigns all new meaning to “give thanks,” doesn’t it? It’s time to give thanks.

Promises to Keep

Today, I would like to share this passage from Vice-President elect Joe Biden's memoir, Promises to Keep. It's about the sudden death of his wife, Neilia, and their baby daughter Naomi in a car accident shortly after his election to the Senate in 1992. It is defiantly not an explication of the power of faith, but rather an honest -- and politically risky -- description of what it really felt like:

"They flew us to Wilmington, but I didn't know anything for sure until I got to the hospital. All the way up, I kept telling myself that everything was going to be okay, that I was letting my imagination run away with me, but the minute I got to the hospital and saw Jimmy's face, I knew the worst had happened. Beau, Hunt and Naomi had been in the car with Neilia when the accident happened. Neilia had been killed and so had our baby daughter. The boys were both alive, but Beau had a lot of broken bones and Hunt had injuries. The doctors couldn't rule out permanent damage. I could not speak, only felt this hollow core grow in my chest, like I was gong to be sucked inside a black hole.

The first few days I felt trapped in a constant twilight of vertigo, like in the dream where you're suddenly falling...only I was constantly falling. In moments of fitful sleep I was aware of the dim possibility that I would wake up, truly wake up, and this would not have happened. But then I'd open my eyes to the sight of my sons in their hospital beds -Beau in a full body cast--and it was back. And as consciousness gathered again, I could always feel at least one other physical present in the room--and there would be Val, or my mom, or Jimmy. They never left my side. I have no memory of ever being physically alone.

Most of all I was numb, but there were moments when the pain cut through like a shard of broken class. I began to understand how despair led people to just cash it in; how suicide wasn't just an option but a rational option. But I'd look at Beau and Hunter asleep and wonder what new terrors their own dreams held, and wonder who would explain to my sons my being gone, too. And I knew I had no choice but to fight to stay alive.

Except for the memorial service, I stayed in the hospital room with my sons. My life collapsed into their needs. If I could focus on what they needed minute by minute, I thought I might stay out of the black hole. My future was telescoped into the effort of putting one foot in front of the other. The horizon faded from my view. Washington, politics, the Senate had no hold on me. I was supposed to be sworn into the Senate in two weeks, but I could not bear to image the scene without Neilia....

There was good news: The doctors assured us that Beau and Hunter would make full recoveries. Beau's bones would mend. Hunter had no brain impairment. But Christmas passed with the boys in the hospital, and I began to feel my anger. When the boys were asleep or when Val or Mom was taking a turn at their bedside, I'd bust out of the hospital and go walking the nearby streets. Jimmy would go with me, and I'd steer him wordlessly down into the darkest and seediest neighborhoods I could find. I liked to go at night when I thought there was a better chance of finding a fight. I was always looking for a fight. I had not known I was capable of such rage. I knew I had been cheated out of a future, but I felt I'd been cheated of a past, too.

The underpinnings of my life had been kicked out from under me...and it wasn't just the loss of Neilia and Naomi. All my life, I'd been taught about our benevolent God. This is a forgiving God who is tolerant. This is a God who gave us free will to be able to doubt. This was a loving God, a God of comfort. Well, I didn't want to hear anything about a merciful God. No words, no prayer, no sermon gave me ease. I felt God had played a horrible trick on me, and I was angry. I found no comfort in the Church. So I kept walking the dark streets to try to exhaust the rage."

What I admire about this excerpt, is the raw honesty about a struggle with faith. Senator Biden’s faith did return, stronger than before, but his frank language about what God felt like in the midst of his tragedy actually refreshes me.

Psalmists and saints have felt the same. If we are daring enough to tell the truth, so have we. Perhaps we have not experienced the anger, but instead our faith has weathered (or is weathering) apathy or fear or foolishness or confusion or paralyzing doubt… Just last week, I was asking God why He refuses to close the gap more (the need for a "physical presence" Biden refers to), why He chooses to stay tangibly hidden. I know the theological answer (sin has separated us, over the generations) but the emotional question, “God where are You and what are You doing?” often outweighs what I know in my head.

Yet my faith exists. Sometimes like a raging river, sometimes like the last ember in the fire before it goes out. I guess this Thanksgiving I am thankful that I have promises to keep, and so does He.

All the Things You Are

I had a long, but great, weekend. Besides my kids’ usual activities (football, birthday parties for friends), I officiated the wedding of Steve’s cousin AND I got to bring my friend Diana home from the hospital after a lengthy stay. There was a lot of joy associated with both things.

So last night, kind of exhausted and with aching knees (I wore very high heels to the wedding – my 90 year old knees are protesting), I decided to relax and read. If you know me well, you know that I read everything. The subject matter doesn’t really matter – I’ve learned some very interesting things by persisting in reading something that didn’t seem interesting at first. I was listening to Charlie Parker’s song, “All The Things You Are”, but I didn’t really know anything much about his life, so I decided to google him while I got lost in his sounds. What a treat.

I think I’ve written before about the joy of learning someone’s story, but with artists that is often an understatement. To try and understand the path to creative genius is often fascinating and confusing. Artists are often tormented, but their work is so beautiful. It is a puzzle – sort of.

Charlie Parker, or Bird as everyone called him, was one of the most influential jazz musicians ever. The New York nightclub, Birdland, is named after him. He was born in Kansas City, the only child of a frequently absent alcoholic father and a mother who worked nights at Western Union. Charlie did not pick up a saxophone until he was 11 years old, and the high school band director thought Charlie was so terrible, he was kicked out of the band! Briefly, Charlie considered giving up.

Besides growing to be an astonishing musician, Charlie battled an addiction to heroin. He was known to steal and beg in order to get a fix. He was once quoted as saying, “Any musician who says he is playing better either on tea, the needle, or when he is juiced, is a plain straight liar . . . You can miss the most important years of your life, the years of possible creation.” And yet, some of the music he created during his addiction is said to be the most passionate, yet imperfect, jazz ever played. Bird was incredibly intelligent, and his songs reflected his propensity for deep thinking.

Bird died at 34. Since it was 1955, it is not surprising that the circumstances of his death were considered scandalous - a black man found dead in a Park Avenue suite with a white European baroness. When the coroner examined his body, he mistook Charlie for a 60 year old man because of the damage the drugs had done to his system.

Charlie’s life begs me to ask so many questions. Why does great pain lead to great art? Why is it, when people’s inhibitions are numbed away, they are able to access a place of creativity that is otherwise hidden? How does God feel about all the things we are? How can Charlie’s torment offer me so much relaxation?

God obviously made Charlie Parker to be something special, even if Charlie lost his way sometimes. Here is audio of, "All The Things You Are." Enjoy what God made:

Howie Kabowie

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

Things Philadelphians do

PHILADELPHIA - Police say they are searching for three gunmen in another robbery at a Philadelphia doughnut shop where a police officer was gunned down last year. Officials say the three took $500 in cash Thursday from a north Philadelphia Dunkin' Donuts store. Police say one of the suspects may have filled out a job application at the shop, leaving a name and address on file. Another suspect reportedly wore a Dunkin' Donuts shirt.

Blood, sweat and tears

Diana and I went to the hospital yesterday. Diana is my friend that has been battling leukemia for a year now. In May, we heard the word remission. In August, her platelets began to drop again.

The past few weeks have been difficult. She had a bone marrow biopsy last week (I’m the bone marrow buddy) and we knew that yesterday we would hear the results. Neither one of us slept much the night before, we were sweating it, but we managed to laugh all the way down the highway on our way to the appointment. We can always find things to laugh about.

If I tried to tell you how much I love her, it would be futile. She is crazy and talkative and funny and emotional and generous and loud and conscientious. Her wit is unmatched and her driving is slow (although she would strongly disagree). We both love Stephen Colbert, Saladworks and when we are together we cry – whether from laughing too hard or living too honestly.

The news at the hospital was mixed. Diana is sorely in need of a bone marrow transplant. In today’s post, I am asking for something.

If you are person who prays, who you join me in asking God for a donor? You may want to mention that it’d be great if He’d act quickly.

If you are a person who has blood in your body, would you consider registering for the bone marrow bank? It is just a simple blood test. Click here for info.

Who knows? You may not match Diana, but you might save another witty, laughing, talkative, crazy, slow-driving person that someone else loves desperately.

Max

I met yesterday with the finest man. He is a pastor in my town. He is talkative. As a matter of fact, within the first five minutes of knowing him I learned that his children were adopted because he has a low sperm count.

He is French, but never visited Paris. He is overworked and was wearing a suit with the tie up tight. There was caution tape on the railing outside his office door because of repairs being done to the church building.

The other really obvious thing about Max is that he is content. Max has been through a lot physically and emotionally, and he has seen God reveal Himself a time or two (or three or four…), so Max has learned to count on Him. He was raised Catholic, attended a Pentecostal school, went to a Baptist seminary and serves in a Methodist church. Max’s perspective is wide and inclusive, and I loved it. He has a graciousness about him that I was in sore need of, and as I listened to him talk, I just knew that every person that has ever met Max has felt loved. Genuinely loved.

Max is the real deal.

I drove home, with my classical music blaring (I’m such a rebel), and I looked at every person in every car and on every corner for the few miles it took to get home. I wondered what the world would look like if everyone knew Max. What if everyone felt genuinely loved? What if everyone had tangible proof that contentment is possible? What if everyone was included?

Remember when Michael Jordan played basketball and everyone said, “I wanna be like Mike?”

Not me. I wanna be like Max. Minus the sperm.